There didn’t seem to be any right answer to that question, and so I didn’t say anything at all. I just sat there, waiting for him to continue.
After a minute or so, he did. “I wanted to meet with you today because it’s been too long since we’ve had the opportunity to just sit and talk. Monitoring your progress is important to me, Sally, and sometimes looking at facts on paper isn’t enough to let me see the whole picture. There are pieces that only come through when you can look someone in the eye and really understand what they’ve been through.”
“I’m fine,” I said, a little more stiffly than I’d intended. “I’m still working at the shelter. I like it there. My boss lets me work with the kittens a lot.”
“That’s the Cause for Paws animal shelter downtown, isn’t it?” As if he didn’t already know that. “I’m glad to hear that it’s still working out well for you. I heard you got a dog recently?”
“Beverly. I’m fostering her. Her owner is sick and can’t take care of her at the moment, and his family doesn’t want the responsibility of taking care of his dog while he was in the hospital.” They’d been grateful, actually. I’d expected my own family to object to Beverly, but they had turned out to be totally fine with my bringing home a dog as long as she was housebroken and didn’t chew on the furniture. Beverly was so well behaved that everyone was in love with her by the end of that first night.
That was a good thing. Dogs need to be loved, and her owner was probably never going to be reclaiming her, if the recovery—or lack of recovery—of the rest of the sleepwalkers meant anything.
“Her owner… you saw him collapse, didn’t you?” There was something too casual about the question; the way that Dr. Banks looked at my face and then away, quickly, like he was afraid of being seen… he was worried. And I didn’t know why.
“Yes. I was taking a walk with my boyfriend when we saw Beverly’s owner have some sort of a seizure. He didn’t fall down, though. He just shut off, like he wasn’t in his body anymore.” And Beverly, poor, sweet Beverly, had barked at him like he was some kind of a monster. She hadn’t barked at anyone else like that. Not once.
“The dog must have been very frightened.”
It wasn’t a question. I found myself answering it anyway, saying, “She was terrified. That’s why I wound up taking her with us. She was barking at him like she thought that he was going to hurt her. She came to me as soon as I whistled for her.”
“Interesting. You didn’t think that maybe she was just an aggressive dog?”
“No.”
“Had you met this dog before?”
I frowned, annoyance causing me to briefly forget that I was speaking to the CEO of SymboGen. “I already got the ‘did you steal this man’s dog’ questionnaire from the police. I’d never seen him, or the dog, before. But I work with scared animals all day, and when I realized how terrified she was, I couldn’t just sit by and leave her with no one to take care of her. Nathan called an ambulance for Beverly’s owner, and we agreed that it was best if she went home with me until we had a better idea of what was going on.”
“Nathan—that would be your boyfriend, Dr. Kim, from the San Francisco City Hospital Parasitology Department, correct? We offered him a job here at SymboGen once, you know.” Dr. Banks beamed at me, like this was the greatest honor that could be afforded to someone in the medical profession.
“Yes,” I said. “I know.” Nathan had actually tried to take them up on their offer—SymboGen was the place for an up-and-coming parasitologist who wanted to stay on the cutting edge of the field—but had been passed up for employment when their Human Resources Division realized that he was serious about his refusal to accept an Intestinal Bodyguard. They couldn’t technically make that a requirement for employment, but the fact came out, and suddenly the job offer was withdrawn.
“He seemed like a very nice young man.”
“He is.”
“Does your new dog have any problems with him?”
“She’s not my dog, but no, she doesn’t. Beverly likes everyone. She’s the sweetest dog I’ve ever known.”
Dr. Banks nodded before asking another of those overly casual questions, the ones that felt more like traps, iron jaws waiting to slam shut on my throat: “She doesn’t have any problems with you?”
“She slept on my bed last night,” I said. “If she had problems, I think I’d know.”
“Good, good. It’s important for a girl to have a dog. It helps with emotional and social development, and of course, dog ownership will bring you into contact with a wider variety of allergens. Pollens, dander, all those lovely bits of the environment.”
