DAY 31: Waiting For the Word

Catherine took her place next to Mr Ison, as they waited for him to die. His most recent round of pain meds should have phased out by this point, and Catherine would not let one minute of pain endure, if she had any say about it.  If he had any words - any wishes or curse - she was determined to honor them.  At the least, she was determined to hear them.  It's what any one deserves, she thought.
Mr Ison opened his eyes, nothing more.  She had never heard him say a word; most of the time, he slept.  But Catherine had seen his eyebrows raise a couple of times, and she entertained the idea that he hung around for her.
Catherine scanned the family photos left for Mr Ison: family portraits from other time zones, recently photographed and reluctantly posed for.  There was also a photo from last Tuesday, from his 85th birthday celebration; it was the nurses who rounded up hats and presented a symbolic cupcake for posterity.
Compelled, she said, "Mr Ison, I want you to know that I'm going to be here until you're done.  You're not going to be alone."   She searched his eyes for a reply.  His stare did not waver.
"Actually, I'm curious, because I haven't seen anyone die yet.  I'm still kinda new.  Usually, there's more people here, and I have to work the nursing station and answer phones.  And when somebody starts having a heart attack or something, I have to get out of the way for the crash cart...
"I used to be scared of death, you know.  When I was still in elementary school, my parents took me to five funerals in a summer, so I think that messed me up a bit.  But I think that's what got me into nursing, too.  And I have a mentor who says we can't save everybody, so she said I should work here for a little bit, and learn the rest of what things nurses do.  And I get it, because the nurses are there when nobody else can do anything else..."
She pondered on how to say what she wanted to share next:  that her curiosity extended to his moment of death.  Would he shudder or be still?  Would there be an extinguished light from his eyes?  Would he share a moment of clarity before his release, or just a groan?  She had every reason to be there for him, but her own reasons... She could not bring herself to voice them.
"So I don't want you to die, but if you do, I want to be there for you when it happens.  Ill be happy that you're my first."

Meg knocked on the door.  "Cathy, I need you at the nursing station."
"Mr Ison and I are talking."
Meg snorted.  "Station, Cathy."
Catherine gave Mr Ison a smile and stepped out of his gaze.

Outside the room, Catherine confronted her supervisor.  "Can't you use one of the toilets in the rooms?"
"Ew! Besides I'm getting a pop."
"What about Linda?"
"She's using the bathroom in one of the rooms.  But she's not getting a pop for anybody. Just watch the board until somebody gets back."
"But I promised-"

Bells went off in Mr Ison's room.  "Dammit!"  Catherine rushed back in...

inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Clues From the Comet of the Century"

DAY 30: Caught in the Light

August Rathbone loved June Millner as soon as he heard her name; the sight of her sealed the deal. Lucky for him, she felt the same.
For six years, they had been in love.  She didn't make it easy for him; jewelry, flowers, and chocolates were placeholders for true expressions of affection, in her opinion.  Each year, August found himself on the hunt for a precise present, something that could only be hers, never regifted or slighted.
This year's prize was to be a special pair of sunglasses: John Lennon frames, olive green lenses - the color was a common motif in June's wardrobe, so it was a safe enough bet.  When he presented them to her at their apartment, she rewarded his diligence very sweetly and very thoroughly.

One Saturday, they reached her least favorite part of a Saturday afternoon: the twenty-minute interval where the sun is low enough to pierce directly into their living room, until the orb sinks below the urban horizon.  On this particular Saturday, she decided to look at the world through peridot-colored glasses, and slipped them on.  June froze where she stood, until the sun dipped behind the skyscrapers.
That night, she didn't speak, and certainly not about what she saw.  Whenever August tried to get a word out of her, she just babblingly giggled until she embraced him into silence.
The next morning, she was relatively composed.  And when August asked about the prior day, she shrugged and said, "I don't know."  And her Sunday was like any other, until that moment of the afternoon where she returned again to the window- this time, pressing up against it, scanning as much of the city as she could, until the light faded.

On Monday, she made arrangements at work to move her lunch hour, so she could return home at the moment of alignment.  On Tuesday, she brought home a farmer's almanac, and sketchpads.
On Thursday, it rained, and rained.  By Friday, the clouds persisted, and June was getting anxious.  When August went to bed that night, he left her at the couch to flip between weather reports among the stations.

On Saturday, they were both home from work.  The rain had returned, decreeing a day in.  August was satisfied with a day in pajamas; June was inconsolable.  After some prodding, she produced her sketchbooks and offered her confession.  "I've been selfish.  If I've been reading the almanac right, today will be my last chance for the season, and then it'll just be stupid sunlight again."
August looked up from a sketch with disbelief.  "Why wouldn't you tell me?"
"If I told you, I'd have to show you... but I didn't want to give up a second of it.  I'm sorry."
There was a break in the clouds;  June jumped out of her chair, and urged him to follow.  August was three steps behind, papers in hand, when he stepped into the piercing sunlight.  He covered his eyebrows, to give his eyes shade.  He didn't see the carriages and zeppelins that June had drawn on her landscapes.  August looked at June, waiting for her explanation.  She smirked and passed him the glasses.


inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Trapping the Light Fantastic"

DAY 29: The One-Acre Wood

This story is at least 60% true.

Years ago, before I knew better, I lived with my girlfriend, trying to make the best of a bad situation.  Shortly after moving into what would be our nicest home, we hosted a gathering for her family, so she could assure them that we were doing well for ourselves.  As the blood relations bonded, I found myself with the inferred duty of hanging out with the other 'guest': some cousin's baby daddy, a boorish man from outside Chicago that was rapidly disenchanting the family.  He was as loud as I was quiet, but we found solidarity in our mutual predicament, and we began to get to know each other.

Like the rest of the family, Chicago was impressed with the neighborhood we had managed to move into: cul-de-sacs of 3 bedroom/2-garages, in the contemporary aspirational-suburban style.  He had lived near the area for a few years, and remembered when the houses were first being built.  After a few hours of good cheer, he decided I was worthy of sharing a secret.  "If you want," he said, "I can show you the slave graves they got hidden at the end of the street.

The end of my street was the only untamed acre in the entire housing development.  Every other lot had been domesticated; if they weren't already a home, they were in some phase of construction.  But there was one lot that was not disturbed.  It was walled with several trees and brush, and even the grass had been allowed to grow taller than men stand.  This forbidden forest was separated from the housing development by yards and yards of grass, a sea of grass.
I had seen the 1-acre wood lots of times, dismissed it as an unclaimed purchase.  But Chicago had another story.  "When I would visit my buddy here, that's where we'd drink.  He showed me the graves; he thought they were left over from when this place was a plantation.  And the owners are never going to be able to sell it... y'know, because of the ghosts."

Chicago's story did not change the family's opinion of him.  However, I was eager to see it for myself. We walked to the end of the street, through the sea of grass, to the edge of the one-acre wood.  The hardest part was finding a way in; the biggest gap in the bramble still required us to hunch over and through for several steps.  The center, by comparison, was pretty clear; dominated by the ceders that grew within, and only stones and tufts of grass beneath them.  Some errant litter, as well, but nothing to suggest that anyone had been here for a long time.
Chicago found his sitting spot and pointed to one of the larger white stones, as long as my shoe, a smooth half dome.  He was looking at the clear side; I walked to the other side, and wiped dirt off the number "1834".
I started to look for other slave graves, which Chicago watched me between sips of his beer, grinning with pride.   I found a partly-submerged gravetop broken in half; other fragments identified two more resting places.  Finally, I found another gravestone.  It had the most to say: "MARQUETTE, JUL 4 1835- JAN 15 1837".

When we got back to the house, I presented my testimony to the assembled family.  They were temporarily amused.  Chicago was satisfied with his tiny vindication, and moved on to his next beer.
But I had to keep digging.  A couple of Internet searches, and some deductive reasoning, filled in a few more blanks about the Marquette family.
The graves were not for plantation slaves; they were for the children of Farmer Marquette.  In the years of the farm's establishment, the Marquette family would lose several children before that generation would take hold and prosper in the region.  Their graves were nameless due to the briefness of their lives; names were gifts bestowed to those who would grow to pass them on.  Instead, these children were given a different gift in their passing.  Their time was carved in stone, their place was marked in the earth, and the relations to follow made that ground sacred, surrendering it to nature and shielding it from the progress and civilization that would swallow up everything else of their era.

I returned alone to that sacred spot several times while I lived in that neighborhood, sharing the secret with few.  Years after I left, I repaid a visit to the one-acre wood, still an undisturbed fortress in its green and yellow sea.  The bramble had grown even thicker; only a child could enter it now, which is probably just as well.


inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Lost Spanish Fort Finally Revealed"

DAY 28: Kanye Needs His Tiger Koalas

Dr Hale's phone buzzed.  His receptionist chirped, "Mr West on line 1.  Not happy."
"Thank you, Lexi."  Dr Hale sighed deeply and watched the phone light blink.  Breakfast here in Sydney was lunchtime in LA; not an odd hour to get a call.  Perhaps it would be a pleasant conversation.
He picked up the receiver.  "Good afternoon, Mr West."

"Don't 'good afternoon' me, 'mate'!  We got a situation here!"
"Of course.  What seems to be the trouble?"
"These bears are going crazy!  The training won't stick!  I got the best trainer in town, and he just ran off screaming!  Literally! I got video!"
Dr Hale looked at the photo on the wall, of the institute's ribbon-cutting ceremony, where he and Mr West held the scissors for the cameras.  "Well, they are technically bred from koalas, sir.  Koalas have comparatively underdeveloped brains.  Training may not be a possibility"

"When the hell were you planning on telling us that?  We can't have that!  They're starting to hiss at the kids!  And mama don't wanna touch them since they grew too big to fit in her bag!  Besides, these ain't regular koalas, these are tiger koalas!  We got some tiger stripes on them bears, we gotta have some tiger brains in there too, right?  Help me, Doctor!"
"Well, let's start with telling me about their current health.  How are they doing?  How big are they?"
"Let's see..." Mr West clicked his tongue as he began to calculate.  "Da Vinci's the biggest; she's about 25 pounds, big as the corgi.  Pollack's almost as big, but Da Vinci's the eater. and Jocko's catching up to them - oh, and he's packing extra heat"

"That's a bifurcated penis; most marsupials are equipped with double genitalia.  Are they active?"   This issue was a greater concern beyond Mr West's pets.  STDs were the threat that had first put koalas on the endangered species list - and provided Dr Hale with a cause celebre for his research to adopt.
The final piece of good fortune was Mrs West, who wanted to add to her alliterative menagerie.  On a tour of Australia (attempting to circumvent the embargo on marsupial export), she and Mr West learned about the institute. Contributing to the public efforts to reverse extinction was admirable; the private opportunity to own a custom-designed, one-of-a-kind pet was irresistible.  Within five years, his facility had resurrected twelve formerly-extinct species.  Quietly, they had also created something new.

