Whatever brand of plastic wrap SymboGen used, it was industrial strength, and it had been flash-sealed, not taped down. I had to practically saw through it in order to create a large enough hole for me to get my hand inside. It was almost funny, in a horrible way. The food was easy to access. My so-very-dangerous keys and notebook, on the other hand…
My notebook. The blood drained from my face, and I ripped the rest of the plastic wrap open without even trying to be delicate about it. I’d been carrying my notebook, the one that Dr. Morrison insisted I update daily as part of my “therapeutic healing process.” Putting it into my bag every morning was habit, and since I’d never expected my things to be out of my possession for more than an hour or so, I hadn’t seen any reason to vary my habits just because I was spending the day at SymboGen. But my things had been away from me overnight, giving any prying research rats at SymboGen plenty of time to go rummaging through my innermost thoughts.
I wasn’t sure those thoughts would be of any interest to anyone but myself and my therapist. I was terrified that SymboGen was once again intending to prove me wrong.
I pulled the bag out of the plastic wrap with shaking hands and dumped it out on the kitchen table, not bothering to stop when pencils and tampons went skittering away onto the floor. My notebook fell out. I tossed the bag aside, grabbing the notebook and flipping it open as I scanned for any signs that someone else had been reading my private thoughts. I’m not quite sure what I expected—an inspection sticker? A receipt from the company scanner?
I know that I didn’t expect what I found. Three pages after my notes ended, someone had scrawled a phone number on a previously blank page. Under that was written in large block letters:
CALL FOR ANSWERS IF YOU ARE SURE YOU WANT THEM.
YOU MAY WANT TO RECONSIDER YOUR DESIRES.
KNOWING THE DIRECTION DOESN’T MEAN YOU HAVE TO GO.
Each letter was large and clear, like whoever left the message knew I had trouble reading. It was signed “a friend.” I didn’t recognize the handwriting, but that was no real surprise—I rarely saw anything handwritten at SymboGen, where everything was done officially, on computers and data pads. I stood there staring dumbly at the note, which was both evidence that my privacy had been violated, and the first sign I’d been given that someone, somewhere, might be able to tell me what was really going on.
“Sal? Are you ready?”
“Coming, Mom!” I shoved the notebook back into my bag, covering it with my clean clothes before gathering up the rest of my things and cramming them in as well. Once I was sure there was nothing showing that might give me away, I slung the bag over my shoulder, gave Beverly one last pat on the head, and ran for the garage. I needed to think about what I was going to do next, and I needed to speak to Nathan. But first, I needed to get to work.
Mom dropped me off in front of Cause for Paws. I blew her a kiss and went bounding up the front steps into the lobby, where I was greeted by the unusual sight of Tasha, staring at me. “Are you… early?” she asked, in a tone that implied that this might be taken as a sign of the apocalypse. “Is Sally Mitchell, the girl who never met a nap she didn’t love, actually early?”
“Stop it,” I said. “I just wanted to get an early start on my day. I may need to make a personal call in an hour or so, and I figured if I came in now, I could make my calls and feel virtuous at the same time.”
“Hmm. Seems sketchy. That’s your only motive?”
I didn’t feel like telling Tasha everything. She was sweet, and I liked her. That didn’t mean I wanted to pour out my troubles at her feet. We’d never established that sort of relationship, and I wasn’t going to start now.
“Yeah.” I rubbed the back of my head with my hand, grimacing at the gritty feel of my unwashed hair. “I was going to start with the puppy cages, if that’s cool with you. I know they’re on the roster for today, and if I do them now, I can be showered and presentable before the afternoon adoption hours.”
“You can totally volunteer to do the puppy cages. And P.S., if this is part of paying it forward for that phone call of yours, there’s no chance in hell that Will is going to object to you taking a little break after you came in early and scrubbed up all the puppy shit.”
“That’s what I was hoping,” I said, and hung up my shoulder bag. I felt funny letting it go when I had only just managed to get it back into my possession. At the same time, if there were SymboGen spies waiting to break into the shelter and steal my things, I might as well give up right now. I flashed Tasha an insincere smile before heading to the supply cabinet.