I struggled to muster a smile, and barely succeeded. “So according to the hygiene hypothesis, owning a dog will be good for my immune system?”
“Exactly!” Dr. Banks looked delighted. “Have you been reading the literature?”
“I’ve been listening to the audio versions.” It was hard to avoid learning about the hygiene hypothesis when I was dating a parasitologist. Half the literature Nathan had around his apartment was about the hygiene hypothesis, its impact on the field of parasitology, and the various ways it could be approached, ranging from “gospel truth” to “fringe science become multi-billion-dollar industry.” Even if I couldn’t read it for myself, he was more than happy to explain it all to me.
“I’ll make sure you get a copy of my autobiography before you leave today,” said Dr. Banks, still looking pleased as could be. “I’ll even sign it. And personalize it, of course. Wouldn’t want it showing up on one of the auction sites, now, would we?”
He laughed. I didn’t.
Apparently, that was the cue for him to get down to business. Dr. Banks sobered, folding his hands on his desk and leaning slightly forward, like a kindly professor on one of the crime dramas Mom liked to watch in the evening. “It really is good to see you, Sally. I worry about you. But you know there’s another reason that I wanted to meet with you today.”
I never would have guessed, I thought. Aloud, I asked, “What’s that?”
“I think it’s time we strengthened the relationship between SymboGen and your family. You’ve been here so much over the past few years, I really feel like you’re already a part of SymboGen. Like this is already your home.”
Cold terror clamped down on me with an iron hand, balanced by an equal measure of relief. This was it, then; this was the day when they decided they no longer had to let me leave. How much would they have to pay my parents to make this acceptable? How many zeros on the check that paid for a person? “Oh?” I said, hating the way my voice squeaked on that single syllable.
“We have an animal research division. They’re dedicated to developing strains of the Intestinal Bodyguard that can be used to protect domestic pets, even livestock, from medical calamity. You’re not suited to work in the research arena, obviously, but the animals need care. Many of them originally came from shelters or animal rescue groups. I’m sure they would appreciate having a human to provide them with the love and attention they desire.”
I stared at him for a moment, unsure of how I was supposed to be responding. Finally, I asked, “You think I could do this job?”
“Not with all the animals, maybe, but with the dogs and cats? Absolutely. They need walking and brushing, petting, and to be told, occasionally, that they are good boys and girls, and that someone loves them. It seems to me that this is the job you already do, but now it would come with higher pay, and with the absolute guarantee that your fears about SymboGen deciding to terminate your care would remain unfounded. We don’t leave our employees without health care, ever. That would go against everything that we stand for as a company. I mean, part of the inspiration for the Intestinal Bodyguard was the idea that it would provide truly universal health care—rich or poor, swallow a single tailored capsule and your personal health implant will begin taking care of your every need, for as long as you need it to.”
There were times when I couldn’t
tell how much of what Dr. Banks said was sincere, and how much he was reading off some private internal monitor that provided him with a constant feed of the official SymboGen party line. This was definitely one of those times.
“They need me at the shelter,” I said, finally.
“Are you sure?”
The question was mild, and sent another jolt of terror through me. “Yes,” I said, as steadily as I could manage. “If you asked Will, he’d probably tell you I was replaceable, because he’s a good man like that, and he wouldn’t want to stand in the way of an opportunity. But he’d be wrong. The shelter needs me.”
“You know, Sally, I respect your devotion to your responsibilities. It shows just how well you’ve managed to bounce back from your tragic accident.” Dr. Banks leaned back in his seat. He was smiling again. “Maybe it’s time we reconsidered your position on speaking to the press. I don’t know if you’re aware, but Rolling Stone is very interested in interviewing you.”
My mouth went dry. “They… they are?”
“Very interested. You know, they published a profile on me earlier this year,.”