"Not that I've seen, Doc."  (He was calling Dr Hale "Doc."  That was a good sign.)
"We should watch out for that, Mr West.  They're getting to the age, and it may affect their mood.  But the surliness, the disagreeableness... that's very koala of them.  They just need space, from each other and visitors.  I wouldn't expect them to play catch - not on the first try.  Your trainer - what kind of animal training was he qualified for?  Big cat training?"
"I don't know; she took care of that."
"You need someone that's worked with big cats; if there's any tiger brains in there, the right trainer can help develop that.  A trainer's a good idea; we just gotta a qualified one.  I'll be on your side of the pond in three weeks; I can find someone to recommend before then."

Mr West audibly composed himself.  "Look, the kids still love 'em.  Kim still thinks they're adorable, and they're scaring her mom away, so I'm happy.  They're awesome cute, but the first time they bite one of mine is the last.  I'm gonna make me a coat - come to think of it, that might be nice...  And then you'll need to make some more.  Maybe pygmy this time"
"Wellllllll.. we have accomplished some truly amazing stuff so far."
"Damn right, we've done impossible stuff.  Future is now!  Okay, we got a plan.  When you come to town, you got a place to stay, aight?"
"Sounds good, Mr West."


inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Resurrecting an Extinct Frog"

DAY 27: The Map Reading

Edgar gave a sideways glance to his attorneys, looking for a tell.  He looked across the table at Dr Lamar, trying to read his inscrutable face.  The corporate lawyers had not arrived yet; why no united front?  The doctor was saying nothing.  He consulted his instincts, and he felt... something familiar, but distantly so.  He felt...

The attorneys arrived.  Haggarty and Lewis, he recognized.  They'd been involved in the CFO vetting process since his first interview.  There were three new faces, junior ones - seat fillers, he dismissed.  And the technician was preparing the conference connections; perhaps this would be the end of the journey.

Lewis nodded to Dr Lamar, and he began.  "Mr Portnow, you understand that we deny no one the opportunity to participate in our application process, regardless of their health status.  Our company assesses all candidates on their anticipated capacity to perform their expected duties.  This is the purpose of our extensive medical examination."

Haggarty spoke next.  "Mr Portnow, you previously signed the consent forms regarding this examination.  For the discussion with all parties present, do you wish to continue to grant consent?"  Edgar turned to Rosalyn, his chief attorney, and nodded.  "Our client does," she replied...

Edgar ignored the rest of the attorneys' round of kabuki, and focused his attention on the silent Dr Lamar.  He had been professional but not cordial, polite but not engaging in conversation.  When the testing had completed, Edgar was shown out by one of the Doctor's technicians; the Doctor had already begun analyzing the results.

The CFO seat was a means to an end.  But if he couldn't shepherd their corporation toward a merger with Koshugi TE internally, he knew enough players that could facilitate a more drastic assumption of power.  The wolves were at the gate...

Dr Lamar had activated the CLARITY scans for the perusal of the room.  Floating in the center of the room was a detailed holographic scan of Edgar Portnow's brain.  Dr Lamar was introducing everyone to the infinite tendrils of neural nets that crisscrossed through Edgar's lobes.  For a moment, he was proud...

"...these spots suggest early development of aneurysmic conditions.  And here at the lower occipital lobe are symptomatic of level 1 neural degredation..." Dr Lamar's words were thunderous in Edgar's brain.  'Aneurysm', like his father at 58, an age he had already passed.  'Degradation', as in his brother's mental condition on the eve of his convalescence.  Edgar had buried both of them, and set them aside to finish his work...

Haggarty was speaking now.  "Based on the doctor's assessment of three years before required intervention, the board would like to offer you a transitional CFO position - beside assumption of current operations, you can integrate your knowledge and philosophy to our long-term strategy, and help us find candidates that can realize those ideas..."

Haggarty was too calm, too prepared for this development, Edgar decided.  Were they manipulating him?  Was this some kind of trick?  Had he been found out?  He would find the lie - crush it.  He searched for the lie, in Dr Lamar's eyes.  Pity looked back at him.  Pity was all he saw.  Throughout the room, intermittent glances of pity was all he saw...

His attorneys had taken the reins of the negotiations now.  They were doing their job, regaining the momentum, enforcing Edgar's strongest position.  Presently, that was accepting the 3-year contract, with an option of first refusal on a 4th; they were negotiating bonuses based on stock performance, and a dietary regimen for Edgar.  Whenever Rosalyn needed Edgar to answer personally, she would tap his foot, and he would reflexively nod; she would ask the court reporter to acknowledge Edgar's response, and the room accepted this.
Meanwhile, Edgar wandered in his chair, and waited to leave.  They seemed to be talking forever...


inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Transparent Brain Could Clear Up Mysteries of the Mind"

DAY 26: A Shadeless Tree

(In the hallway of the Parkway Howard Johnson, a couple wanders away from the grand ballroom.  She leads, tugging at her paramour, her eyes darting about, in search of a secluded spot.  He is dragged along, dazed.
She pulls him around a corner, besides a painted pastoral scene.  She wraps her arms around him, ready to make woo.   She notices the lack of passion in his kiss..)

"What's wrong, baby?"
     "I'm sorry.  It's been weird today."
"Baby, I'm sorry.  I know it's a lot of family to meet all at once.  But don't worry about it.  My family loves you!  I'm so glad you came with for my grandparents' anniversary-"
    "-yeah, but-"
"-it's a lot to ask a new boyfriend to do, and I want you to know how grateful I am.-"
    "I know, I know!  But your mom was looking at me kinda weird..."
"She just met you yet, she's just checking out the guy I've been talking about.  Looking out for me, y'know?  But if she'd had a problem, she's the kind of woman that'd say so, y'naw i'mean?  She's gonna love you-"
     "So she's never seen any pictures of me?"
"Ah... No, no; you're always taking pictures of me- oh, I just realized!  We don't really have any pictures together!  Don't worry, baby, we'll fix that-"
     "-wait, what about your cousin?
"What?  What cousin?  I got 50 cousins in there!  What?"
    "C'mon, you gotta know.  Your cousin, the one with my haircut!"
"What?  Are we a model now?  There's somebody wearing my outfit here, we gotta go home?"
    "Aw, it ain't like that!  But we're all wearing suits here, and he's got the hair like mine-"
"Aw, you wear it better, baby-"
    "-and he does the teeth thing!"
"Whaaa?  What teeth thing?"
    "You know!  I got sticky teeth, I gotta wipe them with my tongue or my lips kinda cling on them;  you know!  You called me on it, so you know!  Well, he does that!"
"...What?"
     "What, you don't see it?  How often you see this guy?"
"Never, he's from Hudson!  Are you trying to break up with me?"
     "I'm just trying to figure this out!  You know you got your mom's eyebrows?"
"Yeah, dammit!"
    "So does half the room in there!  And me!"
"Everybody's got eyebrows!"
   "Not like these!  Don't you think it's wrong to date somebody that looks so much like you?"
"Would you be saying this kind of stuff if I was Asian, or black?"
    "Now, you're just being racist!"
"One of us is!"
   "All I'm saying is, he and I are the same height, we wear the same size clothes, we have the same haircut on the same shape head, we have very, very similar facial expression responses..."
"So? He could be your cousin."
     "He IS your cousin!  You're dating me, and it's like you're dating your cousin!"
"You're not the same, okay!  For one, for one- he's fatter.  Okay?  You can see it, if you guys stood next to each other in a mirror, you'd see it.  He;s got a bigger double chin... and he's glisteny!  He's got an oily face, which you'd see if you weren't so freaking self-absorbed!  Geez, thanks for messing with the mood!  I thought you liked me..."

(Around the corner, her date wanders in:  he's got his hair, his suit, his posture, and he's carrying two drinks.  He's oblivious.)
"Hey, baby; I've been looking all over you.  Your mom told me to bring you some punch, it's the family recipe.  What's going on?"


inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Skull Suggests One Hominid Lineage"

DAY 25: Dis-entanglement

"Could I have everybody's attention?"  Ferdinand stood up on his desk, so everyone in their cubicles could see him.  "I know how everybody here likes to gossip - I'm looking at you, Gladys - and I just want to say my peace while I have the chance, before things get all crazy...

"We - and I should say, I in particular - have been watching you humans for quite some time.  For all your talk of community, togetherness and brotherhood, you seem like a schizophrenic people; chaotic and self-destructive.  The only things that unite you people are your fears.  And when your common fears are gone, you fear each other.  Top to bottom, that's every one of you people!"

"What do you mean, you people?" 

Ferdinand directed his invective in the direction of his heckler.  "I mean, Marlene, that before I go, I want to give you humans a little piece of mind.  A little piece of MY mind, you could say.  What you see standing here is just a vessel - we're sitting here on another star so far away, you haven't built a telescope big enough to see it!  And in case you're worried about invasion, don't.  Even if we had the technology to make the trip, you, me, and everybody else in reach would be long dissipated from existence.  It's easier and safer to make contact this way, before we decide to waste our time.

"So, to recap:  Are you alone in the universe? No.  Are you getting invaded?  Not interested.  Go back to destroying yourselves."

He hopped off the desk just as his manager reached him.  "Time to go; get your stuff."