The usual cacophony greeted me as I passed through the doors separating the public areas from the cages. Cause for Paws was a small, no-kill operation, and we did our best to provide the animals in our care with comfortable living accommodations—large, multifeline habitats with toys and cat trees for the more social cats, solo cages for the ones who couldn’t stand anything else that purred. Similar arrangements for the dogs, who were also walked twice a day, once in the early morning, once at night. Tasha must have just finished the morning rounds when I arrived. We didn’t officially open to adoption appointments for another hour, and we didn’t open to walk-ins until noon. That left me with a comfortable amount of time to get everything cleaned up and grab a quick shower before people who didn’t work here started coming through the doors.
“Hey, guys,” I said, moving to fill my bucket with water from the sink. Hot water and biodegradable spa cleanser—made from citric acid, safe to use around people and animals, and even safe to drink if you were feeling masochistic—were the best tools for this particular task, at least when combined with plain old elbow grease. I dumped the cleaner into the bucket, pulled on my gloves, and moved toward the first cage.
It was surprisingly easy to think with dogs romping madly around the room, sniffing everything like they’d never been out of their cages before. I used the hose to rinse the worst of the night’s “accidents” down the drain at the center of the room, and then focused on getting down on my hands and knees and really scrubbing. Even the cleanest animal care facility needs to be sterilized regularly, for the sake of everyone’s health, humans and animals alike. The dogs didn’t seem to mind. Most of them came over with tails wagging to see what I was doing, nudge me with their noses, and get scratched behind their ears. They didn’t even mind the gloves I had to wear. They were dogs, they were out of their cages, and everything was right with the world.
If only things were that easy for humans. I scrubbed harder, trying to make up my mind about what came next. I wanted answers. I wanted to know what was going on with the sleeping sickness, and whether Sherman was dead or just sick. I wanted to know why people were keeping things from me.
Calling the number in my notebook would mean prying into things SymboGen clearly didn’t want me prying into, and looking for answers to questions I wasn’t supposed to be asking. It would be one of those things I couldn’t take back. What was it that my mysterious note-leaver wrote? “Knowing the direction doesn’t mean you have to go”? I was getting the feeling that the sentiment was truer than I could ever have guessed. I had a direction now. Did that mean I wanted to go?
It was only when I was escorting the dogs back to their cages that I realized I was already planning to call Nathan after I called the number in my notebook. Doing one meant doing the other. I wanted him with me on whatever came next. I had the directions… and apparently, I was going.
I carried my bucket over to the sink, pouring its contents down the drain. Well. If I was going to do this—and apparently, I was—I might as well get my shower in first.
Will had arrived while I was in back cleaning up after the dogs. He looked up from the office computer when I walked past. I raised the hand that wasn’t carrying the bucket full of cleaning supplies in a wave. He waved back.
“Tasha told me you were here early, but I didn’t really believe it until I looked into the dog room,” he said. “Thanks for doing the cag
es.”
“Not a problem. I needed to think.”
“Sal, any time you need to think, feel free to come in and hose the shit off the walls. Seriously, please. You have the most useful form of meditation I’ve ever encountered.” Will grinned briefly. “Your day at SymboGen go well?”
I froze. He always asked that question, and I never knew how to answer. I knew that SymboGen paid at least part of my salary at Cause for Paws; it was how I could get away with scheduling all my shifts around my various medical and therapy appointments, and why they never said anything about vacation time when I had to go spend a day or two on the SymboGen campus. What I didn’t know was how much of Will’s salary was being paid by SymboGen. For all that I knew, every word I said went straight from him to Dr. Banks.
That thought didn’t bother me most of the time. Most of the time, I wasn’t getting ready to call mysterious numbers that might lead to corporate espionage or—or whatever other labels you could slap on this sort of thing.
Will was still looking at me, waiting. I forced myself to return his smile and said, “It was eventful, but it ended, and really, isn’t that what we’re all hoping for when we have to spend a day at the doctor’s office? I was just going to grab a shower before we got busy, since I’m covered in dog yuck. Is that cool with you, or did you need me to do something while I’m still filthy?”