“I know,” I said, in a small voice. The piece in Rolling Stone was called “King of the Worms.” It described Steve Banks as part genius, part entrepreneur, and part savior of mankind. Nathan threw the magazine across the room in disgust the first time he read it, and wouldn’t let me see. I had to download the files myself after I got home, and struggle through reading them on my own. I’d wished almost immediately that I’d left well enough alone. From the way Dr. Banks described me, I was a brain-dead husk preserved only by the Intestinal Bodyguard, a perfect proof of concept for their miracle medical implant. Without the worm, I would have died. That may have been true, but it shouldn’t have been enough to make me a sideshow freak, and that was exactly what Dr. Banks seemed to want me to be.
“You’ve read it?” Dr. Banks looked pleased. I felt sick. “Then you understand why they’d be interested in including your perspective with a follow-up article. It would be wonderful press for SymboGen and the Intestinal Bodyguard. You could help us sway hundreds to the side of getting their implants, finally freeing themselves from the daily routine of medications and worry.” He looked at me expectantly, like there was something I was supposed to say in response.
I couldn’t think of anything. I balled my hands together in my lap and said, in a very small voice, “I’m happy at the shelter. I don’t want to talk to any reporters. They’ve only just stopped trying to call me at the house, and I don’t want to remind them who I am.”
Dr. Banks frowned. For a moment, he looked at me not like I was someone to cajole and convince to come over to his way of thinking, but like I was a science project on the verge of going wrong. “Really, Sally, I hoped you’d be more willing to help the company that has done so much to help you. Don’t you want to help us?”
The part of me that had just been through six years of cognitive therapy and endless psychological tests recognized what he was trying to do. By using the word “help” so many times so closely together, he could make me feel like I was somehow letting down the team by not jumping right in to do my part. It was linguistic reinforcement, and it might have worked six years ago, when I was still less sure of who I really was. It wasn’t going to work on me now.
The other part of me—the small, scared part of me that dreamt of darkness and drums and waited constantly for the next axe to fall—was convinced that refusing to do what Dr. Banks wanted would result in him cutting off all medical support, leaving me to die the next time I went into anaphylactic shock for no discernible reason.
It was the calm part that won out, and I heard myself say, in a much more confident voice, “I do want to help, Dr. Banks. I just don’t think speaking to the press would be a good idea for me right now. I’m at a very fragile place in my recovery. I wouldn’t want to risk losing ground. It would look bad for everyone, and you know the media would be watching to see whether there were any changes in my condition right after I gave an interview. This isn’t the right time.”
Dr. Banks kept frowning… but slowly, he also nodded. “I suppose I can see where you’re coming from, Sally, and I appreciate hearing that you’re so concerned about SymboGen’s image. I still hope that you’ll consider it.”
I managed to force a smile through the cold wall of fear that was wrapped around me. “I’ll try.”
The rest of our “talk”—really a lecture, with me as the sole attending student, and Dr. Banks as the professor who didn’t know when to leave the podium—was the usual generic platitudes about the wonders of SymboGen and the Intestinal Bodyguard, interspersed with the occasional softball question about how I was doing, how Nathan was doing, how Joyce and I were getting along. All the usual pleasantries, all asked with a fake concern that was somehow more insulting than rote disinterest would have been. When he pretended to care, I had to pretend to listen. It didn’t seem like a fair exchange.
After what felt like a hundred years, but was really slightly under an hour, Dr. Banks glanced ostentatiously at his watch, and stood. “I’ve enjoyed our time together, Sally, but I’m afraid I have a meeting I can’t reschedule. Do you know what the rest of your day with us will look like?”
“Not yet,” I said, taking the hint and getting out of my own chair. I’d been sitting still for too long; my legs felt like jelly. “Chave brought me straight up to see you.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ve got some exciting adventures ahead of you.” Dr. Banks started walking toward the door. He didn’t gesture for me to follow him. He knew that I was going to do it, just like he knew that he would eventually be able to convince me to accede to the interview with Rolling Stone. Being his kind of rich made it easy to shape the world to suit your standards. “I’ll check with my secretary. Maybe we can have lunch together. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
“Sure,” I said. For a change, I meant it, at least a little. Eating lunch at SymboGen was part of the visitation process; they probably observed me for some set of symptoms I didn’t even know I was supposed to be expressing. The company’s main cafeteria was excellent, but the executive cafeteria—where I’d eaten every chance I got since remembering, or maybe learning, that food could get better than macaroni and cheese with applesauce on the side—was something special. They hired five-star chefs, and their menu was never the same two days in a row.