Ferdinand walked the aisles, a step ahead of any hands that would grab him.  "I don't want them - Open season, people! - I got nowhere to take them. But you might want to take a step back.  Lynn, I got your stapler on my desk, be sure to grab-"

Ferdinand's form collapsed as his skeleton liquefied.  Shock gave way to puzzlement, as the remnants of their former cubiclemate shrank in its clothes into the size and consistency of a discarded candy wrapper.


inspired by Discover Magazine article, "A Leap in Quantum Computing"

DAY 24: A Culinary War of Attrition

Nikita was wolfing down popcorn, and burning a stare into the webcam of her laptop.  On the monitor for her to see, Ricky was wolfing down popcorn, burning a stare to match.  Their eating was synchronized, yet frenetic.  When one would take a swig of water, the other would follow suit.  Each dish, box, and drink was a race to the bottom, and each victory was swallowed in a moment by the next race.
On the sidelines, Nikita's cousin Eddy watched and tried to hold his sense of dread at bay.  Eager for her to be his ex-roommate, he had agreed to be their referee.  He had three duties with the job: deliver judgement calls on disputed finishes, offer encouragement to Nikita, and fetch items from the kitchen for consumption.  On Ricky's end, his buddy "Juice" was handling the assists.
Nikita finished her bag first, and tore it in victory, roaring.  Ricky was behind by a handful, and smashed the empty bag against his head like a soda can; he roared back.

He shouted "Cereal!"
"Cereal!" Nikita shouted back, then at Eddy.  "Cereal!"  Eddy hustled to the kitchen, grabbing the first two boxes in his reach.  He tossed one to Nikita; she caught it and brandished it at the webcam.  "Cereal!" she shouted!
"Cereal!" Ricky shouted, holding up a box of puffy corn.  The contestants tore into their next challenge.

It had started as a morning webchat, to plan out the moving day itinerary.  Eddy had already rented the truck, and easily visualized all of Nikita's belongings fitting with room to spare.  Ricky, however, needed to 're-arrange' the apartment (Eddy imagined it could be done with a bundle of garbage bags.)  "I'm working on the kitchen right now," he joked, raising a glass and nibbling on a piece of 'un-toast', as he called it.  Nikita found her own piece of bread, and joined in.  They began echoing each other, chewing and swallowing, coughing and face-stretching.
"Eddy, look at us!  Aren't we fabulous?" Nikita called out, as she pantomimed touching up her eye makeup.
"Yes, we are, girl!" Ricky replied, teasing at his own eyebrows.   "Okay, back to breakfast!"
"Not toast," she said, scanning at the breakfast table.  "You got bananas?"
A banana appeared in the monitor.  "You know I do!"  From the back of the room, Juice added a muffled "That's right!"
The roommates-to-be ate their bananas as extravagantly as the other.  "The more we eat, the less of this food we gotta pack!" Ricky said.  Eddy heard this, but decided not to interrupt the moment with logic; better to keep this energy for the move.

..and so they ate, until it got competitive and amped up.  Anything that didn't need microwaving or time in an oven was fair game.  From bread and fruit, they went on to cookies and crackers; chips and popcorn led to cereal, then leftovers and pickles, canned pasta and condiments.  No vomiting had occurred yet, but a great percentage of the food missed the mark on the way to insertion, and the occasional gagging from one amused the other.
Ricky was downing the last of the applesauce, when Nikita let a final bite of cold tortilla drop out of her mouth to say, "okay, I think that's it."  Ricky stared coldly at Nikita, then craned his neck to eye his kitchen.  "Don't do it, Ricky, don't...."
Ricky left the screen; Nikki could only catch her breath and watch.  After a moment, he returned to her scree, bearing a unopened pack of ramen noodles.
"Don't do it!" Nikita said, as he opened the bag and exposed the uncooked noodles.  "Don't do it, don't..."  The sound of his teeth biting down on the ramen block, was like the sound of breaking bone.  Nikita squealed and turned away.

Roused from his disinterest, Eddy poked his head into Ricky's view.  "Hey!  WTF?"
Ricky dropped the ramen block; playtime was over.  Eddy closed the laptop, then sat next to Nikita.

Through sniffling tears, Nikita said, "I'm so glad you're my roommate, Eddy."


inspired by Discover Magazine article, "US Takes Top Energy Spot"

DAY 23: The Shamani and the Drug Rep

Tim Timbre had misunderstood the purpose of his Brazilian market assignment.  He earmarked over 300 lbs of promotional post-it notes, chip clippers, hand sanitizer wipes, wall calenders, and stress-release squeezie mascots, in anticipation of schmoozing every primary care clinic in Rio de Janiero.  Instead, he and his trinkets were riding a slow boat to the Brazil-Peru border, to talk to just one doctor - or shaman, actually.

Tim's employers, Fellit Pharmaceutical, were looking for the next Viagra - especially since Pfizer managed to extend their patent for another 5 years.  Viagra had managed the type of global market presence that humbled other corporations.  And yet there was one market that Pfizer had not managed to penetrate; It was believed a flowering plant native to the region could be the answer.  A cousin of a friend of a board member had provided a trail, and Tim had been recruited to follow that trail, until it led to Rollo, a river runner with a taste for Dr Pepper.  He agreed to lead Tim to the Mura-pirarra.

The Mura-pirarra tribe protected their stretch of the Amazon fiercely from other tribes or any 'crooked ones' (foreigners).  They refused to join civilization, or even speak Portuguese.  Their centuries-old dialect was only spoke by 115 people on the planet; Rollo was among them.  In return for investing toward nautical repairs and upgrades, Rollo would help facilitate negotiations between Fellit Pharmaceutical and the Mura-pirrara.

In one of the lulls in their voyage, Rollo related his story.  "I was a child when a minister came to our tribe.  He knew as many Pirahan words as I did, so we learned together.  He taught me portuguese and english.  When he left, I left with him, and went to school.  I come back to say what they do out there, what they have, and the others decide if they want it."  Rollo gave a sideways look at Tim's cargo.  "I tell you, probably not."

Rollo piloted the boat toward a bank with a clearing.  He blew his whistle - twice short, twice long - and threw out the rope.  Two spear-bearing natives emerged from the forest to secure the boat.  Tim could see that the natives certainly weren't in need of Viagra; perhaps he was in the right place.
Three more armed natives arrived, pushing a half-dozen unarmed men and women towards the boat.  Rollo muttered to Tim, "They were captured from another tribe; later, I will find out which.  Right now, they are here to carry your things."

At the village, the caravan was greeted by a cranky old lady.  Even the men with the spears were scared to be touched by her.  "She is our grandmother," Rollo said to Tim, as she made a beeline to Rollo, cursing a blue streak.  Rollo received the brunt of Grandmother's tirade, giving Tim a chance to step into the village.
Tim saw the rest of the village gathered together, already an audience for another visitor.  Chet chuckled when he saw Tim's jaw drop.  Chet had come up through the ranks with Tim at Fellit Pharmaceutical, until the day he disappeared.  Management never commented, so it was up to the gossip to toss up wildly divergent theories for several weeks.  But when Tim saw a tribesman wearing a Pfizer t-shirt, he put it all together.  "The headhunters got to you, Chet, didn't they?"
"Don't sweat it, Tim, they're great."  Chet offered to share his hand sanitizer.  "So glad I made the plunge.  You should think about it. I'm somebody there now, and I could vouch for you, coming out of the same crucible as me.  Heck, you help me close this deal, and we'll be set!"

Rollo spoke into Tim's free ear.  "She says we have to take the things back.  His, too."  The slaves, still holding Tim's cargo, looked at Chet's boxes of swag and moaned.  "She says neither of you belong here.  Says they need nothing you have brought."
"Are you kidding?  I just got here!"  Tim exclaimed, and swatted a bug on his neck for punctuation.
Chet shrugged his shoulders.  "I've tried everything, from cigarette lighters to iPads.  They won't budge."
Tim was panicking.  "Rollo, tell her I just need a minute - a moment!  Just ask her what she does want!  What does the village want?!"  Tim looked at the confused villagers, the disapproving matron, and Chet, laughing his head off.

Tim threw an uppercut to Chet's jaw.  With some assistance from the heat, it was enough to knock Chet out.  The entire village went silent when he hit the dust.
Embarassed, Tim picked up Chet's ankles.  "Rollo, his arms!"  Rollo grabbed his wrists, and they began the slow walk back to the river.  Three steps in, the matron spoke again, in her machine gun tempo and unwavering squint of disapproval.  Rollo nodded as her venom spilled, until she said no, and turned away.  Rollo picked up the other man's arms, and said to Tim, "She says to come back after you put him on the boat."


inspired by Discover Magazine article "Biologists Modify Yeast to Produce Malaria Drug"

DAY 22: The Bluest Part of a Balanced Breakfast

Boboy Tony's house was just like him; the outside seemed small and rickety, an unassuming alter-ego while the walls inside, overcome by the decades of drawings he had produced, were overcome by his imagination.   Behind framings of his most illustrious stories, Boboy had painted his favorite heroes and monsters on the walls to run free and battle, in total disregard for the boundaries of the room.
To the uninitiated, the room had a vertiginous effect - but Daryl and Scott were no mere mortals.  They could cite every hero, villain and sidekick, along with their first appearance, secret identities, significant others, and most prevalent superpowers (depending on the decade.)  To them, this house was a shrine, that held an entire universe within.  Scott began to feel overwhelmed; he rubbed his eyes and searched for something to focus on.  His eyes rested on a 50-year-old cereal box.

"That is the most important thing I ever drew," Boboy said, answering their unspoken question.  He put down the drinking glasses and took his place at the drafting table.  "Is it alright if I sit here?  This is where I'm comfortable, especially with company."
Daryl, holding the interview mic, silently nodded with glee.  "Are you taking requests?"
Scott patted his shoulder, reeling Daryl back in.  "Mr Tony, please tell us about the cereal.  I don't think I've ever heard of it."

As Boboy began to draw, he told the story.  "It only came out one year - '64, maybe '65.  I was in the Army corps, but I never saw combat.  I drew and designed safety posters, promotional materials - a comic strip for the base bulletins... I was stationed in Kunsan the year there was this real bad flu epidemic.  It caught everyone by surprise.  But some doctors figured out that a certain food additive could inhibit the disease, so the military was very interested in getting this food additive out into the local populace quickly.
"The additive was blue dye - like they put in berry blends juices to mask the apple juice.  But they couldn't make blue color versions of any of the local food, and expect anyone to eat it.  They didn't have enough blueberries to make blueberries popular.  And someone suggested breakfast cereal - children could eat blue breakfast cereal, with enough sugar to cover the taste.
"So I made the Blue Crisp-" and Boboy stopped for a moment, to study his old friend. "He was funny and strong, and told kids they could be strong too, if they had their breakfast.  We made the cereal and one commerical.  And it worked very well.  Even the other soldiers liked to eat it, because it didn't taste like MREs.  And our part of the country was the only one without any flu deaths that winter.
"Unfortunately, the same doctors that found out this additive was good for stopping the flu learned that this same additive, in large doses, might cause lupus.  So they quietly stopped making the Blue Crisp - two years later, he returned as the Crisp, brown like grain, and a slight fish flavor; they liked it out there...
"About five years ago, they did a health check in the region for lupus, and didn't find any signs, so they declassified the project ahead of schedule.  They gave me that-" he pointed to a ceremonial medal in a display case, next to a folded American flag. "-but they won't bring the cereal back."