“Your noble sacrifice with the dogs means you’re not on box duty tonight, so no, Sal, you’re off the hook,” said Will, already turning back to his screen. “Go get yourself cleaned up. Adoptions go more smoothly when the potential adopters aren’t trying to figure out whether that smell is the puppy or the shelter employee.”
“Thanks, Will,” I said, and practically threw the bucket into the supply cabinet before turning and bolting, double-time, for the big employee bathroom. I paused only long enough to grab my shoulder bag from the wall.
One definite advantage to showering at the shelter: Cause for Paws had an old gym-style shower, with four shower heads all feeding into the same large tiled area. Add the industrial-level water pressure, and I didn’t even really need soap: if I turned the water on full and stood where the streams converged, I’d have the dirt blasted right off of me. I appreciate a shower that’s capable of leaving bruises.
I also appreciate a shower that’s capable of generating that much white noise. I cleaned myself off quickly, and then hiked the water up as high as it would go, creating the sound of an artificial indoor waterfall. I dug my notebook out of my bag and retreated to the corner of the room farthest from the office. The mystery message was still there when I flipped to the appropriate page. For a moment I just stood there, looking at it.
CALL FOR ANSWERS IF YOU ARE SURE YOU WANT THEM.
YOU MAY WANT TO RECONSIDER YOUR DESIRES.
KNOWING THE DIRECTION DOESN’T MEAN YOU HAVE TO GO.
Whatever it meant, I knew one thing: dialing that number would change everything. I might not know how just yet, but I knew that it was going to happen. All I had to do was close the notebook and leave it alone. I could shred the page when I got home. I could put it in the recycling. I could…
I dialed the number.
It rang four times. I was just beginning to worry about what I’d do if I wound up rolling to voice mail when there was a click and a warm, almost maternal female voice said, “Well, if it isn’t little Miss Sally Mitchell, actually taking an invitation to chat. I wasn’t sure you’d be up for it so soon, you know. I don’t know that I would have been, in your position.”
“Who is this?” I asked, keeping my voice low. “Are you the one who left the message in my notebook?”
“No, that wasn’t me. I would have needed to set foot on the SymboGen campus for that, and there are reasons I can’t do that—you’ll understand them soon. But I still have friends on the inside, and they told me what happened yesterday. That’s part of why I thought it was finally time for us to meet.”
“You didn’t answer my first question.”
The woman chuckled. “That’s true; I didn’t. I won’t, either, until we’re looking each other in the face. But I’ll tell you this much, Sal: I’m on your side. You may not believe me—you may decide I’m just one more person trying to play you, and believe me, a lot more people are going to be trying to play you in the days to come—but it’s the truth. I’ve always been on your side. There’s no one in the world who’s been pulling for you longer than I have.”
I frowned warily. Part of me wanted to believe her, even though she wouldn’t tell me her name. Something about her voice was familiar, like a voice that I’d heard before on television or maybe on one of Nathan’s parasitology podcasts. She sounded like someone that I was supposed to trust. Maybe that was what made trusting her feel so hard. If she was someone I was supposed to trust… I’m not always good at doing what I’m supposed to do.
“The message said that this was the number to call if I wanted answers. So far, I’m not hearing any answers from you. Just a whole bunch of hot air and some vague ‘I know something you don’t know.’ ”
Now the woman outright laughed. “Oh, Sal. You truly are splendid—better than I’d hoped for. I can’t give you the answers that you’re looking for over the phone. That would be silly. Even with the precautions you’ve obviously taken to keep from being overheard, there’s always a chance we could be monitored, and I don’t think that’s a risk either of us can afford. But now I know that you’re ready for answers. I’ll have someone contact you inside of the week with an address. Then we can finally meet in person.”
“You seem pretty confident that I’ll come.”