“There’s something you’ll have to do for me, of course.”
I paused, giving him a wary look. “What?”
“What’s the newest piece of slang you’ve learned?”
Fortunately, this wasn’t one of the insulting ones. “Taking the Mickey,” I said. “It means making fun of somebody by telling them a fib. I think it has something to do with Mickey Mouse, but I’m not quite sure.”
Now he laughed, a big, bold sound that filled the room like the drumming filled the darkness in my dreams. I flinched, barely stopping myself from clutching at my ears. “Mickey Mouse, huh? Truly, Sally, you are an endless delight.”
“Thank you, Dr. Banks,” I said.
“And like all endless delights, you have other lives to brighten.” He pushed open the door, revealing Chave standing still as a statue on the other side. She looked monumentally bored, and a little bit annoyed. For her, that was the equivalent of kicking her feet and screaming. “Are you here to take Miss Mitchell to her next meeting?”
“If you don’t mind,” said Chave, in her usual cool tone. “We’re already twenty minutes overdue for her appointment in the blood lab. Did you feed her?”
“Not a crumb,” said Dr. Banks.
Chave nodded curtly and looked to me, as if for confirmation.
“He didn’t feed me,” I said.
“Good. Come along.” With that, she turned her back and stalked toward the elevator, her shoulders locked into a tight, unhappy line. I glanced back at Dr. Banks, who still hadn’t formally dismissed me. Then I ran after her, clutching my bag to my chest like a life
line.
It said something about how little I enjoyed my time with Dr. Banks that being locked in an elevator with an unhappy personal assistant who clearly blamed me for disrupting her entire day was better than spending another minute alone with him. I stood as far away from her as the tiny elevator allowed, watching as the numbers on the display counted down to the first floor, and then farther down, into the basement levels.
Maybe it’s crazy to build a high-rise with multiple subterranean floors in the state of California, earthquake capital of the United States, but that didn’t stop the founders of SymboGen. When Drs. Banks and Jablonsky decided to build a state-of-the-art research facility, they didn’t let silly things like logic and geography stop them. SymboGen was cut deep into the bedrock of South San Francisco, and the only reason it wasn’t closer to the water was that no amount of money or hubris could deny the ocean. The building would have flooded long since if it had been as close to the coast as they originally wanted it to be. SymboGen: the castle that worms built.
We finally stopped on subbasement level three. I found myself relaxing when the elevator doors opened to reveal a generic hospital hallway, the kind that could be in any public research facility or university in the world. Home.
Men and women in white lab coats and sensible slacks walked past, some of them pausing to wave or smile in my direction. I beamed back at them, my smile widening as my eyes found the one person who was wearing a tailored suit. He stuck out like a sore thumb amongst all their practical, functional clothing. It didn’t help that he was tall, gangly, and sporting an artificial tan that clashed with the laboratory pallor of the people around him.
I stepped into the hall, still clutching my bag as I walked toward Sherman. I was moving too fast, and nearly collided with one of the researchers. He swerved at the last moment, and we both regained our balance as the elevator doors slid closed behind me.
The change in Sherman once Chave was out of sight was instant. He relaxed from his ramrod-straight attention, suddenly grinning. Even his artfully spiked hair somehow seemed less “the latest style,” and more “I couldn’t be bothered to do anything but chop it off and rub some gel into it.” “Come here, you bloody twit,” he said, his heavy British accent twisting the words until the mockery seemed almost friendly, like a more personal way of saying hello. “Can you manage it, do you think, without sending half the research staff sprawling? I ask out of personal interest, and because if you’re going to treat them like bowling pins, I want to take a moment to place a bet with the staff in the radiology lab.”