"That's a shame, sir," Scott replied.  "I can't imagine it being any more harmful than any of the cereals we ate growing up- right, Daryl?"
Daryl, caught red-handed, set the cereal box down.


inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Race Against H7N9"

DAY 21: Looking for Heaven through a Broken Telescope

It was lunchtime at the Green building; Sara had the department to herself.  It was Methany's birthday, and it seems that nearly everyone had been lured by free cake and the rumor of a strip-o-gram dressed in a Chewbacca costume.  Sara was happy to hold the fort, and pore over the latest Kepler data sets alone.  An argument had begun that the data sets were trending circumstances similar to what preceded the loss of the first two reaction wheels. If Carl's team was right, Kepler may already be a brick, and the team would be spending the next year and a half finding the exact day and minute that the data went bad.  It had taken long enough to craft the formulas to compensate for-

A young girl with a single side-braid was standing in the office.  She looked no older than 10, wore glasses, and appeared to have recently discovered the novelty of dressing oneself; every major component of the rainbow had been assigned its own article of clothing.  She was looking at the data pinned to the walls.

As soon as she caught Sara's eye, the young girl extended her hand for a shake, smiling widely.  "Hello.  Are you Doctor Sara Seager?  I saw your lecture on YouTube.  You're great."

"Thank you," Sara replied.  "Who let you in?"

"I was with a tour - my parents want my brother to go here, and I want to, too.  I guess I wandered off.  He's talking to an ROTC recruiter, but I've been wanting to see this place.  You're great."

"Thank you very much..."

"Jean. Jean Bowie.  Jeanie.  Whatever you like.  You're Doctor Sara Seager.  Can I get an autograph?"

Dr Sara rolled her eyes.  "Sure.  Do you have something?"

Jeanie produced a visitor's map of the MIT campus.  "I wish I'd brought your first book, but it's my dad's.  He reads it to me."

Sara accepted the pamphlet.  "Wow!  I never thought of my books as bedtime reading material."  She looked for a pen, while Jeanie continued to ramble.

"I know!  We only read a couple of pages, and Dad tells me what he thinks, and I tell him what I think about it, and we keep talking about all this amazing stuff!  It takes me forever to go to sleep, but I only read it on the weekend.  Is this from the Gemini?"  

Sara looked up from her searching; Jeanie was using one of the computers, scanning through a battery of extrastellar images from Chile.  Sara wedged herself between Jeanie and the keyboard.  "You can't do that, young lady!"

Tears began to build in Jeanie's eyes.  "I'm sorry, I got too excited, I'm so happy to be here!  I want to do what you do!  Have you found anything in the Vela system?"

"Th- the what?"

"The Vela constellation system.  I-I- My mom adopted a star for me, and it's in the Vela system, and I wanted to find it!" 

Sara took a step back.  "Kepler can't move, even if we wanted to.  Our view's locked on the Draco constellation.  Vela's being observed by another team."

"But I think you should really look, I mean really really look at it!"  Jeanie started typing and moving the mouse, scrambling to find a way in.  Sara reached for Jeanie's wrist-

Sara could feel a building wave of heat, like she had just stepped out the door to a Mississippi summer.  The radiating heat was coming from Jeanie's direction.  "Jeanie, please stop."

Jeanie exhaled, and got up from the chair.  "I'm sorry.  Please don't tell anybody.  I just wandered off, I'm going to leave now...  I just want to go home."

Sara nodded, and watched silently as Jeanie backed away to the door.  The girl took another deep breath; then she offered to the professor, "You should look for silicon.  The diffraction rate's different from ozone, but similar enough that it might be in your ranges.  You wouldn't know if you weren't looking, but it's obvious once you do.  There aren't a lot, so they stand out.  I really think you're great."

By the time Sara collected herself to walk to the door, all traces of the strange young girl had disappeared.  But the doctor could not be convinced that she was alone...


inspired by Discover Magazine article "Worlds Without End"

DAY 20: The Day the Hipsters Saved Milwaukee

The salvation of American beer was discovered in a corner bar of Bennington, Nebraska.  With gluten allergies afflicting over 15% of the population and rising, many wheat-based products were facing extinction.  The major beer-producing labels, having long been globally owned, largely gave up on the American market, and concentrated their resources on the rest of the world, while micro-brewers attempted to cater to the remaining Americans that could still legally and healthily imbibe (and not drive to Canada.)

Sam Baidong, son of a third-generation wheat farmer, knew the severity of the problem, and also happened to have a genetics degree.  Sam's early genetics work had concentrated on improving transmission techniques for CRISPR microbes.  CRISPRs were customized enzymes that could reprogram established DNA - but it only worked on underdeveloped bioforms (like embryos, or certain active neoplasms.)  Human trials revealed that the technology was limited and temporary: a person have to remain submerged in the enzymes to maintain their reprogrammed genetics.  

Setbacks like these were the reason Sam had moved back home.  He spent his days doing farmwork, and his nights hanging at The Poop Deck with friends that could still enjoy a brew.  In the midst of their lubricated ramblings, someone noted that if more people could stop being allergic just long enough to have a beer, they'd love it again; that was Sam's epiphany.  So he invited a few friends to the family farm, to help him make the world once again safe for beer.

Sam's family had a family recipe dated before the era of Prohibition; to this, Sam added his contribution of reprogrammed microbes.  Genetic markers for gluten allergies had been identified (although it was unclear what other attributes they might be tied to.)  Sam's microbes travelled with the beer as it was drank, "curing" the drinker just long enough to get drunk.  He brought his first batch to the Poop Deck, and served it to some volunteers; the result was a smashing success, and Baidong Beer was born.

He made no attempt to launch his brew beyond the town limits; the scientist in him was continuing his studies.  The word got out anyway, and the town was invaded by a parade of well-wishers, skeptics, and protestors.  Representatives from each of the major brewing concerns also arrived, eager to see what Sam Baidong had accomplished. 

And Hilary Templeton gave them plenty to see.  Ms Templeton, an aspiring model and former Ms Nebraska finalist, had become an early adopter of Baidong Beer.  Having harmlessly enjoyed her first beer in six years, she made up for lost time.  And after a two-day float trip/bacchanal, she woke up the next morning to get ready for work... and discovered a significant side effect, growing above her lip.  

Baidong conferred with his other 'test subjects' and confirmed that the same reprogramming that allowed a bypass of the gluten allergy, contributed to increased follicular production on the face and chin.

This development, as it turned out, was not as much of a deterrent as expected.  Instead a new generation of men and women developed an appreciation of well-aged hops and well-groomed mustaches.  By the time Sam began licensing his patented formulas to established labels, his Baidong Beer was #3 in the country.  He diverted his share of the fortune back into his studies, hoping to find a way to make wheat products - like cake and bread - palatable for more Americans again.  He has every right to be confident in his chances; he made America safe to drink beer again...


inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Gene Editing - Now Faster, Cheaper, and More Precise"

DAY 19: The Burning Iceberg

The fire had been burning for two weeks when Tsumaka's crew found it.  It might have been longer if it hadn't floated into Chinese waters, and reported by the local coast guard.  They identified the logo of the Idamitsu Concern, alerting them that they were fully capable of cleaning up their own wreckage.  Idamitsu was content to quietly remove this problem, to prevent any further investigation of the boat's contents.
And so, Tsumaka had set the Idamitsu 14 to rendezvous with the Flying Phoenix.  The top half of the boat was consumed; a rancid fog plumed from the remains.  Ken, the radio operator, kept trying to hail anyone on the Phoenix, until Tsumaka tapped his shoulder.  "Call down to C-deck; assemble a team of seven to meet me by the port rafts."

The team rowed toward the fire; an oppressive heat transformed the December air into a sauna.  "What are we doing, sir?  No one could survive that!"  Hansel shouted.  "You're making us row into hell!"
Tsumaka answered in English, in case he could keep the secret any longer from the others; "We have to see what's left!  See if there's anything to haul home!"
If there was anywhere that someone could find to climb up, they would be seared by the heat.  The crew unpacked a drone, a remote-controlled camera under helicopter blades.  They started it up, and let it rise into the smoke, to the top of the hull's remains.  Tsumaka watched the monitor in Hansel's hands, which displayed the drone's discoveries.
The drone easily flew through where the deck floor had been.  Approaching the lower deck level, the drone's view began to waver.  "We're losing control, Captain!"
Tsumaka said to Hansel, "You're recording?"
Hansel nodded.
"The company owes you a helicopter.  Take it down..."
The view began to plummet, toward water, before the image ended.  Tsumaka ordered the mission done; they put on their hats and gloves, and began to row back into the winter.
As they emerged from the smoke, the Captain reviewed the final pictures recorded.  He could see the broken floes of methane that continued to feed the fire as they were revealed.  The helicopter landed in water, which meant the Flying Phoenix was a ring of metal holding the remaining ice - enough for his team to salvage for a profit.  There was plenty of ice to burn.

inspired by Discover Magazine, "Japan Extracts Methane from 'Fire Ice' "

DAY 18: Let's Hit the Wall

Jaeger was happy to accompany Emily to the Institute, if only to break the news to Qadir.  The Voyager crash had been disastrous for everybody on the team, and now he was visiting the kid genius that stole his dream job before they even graduated.  It was Qadir's unabashed adoration of Planck theory that assured his residency at the ESA.  And spreading the misery by telling Qadir that everything he believed was a lie... that was the most silver of linings Jaeger could imagine.

Once again, Jaeger was disappointed.  After the shock, Qadir laughed even harder than Jaeger had ever heard.  "You realize what this means, don't you?"

"No!" Qadir said, between laughs.  "No one does!  Isn't that great?"

