By lunch time, I’m vibrating with anxiety and unease. Anger and righteous indignation are ping-ponging along my nerves.
I use the time to find a national bank with a local branch that hasn’t given up the idea of safe deposit boxes. My last bits of cash buy one in my name along with the name of my dissertation advisor. The box will have exactly one item inside—the flash drive with data that shows there’s a pattern. And exactly what needs to be addressed for a cure. I need to let my advisor know. He could argue it’s unfair to bring him into this kind of war without some heads-up or choosing to be a part. But he’s tenured. And nothing worries a tenured professor. They’re bulletproof.
8
on a mission
Lorien
The antsy feeling doesn’t leave me. In fact, it gets worse and worse throughout the day until I’m so on edge, I can’t think of a single thing to calm my anxiety. Panic attack, here I come.
I’m a rule-follower by nature. I color in the lines if I color at all. I was never tardy for school and I’m always on time for work. I don’t lie, cheat, or steal.
I’m a good girl, a little nerdy, sometimes naïve, but only because I’ve been busy chasing a college degree and then a top-tier doctoral program.
I’ve never been the girl who would, or even could, steal corporate data and hide it in a place that no one can touch it. No one knows I have it, not even Dr. Patel.
It’s late in St Louis, but if I know anything about my graduate advisor, it’s that he’s still at his desk. He’s a workaholic. That happens easily when the people we love are gone. We sink into work, make the data our families, live for the job.
I grab my phone and pace my kitchen. Sure, my foot hurts, but the cool tile actually feels good and having those shoes no longer mashing the top of my big toe is a relief I didn’t know I needed.
Me: Are you available?
It’s a full five minutes before any response. Five minutes where my heart could audition to tap along with the Rockettes against my ribs. If it sprang out of my chest and landed at my feet, I wouldn’t be any more stressed than I am right now.
Dr. Patel: Yes. Please call me.
I press go on the contact of the man who’s unerringly polite, flip the device onto speaker phone, and continue my pacing.
“Hello, Dr. Anderson. How are you?” His quiet demeanor and lilted English are a balm to my stressed soul. Something about him allows me to relax, to be myself, to be fully seen in a world of shadows.
“I’m well, Dr. Patel. How are things in St. Louis?”
“Good.” He takes in an audible breath and lets it go slowly. “And bad. It never gets easier. But the work is worth doing.”
He lost his wife three years ago. I hadn’t yet defended my dissertation. He was more emotive than I’d expected him to be, more real about his loss and the toll it took on him watching his wife suffer. We’re kindred spirits, he and I.
“It is. I love it, but I wish it were from a place ofwhat ifand not reality.”
“Yes, yes, but then would it be a job instead of passion?” His chair creaks as he leans back. That chair should’ve been retired three decades ago, but he insisted it go with him to his new office. At least there’s no doubt where he is.
“Speaking of passion,” I start but really don’t know how to continue. The pacing is agitating, as if it’s a metronome timing my anxiety and stress. Stopping dead in my living room, I exhale one long thought, not worrying about how it will sound. “I found some data that can be used to cure everything we’ve been researching. I was directed to shelve it. Instead, I stole it and it’s in a bank deposit box under my name and yours. No one knows and I promise I wasn’t trying to bring you into this. But the science is irrefutable. Gene modification therapy, and we can have a cure for everything we’ve been working on.”
“Lorien.” He’s aghast. He never uses my given name. “You stole work product and attached my name to it?”
“Not exactly. Sort of?”
“Definesort of.” His Indian accent mimics mine with its midwestern drawl in something that would be funny if it weren’t this topic.
“I needed someone I could trust.” My tone is quiet and verges on desperate. “Someone who would understand the information and know the significance it holds. There’s no way anyone knows I have it, but if I’m not allowed to work on it, I don’t want the data wiped. I want Strider to live. I want all your hard work to come to fruition.”
“With stolen data?”
“With proof that we can cure—not medicate, not profit off of, not study—cure.”
“That sounds reasonable, but these companies have deep pockets, and they protect their profits at all costs. You just stood both of us against a tsunami of problems.”
“Not necessarily. For one, I might be allowed to continue working. For two, we can reverse engineer the process so that your lab runs the same test with the correct parameters to achieve the same result.”
