I snort. The ego on this man. When he offers no further comment, curiosity spreads like a virus under my skin. “Why doesn’t Heather suit me?”
“It implies a free spirit and you’re anything but free.”
“Whose rules am I supposedly bound by?”
“Your parents’. Society’s. Your own.”
“Most rules are there for our benefit. Boundaries are good.”
“If you’re comfortable living in a prison.”
Before I can respond, Justin whistles and the two Alsatians trot obediently over to him.
“Are they yours?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “They belong to my folks. Two out of the hundreds of strays they’ve collected over the years.”
“Your parents sound wonderful.”
A brooding expression clouds his handsome face. “A lot of people think so.”
What about you?I’m tempted to ask but keep silent because I’m not sure I want to know the answer. He’s not the easiest person to converse with and all this small talk is a strain. When are we going to discuss my work at SolomiChem?
After we’ve walked for a while in silence, I ask, “Do you own any pets?”
“Heads up, TT.Petsis an outdated term in animal rights circles.”
“Really?”
“Really,” he confirms, a corner of his mouth lifting at the surprise in my voice.
“What do I call them then?”
“Companion animals.”
“That’s ridiculous. What’s wrong with pets?”
“It implies ownership rather than companionship or guardianship.”
I roll my eyes. “Well, do you have anycompanion animals?”
“I share a townhouse with two guys. Our square of a garden is used for peeing in when we’re too drunk to lift the toilet seat.”
Just when we’re fumbling toward a decent conversation, I wonder why he feels it necessary to fire out statements aimed at shocking me. Choosing not to play his game, I say neutrally, “It’s nice of you to help your parents out by taking their dogs for a walk.”
“I don’t do it for my folks. I do it for these two rascals.”
We reach the water’s edge. At four in the afternoon, there are not too many people in the park, only the odd elderly couple out walking gray-muzzled dogs. The dark water of the lake is still, yellow-billed mallards keeping safely to the reeds on the other side.
Justin flops down on the grass verge and stretches out his legs. After a moment, I sit next to him. Sprawled close by, tongues hanging out, the two Alsatians are enjoying the rest.
“You have a cell phone?” Justin asks, getting down to business. At my nod, he says, “Your first couple of days in SolomiChem don’t worry about taking any pictures. First get a feel for the place and the people.”
“Okay.”
“Learn the layout of the building. Find out where the animals are kept. As much as I’d like to get my hands on SolomiChem’s procurement forms and necropsy reports, I don’t want you charged with theft.” He digs around in his backpack and pulls out a floor plan. “This will give you a rough idea of what a lab building looks like inside.” He points out the various rooms and tells me what to look out for in each one.
He also preps me on how to record the experiments. I need to take note of how many animals are involved, the companies commissioning the tests, the attitudes of the supervisors and animal technicians, and whether veterinary care is provided.