The laughter was starting to grate Jaeger; he pointed to the wall.  "How long were you guys working on that picture of the universe there?"

"I helped with the last couple of years - but so what?  If your Jesus knocked on my door today, saying 'Here I am, you are wrong about everything'- I would offer him a beer.  Everything is wrong, and that is wonderful!  No more re-proving generations-old theories - we are discovering now!
"I will share with you a koan, a Buddhist fable:  once there was a fish that was the smartest fish in his school.  He taught them all about their world.  Being fish, their world was water.  They breathe it, are surrounded in it, move through it, they think they know everything about water... and this fish, most of all.  'Fish that leave the water?  That's myth!  Things living above the water? Lies!  And so he believed, until the day he got caught on a hook, and pulled into a boat.  And as he lay dying on the floor of the boat, withdrawn and separated for the water he had known all his life - he began to understand what water was..."

Emily was shuffling through the thermal photomontages on Qadir's desk.  "I guess you understand why we're talking with you, Dr Tinibu.  Is there any work your facility's doing here that might-"
"Oh, no, this is all useless, at the moment.  I want to see the Voyager first, to see what undid it.  We build another one. And whatever wall we hit, we have to hit it again."


inspired by Discover Magazine article "Baby Pictures of the Cosmos, Now in HD"

DAY 17: The Flock in the Rock

Cyrus was overtaken by the view of the expansive horizon, and he let out a mighty yawp.  He stood there in the sun, listening to his echo decay across the miles.  "You know, this used to be sea level," he said out loud.

"So, you were there?" his wife Aurora quipped.  She stood behind him, arms crossed, ready to lead him back to the trail.

He sniffed, "Missed it by a day or two."  He outstretched his shaking hand, and let Aurora guide him away from the outlook.  

To Cyrus, the Grey Pines Forest had been his great love affair.  He was thoroughly a creature of the city, but the speed of contemporary life could be overwhelming.  That stretch of wilderness centered him, provided him the axis on which his world spun.  The stolen moments of his life were littered through that forest, and the prospect of devoting time to their recollection had eased the transition into retirement.

Aurora tolerated his passion, as foreign as it was to her.  In her perspective, she wasn't retired - simply concentrating her nursing duties to one patient.  She appreciated good sunlight and pleasent breezes, but when Cyrus pointed yet another majestic vista, all she saw the affirmations posters she used to see physician's offices and powerpoint presentations.  

Cyrus was different when they came here.  At home, he seemed constantly overwhelmed, as guarded as a stranded tourist with no language skills.  Last Thanksgiving, they were forced to resort to using a larger kids table for the first time; the change was catastrophically drastic for him.  But the forest had a permanence that Cyrus found comfort in.  He was an erudite guide, calm and controlled, and so happy.

Three steps forward, and then Cyrus stopped.  "I need to show you something, Aurora.  I need to tell you something."

Cyrus pointed to the rock wall beside them, where the skeletons of three prehistoric proto-birds jutted from the stone.  "Don't they look like they're flying?  But they're kinda not built for it, with the legs like that.  They were grounded, like chickens, and they probably got caught got in a mud slide.  At least, that's what me and this paleontologist was thinking - there was a professor here, looking at the rock, when I was here a few years ago.  He pointed out the leg bones, and I told him what I thought about the mud slide.  He really liked that idea..."

Aurora nodded, and ushered him back to the trajectory of their parked car.  As he walked, he dragged his outstretched hand across the wall of rock.


inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Ancient Bird Shakes Up Avian Evolution"

DAY 9: The Runt

"Get that tub down here, Bobby."  Bobby's mom had positioned her in her familiar dip in the couch, sculpted from years of occupancy.  From her seat of power, she intended to direct Bobby as he retrieved tub after tub of old clothes.  Mother was insistent that among the retired belongings of Bobby's older siblings, there would be some perennial - or, at least, recurring- fashions that he could wear for his entry into sixth grade.  In a household bearing five children, this was a necessary skill.

Bobby brought the first tub to his mother's feet.  Ricky was the closest to Bobby's age, just 5 years older.  If he had been home, Ricky would have been hauling tubs, as well; instead, he was at tryouts, defending his lineman position.  The majority of the clothes bore Ricky's battle damage; only the school uniforms and some Fubu shirts were sufficiently well-kept enough for passing on.  Bobby slipped a blue polo easily over his own clothes - too easily.  "That was the fashion, Bobby.  Take that off, and let's get the next one."

The next tub had clothes from Ernest's school days.  He was, in fact, the one who had helped Mom first organize these clothes when they became an issue; the young man had turned the chore into a school project, one that presaged his current pursuit of a business management degree.  In testament to his character, Ernest's clothes were well-preserved, practically ready for retail display.  Only the labeled tags betrayed their previously-worn status.
Mom unfurled a school polo with a crisp snap, and tossed it to Bobby.  This shirt also slid too easily over Bobby's form, camoflaging it.  "Check the year on that, Bobby.  I think we got his older shirts."  Bobby looked at Ernest's writing within the label, which dated the shirt to Ernest's sixth grade.

The tubs continued.  Bobby managed to bring down one of Kayla's tubs.  She had discovered dresses late in high school; her middle school tubs might have something passable for Bobby.  Alas, her uniforms fit almost as loosely as the brothers; when Mom reclosed the lid, Bobby breathed a sigh of relief.

They had cleared half the closet before they found clothes that belonged to Bobby's oldest brother, Dale.  Bobby went straight for the Pinky and the Brain t-shirt, studying it.  "He got to wear this to class?"
"It was before they went with school uniforms," Mom replied.  Bobby was hidden from her, behind the outstretched shirt.  But Mom could see that her youngest was growing in a very different direction than her other children.  Simply inheriting his siblings' trappings was not going to be sufficient.

"Bobby, get my thread box and scissors..."


inspired by Discover Magazine article "Childhood Obesity Reversed"

DAY 16: Pitch Meeting for "Asteroids: The Movie"

Hollywood office, Feb 16th 2013:

"I can't believe we're trying to make an Asteroids movie..."

"Bob, it's a no-brainer!  Did you see YouTube yesterday, all them shots of that asteroid over Russia?  It was like the sun's twin brother just showed up!  That thing blew up with the power of 30 Hiroshimas, blowing out windows, knocking down buildings - from 15 miles up!  You know what would've happened if that thing had landed?"

"Yeah, because I've seen Deep Impact!  I've seen Armageddon!  It's been done, and done, and done!  Roland Emmerich walked away from this, and nobody else messes with this stuff..."

"There is one guy who will do this justice, and you know exactly who I'm talking about!"

"Whaaaa?"

"He's gonna do it, because it's the only one he hasn't done yet.  He's done westerns, war, kung-fu, and street - but he hasn't done his disaster movie yet.  He needs a Poseiden Adventure to complete his set.  His Towering Inferno, his Airport 75.  He loves saving genres everybody else has written off.  And who's making disaster movies these days?  Basic cable television!  He will know how to do it right, and he will consider it his sacred duty to see it done."

"I just don't see it happening, Harv..."

"Aw, c'mon!  He's perfect!  We get our director, we got our writer!  He's not gonna make Star Wars; it ain't gonna be a million CG shots and explosions drowning out his precious dialogue!  He's gonna get his buddies together for a barbecue, and come Monday, we got a cast!  And I got a couple of casting ideas of my own that he just can't pass up.  You know who I saw this weekend at Sonoma, of all places?  William Devane - why haven't they worked together yet?  That's catnip right there!
"And then - hear me out - I sign Christian Slater-"

"Aw geez, Harv..."

"C'mon- Heathers? Name of the Rose?  True Romance!  If there is any gas in that tank, our boy will find it!"

"-and if there's not?"

"Oh, this is the genius part.  I. will get. Jack. Nicholson. Out of retirement.  I'm not kidding, I know it'll be expensive, I'm know I'm moving mountains, but it's gotta happen!  Just to have a scene where Slater's up in Jack's face, going, "How can you do this to me?  I'm your flesh and blood!" and Jack waving a fat finger in his face, screaming, 'You ain't my flesh and blood!  You ain't nothing like me!'  That's money well spent! I will pay to see that happen!!"

"What's Jack gonna do?  He's not going to leave retirement to repeat himself, and he's already played the President and an astronaut."

"He can play whatever he wants, Bob!  Maybe he can be the asteroid!"

"I thought that was you, Harv..."


inspired by Discover Magazine article "Chelyabinsk Meteor Equaled Nearly 30 Hiroshima Bombs"

Day 15: The Fat Virus

Out of earshot, Vivian Charmain watched her daughter Veronica eat breakfast with disdain.  "Why does she let herself go like that?"
"It's not a choice," Mike replied between coffee sips.  "It's her genetics, you vain cow."
Reflexively, Viv's hands went to her sides, for the reassuring feel of the definition between her lower ribs.  "She's a child, and a young woman who needs to take responsibility for her appearance."
He tilted his head and gazed analytically at Ronnie.  To Viv, he muttered, "She's got your cheeks and my nose.  Your silhoutte from middle school, as I recall."
She pulled him away from the breakfast nook, hissing.  "She looks nothing like me!"  Vivian was right; before he was her husband, he was her surgeon.  Ten years later, he had adjusted over 65% of her surface area.  "This is your fault!  You are failing her!"
"I am not putting her under my knife!  She is not even menstruating yet!"  Mike crossed his arms.  "There is nothing I can do-"
Viv stopped his words with a wag of her finger.  There was one way that wouldn't involve a scalpel.  While Mike was in school, researchers discovered that the success of gastric-bypass surgeries was entirely dependent on the micriobiota displaced in the procedure.  In the following years, an industry was grown from the farming of stomach bacteria from covetously thin individuals, to inject into the BMI-challenged.  Mike had jumped on that train right out of med school; he now had three clinics to show for it.
"Fix her," Viv hissed.
Mike was crumbling.  "But she's not broken..."
"Fix her."  Viv dropped the Mike.
***

That evening, Mike checked in on Ronnie.  She was in her room doing homework, but otherwise carefree.
"Ronnie, you know your mom loves us, right?" "Yup."
"Even when she's worried and grumpy, right?" "Yup."
"She just wants what's best for you, right?"  "Yup."
Mike exhaled and produced a syringe.  "Okay; got a flu shot to give you now."
Ronnie looked up from her book, and let out her mother's whine, "Whyyyyy?"
"Just the luck of being a doctor's kid.  Come on..."  Mike removed the cap, while Ronnie lifted her shirt, exposing her belly.
Confused, Mike almost finished saying, "What are you doing?..."
Ronnie pointed at the three entry points surrounding her belly button.  "Mom said I have to do this until there's no more."


inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Gut Surgery Spawns Slimming Microbes"

DAY 14: Conversation with a Miracle

They say it's going to work.

