She gives my arm a gentle squeeze. “The first day is always the worst.” After a strained stretch of silence, she stands. “Would you like me to dish you up a plate of food for later?”
I can’t imagine anything getting past the compression in my throat, but to lighten the worry in her voice, I agree. She leaves and I stare sightlessly at the play of shadows on the ceiling. The faint murmur of my parents’ voices drift up the stairs. They’re so proud of me. It’s my first paying job, and their thoughts shine so luminously on their faces. Their daughter, so industrious, so enterprising, so determined.
So deceitful.
Sitting up, I bury my face in my hands. The smell envelops me again. The smell of blood and feces and fear. Oh, those poor animals. I clamp down on the impulse to wash my hands. I’ve already scrubbed them so many times my skin is raw.
The longing to find escape in sleep is overwhelming, but there’s work to do. I open my laptop and begin to type. Justin emphasized the importance of a daily diary, how vital details can be forgotten if not noted as soon as possible.
I jump when my phone buzzes with a text.
Justin:Take your dog for a walk.
Heather:I don’t have a dog.
Justin:I don’t care. Invent one. I’m on the street outside.
I consider ignoring him, but it’s my guess Justin will keep hounding me until I give in. I close my document, not bothering to password-protect it. My parents never ferret through my things, trusting me that much.
My steps are brisk as I stride down the street, a chill wind stirring the dead leaves clumped around the storm drains.
Justin is lounging against a streetlamp. He straightens at my approach. “How’d it go today?” he asks without preamble.
I’m unable to meet his gaze. “Fine.”
“That bad, huh?”
I swallow thickly. “Yes.”
A cloud of insects buzzes over our heads. Silence swells between us.
“You quitting, TT?” he asks softly.
Yes! You’re right. I’m not the best person for the job. There’s no way I can handle this kind of ugliness.Not day in, day out, for a whole month. I just can’t.
What stops my confession is the bite of disappointment in his question. I anticipated triumph, yet he surprised me with the weight of expectation. I bite the inside of my lip. “No, I’m hanging in there.”
“Good. Let’s walk.”
I fall into step beside him. I’m wearing sweatpants and a faded hoodie. Unlike me, Justin oozes coolness in jeans, jacket, and attitude. I shouldn’t care what I look like, but I do. I sigh. Sometimes I’m that shallow.
Prompted by Justin’s questions, I tell him everything I typed into my log notes. I dart occasional glances his way, trying to discern the effect of my words, but his handsome face remains inscrutable. Only the clenching and unclenching of his hands betrays the measure of his anger.
“Who’s commissioning the drug-safety study?” he asks when I finish.
I give him the name of a large agricultural company.
“What are they testing?”
“A weed killer. The monkeys are expected to die slowly over several days.”
Justin doesn’t respond right away. After a moment, he says quietly, “Kane was right not to assign me. I probably would’ve punched a few faces.”
“It was a struggle to hide how upset I was,” I admit.
My confession, however, doesn’t lead to a bonding moment. Instead, Justin says curtly, “If you feel the need to cry or puke at work, you head to the bathroom. If your colleagues see you upset, they might suspect something.”
I stiffen. “I’ll keep my feelings in check.”