“I don’t think you’d have bothered calling me if you weren’t going to take the next step.” Her voice turned serious, all the amusement leaching away. “This is a big step for you, Sal. Certain lines can’t be uncrossed; certain maps will get you lost. Do you understand that?”
“No. What lines? What maps? It doesn’t make any sense at all.”
“I can understand why you’d feel that way; thank you for not lying to me. And as for that nice boyfriend of yours, Dr. Kim, you can bring him with you if you like. If you think he’d like to come. If you think he’ll trust the map. This will go more easily if there’s someone who can translate for you, and you’ll believe him even when you wouldn’t believe me.”
Having her give me permission to bring Nathan stung somehow, like she was the only one who had any say in what I did with my life. At the same time, he’d never forgive me if this woman actually had information about the sleeping sickness and I left him behind. “I’ll bring him,” I said.
“Good. I’ll see you soon, Sal. Be careful. Don’t trust SymboGen.”
“Look, whoever you are—”
The sound of dead air—the absence of sound—from the phone told me that there was no point in continuing. I was only talking to myself. I hit redial, but I knew even as I did it that there was no point. The call rang straight to an unformatted voice mail box with no greeting to identify it. So did the call after that.
The third call was cut off with the rapid beeping whine of a disconnected number. Whoever I’d been talking to wasn’t on the other end anymore. Now I had nothing to direct me—and even more questions than I’d started out with. And my hair was wet.
Somehow, the worst part of it all was that this was still better than yesterday. My standards for living a normal life were definitely going down.
Tasha was helping a young couple get a leash onto one of our poodle mixes. The dog—a rather unfortunate German shepherd/poodle cross—wasn’t helping, since he was so excited by the prospect of going for a walk that his entire body was vibrating. We get a lot of poodle mixes at the shelter. According to Nathan, before the Intestinal Bodyguard there was a huge demand for so-called hypoallergenic dogs, leading to a glut of poodles crossed with just about anything else. Once the implants became common, the “designer dog” craze died off, and the shelters got flooded. The first few generations died a lo
ng time before I came to work at Cause for Paws. It would still be a long time before they stopped coming through our doors.
As I moved to help Tasha with the dog, I couldn’t help thinking about how man was locked in a constant fight to control an environment that didn’t want to be controlled. First we made the world as clean and non-allergenic as we possibly could and, when that just made things worse, we created artificial infections to make ourselves healthier. So what was the “worse” that came after this particular change to our personal environments?
There wasn’t much time for contemplation. Tasha got the dog leashed and escorted the potential adopters out the door while I went into the back to start getting the kittens ready for their visitors. The day dissolved from there into the usual series of small emergencies. One of the dogs got loose and had to be retrieved; one of the kittens was handled too roughly and threw up all over its littermates, necessitating some quick cage—and kitten—cleanup. With one thing leading to another, it was quitting time before I realized that I hadn’t called Nathan yet.
“I think I have dog food in my ear,” complained Tasha, washing her hands in the sink behind the desk. “Is there a medical term for that? One that can, perhaps, be used to excuse me from work tomorrow?”
“I don’t think ‘klutz’ is a good excuse for being absent yet,” I said apologetically. I slipped on my shoulder bag. “We’re both on at nine tomorrow, right, Will?”
“At least you can remember when you’re supposed to come to work,” he said, attention remaining focused on his screen. “Although if you want to keep coming in early, I’m not going to complain about it. God knows there’s enough to do around here to keep us all busy until the end of time.”
“So hire someone else; don’t take it all out on Sal,” said Tasha.
“Out of what budget?” Will asked.
Sadly, he was right. The shelter had two full-time employees, Will and Tasha; one part-time, part-funded by SymboGen employee, me; and a rotating group of volunteers who came in on the weekends to help with the increased foot traffic. There was also a janitorial crew that visited the office once a week to take care of the really heavy cleaning. That was it. Every penny the shelter made above and beyond our salaries went back into keeping the animals fed, the lights on, and the doors open. Pet ownership had increased since the advent of the implants, but all that really meant was that animal abandonment and abuse were also on the rise. Sometimes humanity is the reason we can’t have nice things.