This time.  These medicines.  These treatments.  This routine, every six hours, for the next few weeks and weeks, until... it works.  It will.

They told me what to do: which medicines, and when.  They showed me how to insert the tubes and use the needles.  They told me what I'd see if things were wrong.  And if nothing changes, it probably means nothing's wrong, so keep going.
And I accept all this, although I know they don't know anything about how this will turn out.  Because what we are trying to do has never happened before.

People have gotten sick, and then well, before.  People have been born sick, and then cured, before.
People have won the lottery before.  They've been struck by lightning, and lived, and struck again, and lived.  They've been orphaned, grown up and gotten married, found their long-lost twin, with a spouse
with the same first name as their own.

People get sick, and died.  People get sick, and take years to die.  People get sick, then better, before the sickness takes them for good.  Nobody has walked away from this sickness.  No drug, no treatment, no regimen or diet, no transplant or transfusion has carried anyone far away enough from this inevitable death.

This has never happened before.
But neither have you.

You have never happened before.  And there is nothing I can point to, no reason I can offer, that you are more likely or deserving.  But I believe it will happen.  Someone will be the first.  And if that's what it takes, I will do everything in my power for you to be that one.


inspired by Discover Magazine article "Drug Cocktail Cures HIV-Positive Baby"

DAY 13: The Apartment Arms Race

Saturday afternoon was Battledfield day; no negotations, Josh said.  Joe's coursework was going to wait until Josh's squadron totally pwoned Joe's crew; which was usually a 3 hour process.  Joe was uncharacteristically coopeartive this weekend, and complied.
And so it was that Joe set aside his theoretical calculus and cybernetics, and grabbed a controller.  He caught sight of Josh's Red Sox cap.  "How about you let me wear Red today?"  Josh responded with a quick swipe, planting it on his own head.

An hour later, Team Red had Team Blue down 19-15, when Joe decided to take a bathroom break.  Josh didn't see Joe's controller leave with him.  He was too busy riding shotgun in the Jeep, shoving grenades into people's faces.  "Take us to the roof!" Josh shouted.  Grid1ron423 drove up the stairs, while Josh kept a steady bead on Red Team's flagbearer.  He pulled out the SRAW, took aim, and...
BWHAM! The jeep was a mushroom cloud.  "What was that?!?" GridIron wailed.
"Focus!  We're coming back!" Josh barked.  They emerged, and Josh began scanning his arsenal, looking for the right weapon.  He saw his Shorty 12G, one of his favorites.  "J-Lo," he purred.  As GridIron ran ahead, Josh made his selection.  It promptly materialized in his hands, and fired a round straight into GridIron's back.  "What the hell?" GridIron squawked.
Josh, meanwhile, was watching his weapons selection scroll faster than his eyes could keep up.  "I've been hacked!"  He started trying to push every button he could-
"Whatev!  You're telling me you ain't pushing the buttons?"
"Seriously!, Joe, look-"  Josh looked at Joe's empty chair.  Josh looked down at his own fingers; they were pushing the buttons... but not the buttons he wanted.  He watched his fingers select his bank account and check the balance.  He tried to drop the controller, but his hands refused.  The rest of Blue team, meanwhile, were building distance.
"Joe!"  Josh awkwardly got off the couch, controller still between his hands.
"Joe!"  Josh looked in all directions, rage building.
"JOE!"  Josh roared at the bathroom door.  "Stop it! Turn it off!"

On the other side of the door, Joe gleefully stared at the tablet that provided a view of Josh's predicament, while he mashed his controller buttons.  "Dude, just take off your hat!"


inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Mind Melds Made Real"

DAY 12: Eviction Notice

I told him he should have locked the place.  A guy who thinks he can sell real estate because he wins at Monopoly doesn't realize what a sewer Baltic Avenue is.

It was a block west of the OldTown renaissance; it should have been easy money.  But Jerry bought the two-story Victorian in November, then didn't touch it while the winter blew in.  As soon as the weatherman said we were getting to 40, he gave me a call.  He understands that family gets you availability(not a discount) so I met him after work.

I was there to give estimates on the work he'd have to pay for, supplies to get, etc...  First thing to the grocery list: a back door.  The ground floor was definitely explored, but unoccupied.  He shrugged it off; I reminded him that crackhouses aren't bought, they're found.

I was stepping around turds and looking for mold, while he was taking pictures, when we heard some thumping upstairs. The house had no power and I had the Mag, so I took the lead.  There were four doors upstairs, all closed.  

He ran up when I kicked open the first one; I told him he was buying new doorknobs.  I heard the noise at the end of the hall, but I slammed open the rest of the doors, in case the noise would scare it off (not he or she; they didn't shoot or run when I was slamming doors or Jerry was yelling "police!" in a very un-authoritative voice...)  

So there's one door left, and it's the bathroom, by process of elimination.  We bang on the door, tell them to get down on the ground, and I get ready to turn the doorknob.  Jerry's behind me, ready to swing.  I push it open-

And that's when we found the deer - a six-point buck - thrashing its head, bucking, honking like a goose from hell.  Me and my light get out of its way; it runs, tumbling down the stairs, and out the back door.  I look for Jerry - no sign.  I call for him - not a sound.  I feel a breeze out of the second bedroom; I go to the window... he'd jumped out the second story, landed on a trash tub, lost himself a tooth.  

He sold me the property the next week, and I flipped that house in a month.  Amateur.

inspired by Discover Magazine article, "The Search for Life Trapped Under Antartica's Ice"

DAY 11: Tiptoeing Around the Giant

It took two minutes for the image of Kira's father to fill the screen.  Behind him, she could see the old "HAPPY BIRTHDAY" banner had been strung up for the occasion.  She was in the middle of typing her apology:  "It's always tomorrow here, but I'm on time for your birthday there.  Sorry for the delay; I'm only passing by Station 3 for a few minutes.  On patrol."
He was in Charlotte, North Carolina; she was east of the Sea of Japan, and a mile below.  Her patrol of the Tamu Massif volcano had brought her under Idemitsu Station 3, who were happy to piggyback her messages back to the surface, along with temperature and seisomographic readings.  But her instruments were picking up enough noise (especially near the platforms), so she had to ride silent except for emergencies.

She could see her father's smile awkwardly attempt to hold its position, while he read the message.  He started to type.  Kira held up a self-made birthday card, and moved her head, so he would know the image was fresh.
Dad sent back three words.  "Is everything par?"
Reflexively, Kira gave him a thumbs up.  "Par" was her dad's personal lingo from his security guard years: 4 campuses in 30 years, in support of his children's dreams.   When she was growing up, she got a two-way radio, and grew adept at finding her father's security channel on his overnight patrols.  She had even done a ridealong once, when he worked at Wake Forest, and they spent all night riding the cart or strolling the campus, and he showed her how he did his job.  He refused a second ride, even when they moved; when asked, he said, "I taught you everything there is about my job; you can do better."
She checked her instruments.  To her left, the temperature reading was flickering upward.  She initiated a sulphur check; there were a hundred reasons above her, but only one reason below that was her jurisdiction.  Increased levels of sulphur could be evidence of volcanic vents, the snores of Tamu Massif.
The Tamu Massif reigned over the Northern edge of the 'Ring of Fire', the seismic belt that stretched a subterranian river of lava across the length of the Pacific.  Tamu Massif, the largest volcano on the planet, was identified in 2013, and implicated in the 5.3 Fukishima earthquake.  It was Kira's job to make sure that the giant slept.

She scanned the monitor images on the ocean floor.  East of her path, she could make out the outline of the deep-water reef she called "Rufus" (her personal label, after a colleague's haircut; it was only coordinates, officially.)  Deep-water reefs tend to congregate around sources of warmth; she might have a detour from her patrol, in her future.  She recorded her coordinates.
Kira's dad held a confused gaze, awaiting her answer.  Kira smirked and typed, "It's par."  Nine years of school, two degrees, three published papers... and she was in her father's line of work.

inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Earth's Biggest Volcano Discovered"

DAY 10: The Escher Box

"We missed you yesterday."  Leigh was standing at Norman's door, dressed for a day in the world. She was greeted by the sight of walking sawdust.

"What happened, Norman?  Where have you been?  They said you didn't make it into work yesterday."

Groggy, he replied.  "I had an idea.  But I lost it."

Leigh let herself in, stepping gingerly through the minefield of aborted projects: half-emerged bears and obelisks, potato-headed steeds,diamond-bodied snakes... a geometric menagerie nipped at her heels.  "This looks painful, Norm.  You need to stop."
Norm grimaced at the words.  "Nobody else knows what they look like.  I don't even know, until it's done."
"God, you're melodramatic.  Where's the Febreze?"

Leigh saw it: an impossible thing, sitting in the mistakes.  She stretched out her hand, but didn't know how to pick it up, how to approach it.  Norm strode up to it, and snatched it off the ground.
"You found it.  That's my Escher Box."  He placed it on the table; Leigh was entranced by it.  "I started with some simple ones; they're over there.  Got some spaghetti noodles and bubble gum.  But that's just an optical illusion.  I was feeling ambitious..."

