I know my roommates’ carnivorous habits irk Joel and my parents, but that’s precisely why I picked the two bodybuilders to share the three-bedroomed townhouse with. Like me, they come and go all hours of the night so no suspicions are aroused by my nocturnal activities.
Juggling Ticiana in one hand, I scan the masses of paper scattered across the kitchen counter. “What are you up to?”
Joel accepts the change of subject with a grunt. “There’s been a spate of dog poisonings in the area. Criminals killing off the security and then robbing the homeowners a couple of days later. I’m putting together a first-aid info kit that might save a couple of lives if the owners react quick enough.”
I set Ticiana down. “Good idea.”
Joel folds his arms. “Why are you here, Justin?”
I face my mentor, taking in the network of lines webbing that steady face, the gray taking over his hippie-length hair. “You ever miss being in the field?” I ask quietly.
“I am in the field.”
I wave a dismissive hand. “You write press kits, answer the phones, and raise funds. You’re a paperwork protester. I’m talking about dirtying yourself on the front lines. You miss that?”
“I don’t miss trouble,” Joel says flatly. “And that’s mostly where I landed up.”
“Welcome to my world.” I wait a beat. “Any point in me softening you up?”
“You’re wasting your breath. Whatever you’re up to, I want no part of it.”
His voice, though, lacks conviction. I smile inwardly and retrieve the report from my jacket, tossing it onto the kitchen counter. I watch Joel glance involuntarily at the block-lettered title: RELATIVE EFFECTS OF NICOTINE ON FETAL DEVELOPMENT IN A CANINE MODEL.
Silence suspends the air around us.
“Coffee?” Joel asks finally.
“Not if you’re the one making it.”
“Help yourself then.”
We busy ourselves with the mechanics of loading as much caffeine as possible into our systems, knowing a long night looms ahead of us. I let Joel ramble on about inconsequential matters, curbing my impatience, knowing he moves at a different pace to me.
At last, he taps the report, glancing again at the title. “Looks bad.”
“It is.”
“Darn it!” he growls. “I’m doing my bit. I’ve carved a life for myself here.”
“And I bet the boredom is eating away at you.”
“You were always too smart for your own good,” he grumbles. “Where’d you get the report?”
“Whistleblower.”
Joel stares unseeingly at a spot on the wall. Eventually, he sighs in defeat. “You might as well give me the details. But let’s sit down. The bones start buckling if I stand too long.”
We grab our coffees and head for the living room. I settle in a wingback coated with cat hair, a ceiling fan shuffling the hot air around the room. I wait until Joel finds his imprint in the couchbefore starting my spin. “Six days a week, five hours each day, pregnant beagles are put in smoking chambers and forced to breathe in cigarette smoke. Just short of full-term, the pups are cut out of their mothers and their lungs dissected to examine the effects of nicotine.”
“Where?”
“Werner’s Science and Health University.”
“Who’s funding the experiment?”
I give him the names of a prominent cigarette manufacturer, a government agency, and a cancer charity.
Joel’s eyes narrow. “If taxpayers know where their money is going, and if donors realize what their charity contributions are funding, the university could have a PR disaster on its hands.”