Leigh stared into the box.  One interior wall was carved like fur, another like collapsing stars.  She picked it up at the edges, starring into a spiral with fluttering edges.  From her vantage point, the corners had opened a door into her hand.  She turned it to a side...
"...I remembered about Fibonacci sequences, Mandlebrot sets, mathematical formulas that could be graphed and visualized more articulately than they could be explained on paper.  I mean, we're reaching a point of mathematics that can't be fathomed with numbers, or imaginary numbers, or anything you can put on a chalkboard..."
She examined the other end.  Leigh was staring into the vortex now, trying to peek past a corner, which seemed to bend deeper and deeper...
"Once I grasped the concept of multi-dimensional formulation - well, half-grasped it.  I realized if I got too much into it, I would-"

Norm's rambling was interrupted by the clatter of the box, landing on the floor.  Leigh had disappeared.


inspired by the Discover Magazine article, "Amplituhedron May Shape the Future of Physics"

DAY 8: "Catch That Hominid!", chapter 37

Ook the Caveman careened down the street so fast, the bike was pedaling him.  He managed to drift at the corner, veering left to escape the pursuing scientists and the traffic jam in his wake.  Riding alongside, Bri squealed, "Ook, that was awesome!"
Dr Kealy's van peeled out of the pileup and resumed the chase.  "We can't let them leave campus, Herman!" he barked, as he loaded the tranquilizer gun.  "If we can return that hominid to the lab for study, I can make Paleontological history!"
At that moment, the cell phone rang.  It was Dr Estelle Besoin, from the the anthropology department. "Don't you dare touch a hair on that human's head!  There is too much to learn from him before you turn him into a dissected frog!"
Dr Kealy yelled into his phone, "Like what?  Learn how long it takes him to say 'please' and 'thank you'?  He's riding a BMX bike and wearing Nikes!  Your experiment is tainted!  I need his body before he joins the Walmart nation!"
From the car alongside, Dr Segure yelled back, "You're thinking too small!"  With one hand on his own steering wheel, he slapped Dr Kealy's van with the other. "I heard the last part of your sentence, and can easily guess everything else your predictable mind said!  Your butchery won't get one-tenth of the information that my DNA analysis can reveal!"
"Herman, get him off the road!"
Dutifully, Herman jerked the van right, slamming into Dr Segure's Miata.  Together, they slid against the parked cars alongside the road, fusing into a gnarled mess. As they continued to slide down the street, the trapped Doctors could only glare at each other.  "Genetic paleontology is the future, Kealy!"
"That's funny, Segure, because I thought paleontology was about the past!"

Just as their momentum was spent, a Smart Car smacked into them; a germanic "Oops!" popped out of the coupe.  Dr Kealy rolled his eyes; "Great, more of you genetic fanboys!"
"Hey, don't lump in Dr Wimmer with me!  I've got nothing to do with genetic archaeology!"
From the back, Dr Wimmer murmered, "Actually, I'm an archaeological geneticist; a genetic archaeologist would excavate long-forgotten habitats of a tribe of geneticists." He allowed himself a laugh.  "But seriously, that's Doctor Werner."
Dr Kealy muttered to Herman, "There's a lot of competition for tenure these days, isn't there?"

On his ten-speed, Dr Beiber, creationist archaeologist, rode up to the wreck, "Where's the caveman?"
"Back off, Ed, he doesn't know anything about dinosaurs!" Dr Segure barked.  "Soon as I line his chromosomes up, you won't have a leg to stand on!"
"Threatened, Ramon?  Just give me ten minutes with him, we can settle the Old Creationist versus New Creationist debate, and blow everyone's minds!"
"Dude, he is checkmate!  A living, breathing rebuttal!"
"Oh, really?  'Victim's got a bullet hole, but I don't see a gun - I guess he wasn't shot!'"

****

Meanwhile, Ook and Bri had made it off campus, and still racing down the street.  "Ook, as soon as we get back to my place, we have to get you a better disguise, so we can find Teddy, and get you home!"  She turned to face him- but he was gone...

...following the strong and unmistakable scent of well-hunted and grilled meat.  He wound his way to a laundromat parking lot, where a large man in an Iron Maiden-marked denim vest was grilling by a fatigued mini-van.  The large man held the turkey leg over his head.  Ook rode toward the turkey leg, crashing himself into the open minivan to claim his prize.  The assistant slid the door quickly to lock Ook inside.
"That worked great, Red!  How'd you know?"
Red doused the grill.  "I'm a crypto-anthropologist, Shiela.  I know how to catch Bigfoot."

inspired by the Discover Magazine article, "Extracting Family Trees from Ancient Genomes"

DAY 7: Infinity

"I like your shirt," Tycho said to the baby.  "I'm indifferent to the color, and I certainly can't recognize its affiliation with any organized sports team.  I sincerely doubt it has one."  The baby stared back, blankly.
"I like the number, though," Tycho continued.  "8; that's a good number.  Aesthetically pleasing to the eye, several distinct planes of symmetry, the first non-prime cubed integer...  I'm sure your mother wasn't aware of any of that when she picked the shirt out.  Probably matched her socks at the moment.

Tycho glanced up at the room-length mirror for a moment.  "I'm sorry.  I'm not supposed to speak with negativity.  I've read that even at your age, you have that awareness, an instinct about it.  I'm comfortable with that idea.  You don't need me to be just loud vowels and stuttering syllables, do you?  Calm, measured tones, comforting and confident; eye contact within your range of sight; delicate, warm contact...  I can do that."

Ivy cocked her head, listening intently to Tycho.  He helped her stand. "If I could choose a jersey number, I'd wear 37.  It's an unassuming prime, but when you triple it, it's 111, and that comes in handy so much more than you would expect.  A secret weapon, kind of."
The child was concentrating on keeping on her feet; he continued, regardless.  "I'm kind of a prime integer, so you know.  I don't know which parts of me came from my father or mother.  The parents that raised me did what they could.  But I'm just me.  There's no formula for me. "But there is a formula for you, and you deserve to know it - all of it."

Ivy's legs gave, and she tumbled.  Ready to cry, she looked to Tycho for her next step.  From across the room, he said, "I'm here."  Silently, she crawled to the wall, and braced herself up.


Inspired by the Discover Magazine article, "Two Elusive Prime Number Problems Solved"

DAY 6: Boomerang

Emily swirled the chardonnay, compelling it to climb to the lip of her snifter, without allowed thing it to escape.  She had heard it was what one does with a good chardonnay, and so she did, carefully.  She placed it under her nose to experience the bouquet, but the smell reminded her of communion wine and one of her preferred disinfecting cleaners.
The others had opted for hardier spirits.  Jaeger was drinking vodka, which was supposed to be funny, but no one told her why.  Harold and Li were working on a bottle of Jack Daniels.  Stu drank nothing, but stared at the shadows in the corner, wearing his calculating glare...
Finally, Morgan hoisted his beer in the air, calling their attention.  "Gentleman and lady, I don't think we've yet given a proper toast to Chuz, our fallen colleague.  As we chase after the secret he kept - the secret that killed him - I ask that we remember the man who brought us together, and allowed us to be our best.  We've had some vigorous discussions, but I think we can come to agreement that it was a burden he should not have borne alone.  As he brought us together, so he is among us.  As we see this through, so shall he.  To Chuz!"

The team downed their drinks and bowed their heads.  Lorraine the waitress took the empty bottle, and brought new shots.  "Sorry, boys, here's your last call.  And I'm sorry to hear about your friend.  What are you, hunters?"
"Actually, miss," slurred Harold, "we're rocket scientists.  But we are hunting tonight-"
"-for a meteorite!" Li interjected, stepping over the rest of Harold's words.
"You mean, that meteor coming down tonight?  I saw on the news a little bit ago..."
Harold grinned deeply.  "Yeah, your government's closing the forest for us, since it'll probably land there. Got our nets and yellow tape, and we'll see what the heavens brought down to us poor souls."
"Are you guys Americans?"\
"Yep.  You wanna do something a-boot it, eh?"
Li was patting himself down for his wallet.  "We'll be out of your hair in a bit."  He wandered over to Morgan.
As the waitress was about to walk off, Harold whispered, "We're not going after a meteorite."
He showed Lorraine his wristwatch, and pointed to its center.  "We're here.  We shot something all the way over here-" dragging his finger to the 3- "and it's coming at us from here."  He placed his finger on the 9, pulling it back to the center.  "Ain't that wild?" Lorraine shook her head, offering no response.
Stu returned his attention to the team.  "If you're all done, it's entered airspace. should be on the ground in two minutes."

The team climbed into the van: Stu at the wheel, Morgan navigating, the others doing final checks on equipment and watching the skies.  Emily was sitting next to Jaeger, whose lower lip was jutting out and resting against the window.  In a low voice, she asked, "Are you mad that Chuz didn't tell you?"
Jaeger collected himself, and measured his answer.  "No.  I mean, he inherited it, y'know?  He was still interning when the signal went crazy.  There wasn't any proof to call it anything besides mechanical failure, so that's been the truth enough.  No other answer made sense, so there's no reason to think of anything else without the data.  That's what messed Chuz up."
"That way lies madness," Morgan offered.
"And we have plenty of time to go crazy," Jaeger joked.  "First things first."

Harold's mouth diarrhea kicked in.  "Guys, I'm renaming the stars.  As long as all bets are off, I'll calling dibs on a couple of them.  I already bought one for my daughter, so she would think my job was cool.  I think I'm going to rename a closer one; maybe it'll work this time...  oh shit, are we still going to have jobs?  I'm serious, guys!  The universe - our universe is like, 85 years across!  We're living in a donut!  A dark jelly donut!"
"I think you're panicking, Harold.  I'm considering a wormhole as our culprit," Li countered.  "The theory's been around, it's suggested on the atomic level; if we find evidence of temporal irregularities, I think this discovery could be a real positive."
"Sure, you and the Mario brothers!"
Emily put her hand on Harold's shoulder, trying to calm him.  "Look, we're all thinking about it, let's just get it out there.  Now, I'm thinking it's premature to presume one dominant factor put it so off course.  We've got other scouts out there, after all, and they haven't returned.  It could have caught onto another current, and been redirected naturally."
"I'm considering intentional alteration," Stu said.  "Statistically, it's impressive that we send it out one direction in uncharted territory, and it happens to intersect our path, but not where it started, and do that unassisted.  I don't think it's an accident; I think it's a response."
Morgan moaned, "My wife will tell you who's responding: it's God.  He's swatting us back down where He wants us to be.  We asked our big question, and we got our answer: No."
Emily accepted the map, and took over navigation.

At the site, the authorities had already cordoned off the area; the team had it to themselves.  The radiation it had absorbed in space was distinct enough to find it in the forest, but Harold assured that it wasn't at lethal levels.  He and Li worked the perimeter to locate the smaller significant pieces; Jaeger and Stu loaded up the bulk of the guts, leaving Emily and Morgan to catalog.  Morgan was all business until Jaeger brought him the pieces of the gold disc; then, he cried like a baby.
But even as the autopsy continued through the night, Emily would still steal glances at the stars, and wonder what she was seeing.


inspired by the Discover Magazine article, "Voyager 1 Goes Interstellar"

DAY 5: Marilyn Monroe's Lips

"The great thing about stem cells is that you can make them into whatever you want, if you're just specific enough."  Jurgen had never adopted the formality that came with all of his accumulated medical knowledge; there was even rumors that, despite the diplomas on display at his office, he was predominantly self-taught.   But his demeanor (and successes) made him a perfect fit for the clientele of Los Angeles; his Norweigan accent made him even more charming.
Ralph Herrington was immune to those charms.  But the surgeon came highly regarded for his skill, discretion, and love of a challenge.  And so, he put the palm-sized plastic case on Jurgen's desk.  Inside the case was several locks of hair.
Jurgen raised an eyebrow.  "Is this the item you mentioned?"
Ralph nodded.  "Got it from her hairdresser; cut on the set of 'Don't Bother to Knock', one of her last films before she went blonde.  He was a fruit, but even he knew a goddess when he saw one.  Kept it in a tin box for a few years, before I got my hands on it; vacuum-sealed it right away.  Got it tested, as soon as the technology was there..." He pushed the box, gently across the desk.  "It's her."
Jurgen picked up the box, studying it.  "That, right there... is priceless.  You've seen what I've done for Jean so far, so you know what I can do.  Now, I cannot guarantee we'll get what you want out of this.  I can only guarantee that these locks will not survive."
Ralph looked over his shoulder; from his vantage point, he could see Jean reading a magazine.  The sight transported him.  "Y'know, Doctor - she kissed me once; 1956.  I was an usher, working an Arthur Miller double-bill.  She was there, she asked me about the play, wanted something smart to say to her husband.  I told her what I thought, and she was happy with it.  She kissed me.  I never saw her again.  I left New York the next year; never saw her again, either.
"Jean wants this as much as me; she's dedicated her life to it.  We're deeply invested in this.  You pull this off, she gets to be her.  I get to feel those lips again.  That's worth it."
***
Jean knocked on the door of Jurgen's lab.  Jurgen answered the door with a bowl and whisk in hand.  "Jean, so glad you're here!  Your husband sent you to check on me?"
"He's still in Vancouver,  but he says he won't take me on the Japan trip if I'm still in bandages!  Let's do this already!"
Jurgen showed off the mixture drizzling from his wisk.  "You see this?  These are your new lips..."  He directed her to a small oven, and a petrie dish within-  "...and here."
Jean peered in.  The petri dish was lined with a translucent gravy; in the center, it raised and separated in the shape of two pale, but unmistakable beestung lips.  "Your husband's Christmas present is on schedule."  Jurgen brushed the next coating of lipase on the lips, making them glisten.  As he smoothed over a few trapped air bubbles, one popped, and the lips quivered.
Jurgen let out a sharp laugh, but he saw Jean's revulsion.  "It's alright! These are like your breasts and your calves, and they will feel just as much a part of you when we're done."  He traced Jean's mouth with a finger  "You will be the most beautiful woman who ever walked the Earth."
***
Nine months later, there was a knock on Jurgen's door.  "Dr Lund, I represent the Herrington estate.  May I come in?"
Jurgen looked up at the monolith in the suit.  "Is this about the funeral?  I didn't know I was invited."
The monolith produced a tablet and began scanning through it.  "One year ago, you came into possession of certain effects, for the completion of a surgical procedure-"
Jurgen walked to his couch, to make himself comfortable.  "Yes, and as I told Mr Herrington, it was unlikely that anything would be recoverable.  But it was done in the service of his request.  Did he receive satisfactory results for his contribution?"
"Dr Lund, I'm not here about-"
"You were there with him, at the clinic that day, when we took the bandages off.  Do you remember what he said, after he kissed her?  I do have it on video..."
"He did say that he hadn't kissed those lips in over 60 years," the monolith demurred.
"-and he recognized them!  His face was filled with delight!  I'd say he was satisfied, sir.  I imagine he had the best two weeks of his life.  But you're not implicating me with anything after he left the clinic."

"No, my visit is about business you conducted after that point."
"Oh, I see..." Jurgen smirked.  "Well, I admit that Jean's success inspired me.  I created my Monroe mold over a decade ago, but I gained a new appreciation for its beauty.  Apparently, I wasn't the only one."
The monolith scanned through his notes, "36 procedures, doctor."
"Well, someone's been asking around.  My office, and certainly I, understand privacy laws enough that I never reveal such information about any of my clients.  Just as I have no intention of revealing anything about Mrs Herrington's procedure.  Or is that what you would like me to do?"
The monolith put his tablet aside, and tucked his hands in his pockets.  "The estate has no intention of taking legal action."
"Grab your things," Jurgen clipped. Walking briskly, he pulled the Monolith's attention to the front door.  "Well, I don't know what we have to talk about, that can't wait for the clinic, tomorrow-"  Jurgen yanked on the doorknob, and nearly fell to the ground; it was locked.
The Monolith was standing over Jurgen; he was holding a knife.  "I'm here to collect restitution."

***
Jean sat in the limo, urn in her lap.  The first plumes of smoke were starting to appear when the Monolith entered.  He presented the tablet to Jean.  She looked over the picture gallery of the late Dr Lund, every stab wound exposed and circled with red lipstick.
"I had to turn him over, for the other 13," he offered.
When she was satisfied, Jean looked at the Monolith, and gave her million-dollar smile.  "Thank you."  And then she turned on the alarms.



inspired by the Discover magazine article, "Scientists Make Progress in Growing Organs from Stem Cells"

DAY 4: Starbucks is Everywhere

Nikki pretended to read the menu.  None of the waiters had approached, so she had had plenty of time to pretend that she could read Cyrillic.  But truthfully, it was no different to her than Korean, Arabic, or the ham-fisted keyboard poundings of an inebriated chimpanzee.  She thought about her dyslexic cousin Carl, and muttered an apologetic prayer for him.
A worker in milkmaid braids placed a tall drink beside Nikki, and offered the first Russian smile that Nikki had seen all day.
"That's a vente mochacino," the man at the next table said, in a flat American cadence.  "I'm gonna warn you; it's even sweeter than you remember.  Hope you enjoy it."
"Thank you," Nikki replied.
He leaned closer, without leaving his seat.  "Also, I told her you were Nikki Minaj, without the wig.  She's still a thing here.  It's the only way you're going to get anything close to Starbucks service around here."  He pulled out his camera.  "If I take your picture, do you think you can do that caffeinated, 'Got Milk' smile thing she does?"
Nikki obliged with a pose.  The stranger showed her the result; it was perfect.
"Y'know," he said, "I could have also said you were the grown-up little cousin from 'Fresh Prince of Bel-Air'.  That's still a thing here, too."
Nikki sipped her drink - and reeled from the sweetness. "Wow, you weren't kidding!  Thank you.  You can sit here, if you like."
The stranger shook his head.  "I'm here with somebody - and you should be.  Where's your entourage?"
"My family's at the hotel.  We're on our way to Sochi, but we're being tourists first.  They're upstairs planning the next leg of the tour, and I just wanted to go someplace like home ...ish."
"Yeah, it's not quite, but it's close enough to get me out of my apartment: sweet coffee, internet signal, some james taylor on the stereo once in a while.  For a minute or two, I think I'm home again.  The next minute, I see or hear something, it snaps me out of it."

Nikki took a second sip, savoring the drink this time.  "So, what are you doing here?  In Russia?"
The stranger, smiling, paused to size her up.  "I work in IT.  So, are you enjoying it out here?"
"It's too cold!  I thought I dressed for the weather, but I had to buy this when we got off the plane!"
"You got gouged, I'm sure."
"And people are so... I don't wanna say rude-"
"Cold?"
Nikki chuckled.  "Is that bad?  Am I being rude?"
"They are the way they are, with strangers.  But they're warm with friends; you'll have to be a friend, first.  The older you are, the longer it'll take.  I got a landlady who acts like she still lives in the Soviet days, I still can't tell if she's going to kill me in my sleep.  My friends swear no, but I can't tell."

A bald man, reading a newspaper at another table, glared at Nikki.  Nikki smirked and said to her stranger, "Maybe she thinks she's being watched."
The stranger leaned toward her conspirationally and replied, "How does she know she's not?"
Nikki laughed, but the stranger continued.  "Seriously, she probably remembers back in the day when all the walls had ears, and you never knew what you could be arrested for, or pulled into.  Eyes and ears everywhere - and you know what?  She's got a point.
"You're going to Sochi, where Russia's trying to show how far they're come - but you count how many cameras you see, how many cops, how many soldiers with Kalishnikovs you see walking around with the public.  Now, you may think, 'Russia's still pretty hardcore', but check out Paris on your way home, or London.  And you might - might - be seeing the future of New York, DC...  who knows?  I mean, you're from Atlanta, I'm from Carolina -"
"How do you know I'm from Atlanta?"
"um, accent - the point is, America's becoming more like the world, even as the world's becoming more like America.  And it's not all going to be a perfect fit - I mean, we're sitting in a prime example right now, y'know?  And all the countries are trying to pick and choose what changes they're going to embrace, and what they're going to keep, but the truth is - they won't be able to keep everything they want."
The stranger saw the worry on Nikki's face.  "I'm sorry, my coffee's kicking in  Not so great at keeping stuff to myself, people say.  I don't want to mess up your trip, so - there's a poet that said something like, we journey and journey, and when we get home, we see it for the first time.  Do that.  Enjoy Sochi.  Take home lots of good memories.  And when you get home, see all the stuff that's only at home, and embrace it, for as long as you can.
"I have to go-" The stranger looked at his phone as he stood up.  "-so I suggest calling somebody from your 'entourage' to get you.  Maybe your dad or your cousin."
"How did-"
The bald man was standing, waiting to follow the American stranger out.  "I just found you on Facebook.  Let me leave you with a joke:  do you know the recipe for a Black Russian?  It's coffee and vodka."
Nikki sighed, and smiled.  "All I need's the vodka-"
"-and you'll fit right in.  But don't overdo it."  And the stranger left.
As she had her final sips, she thought casually about the stranger, and the things he said.  But it was drifting from her mind before she emptied her cup.  Then, she called her family at the hotel, so they would know where she was.

inspired by the Discover Magazine article, "Edward Snowden, the NSA, and the Never-Ending End of Privacy"