“What are you going to do?”
“Get the diazepam.”
By the time Associate Dean Hayes arrives, Snortorious is knocked out in his pen. Hayes barely spends time with pig number 28, probably concerned that he might ruin his suit. He drags me to my office, lectures me about keeping a tighter rein on my staff.
“You’re an asset to the university. The world needs labs like this now,” he says.
I focus on the carnation on his lapel. Who the hell is this guy?
“My granddaughter has a fighting chance because of what you’ve done here. Don’t turn the work into a circus.”
“Of course not,” I say.
I see Patrice waving her arms in the air as my colleague Dr. Brett Gaffney enters the observation gallery with her assistants in tow. They are snapping pictures of Snortorious, laughing along, taking group shots with one finger pushing up their noses in pig solidarity.
“One, two, three, oink!” Brett says.
I follow Dean Hayes as he rushes to the observation area to lecture Dr. Gaffney. I hastily grab reports from a grad assistant’s work area, hoping he’ll forget about the video if I play up our lab data.
“Sir, if you look at these figures, you’ll note that our animal organ donor facility has helped stabilize more plague patients than any other research venture to date. We expect to quadruple our output if we can get federal approval to use a stem cell printer,” I say, waving the files in front of the man’s face. I’m pointing to the charts, mostly riffing, keeping one eye on Snortorious. “Some states have done very well in containing the adult strain. We’re fairly positive transmission is no longer airborne. It’s not a cure, but with more transplants, we can buy people time. And might I add, sir, that our organs are prime candidates for testing future vaccines, to observe if any cellular transformation has halted in a lab setting.” I’m about to point him toward one of our other donor pigs, Sir Pigginsworth, when he pushes into the observation gallery and snatches Dr. Gaffney’s phone.
“Your chair will hear about this!” he yells, attempting to delete any photos or videos taken of the lab. “All of you, leave. Now.”
Dr. Gaffney ushers her students toward the door and waves back at me, as if to say sucks to be you.
“What exactly is going on here?” Dean Hayes asks. “This is exactly the kind of thing I was talking about.” I can see Ammie and Patrice in the pen with Snortorious, rubbing his back. He’s still mostly out of it but seems to be aware of the commotion.
“They weren’t invited,” I explain. “We really need to get back to work. Boston Children’s Hospital is waiting.”
Dean Hayes grunts and he’s about to leave when Snortorious decides to speak.
Noisy, he says.
Ammie and Patrice are whispering into his ears, telling him to be quiet. Patrice is pushing down on his rear end, trying to get him to lie down, maybe the dean won’t see him.
Noisy, noisy. Sleep, Sleep, Snortorious says, louder this time.
“What was that?” Dean Hayes asks. “That voice.”
“What voice?” I say. Ammie is on top of Snortorious now, trying to hide him from view.
“I thought I heard someone,” Dean Hayes says. “A very strange voice.”
Many dahktars talking, Snortorious shouts.
“There,” Dean Hayes says. He studies me for a moment before scanning the room, stopping at the pen where we can see Snortorious sitting up, staring right back at us. “Something is going on here.”
Dean Hayes pushes past me, approaches Snortorious.
Ammie, Ammie. Scratch ear.
“Holy crap,” Dr. Gaffney says as she walks back into the room. “Was that the pig?”
“I told you to leave,” the dean says.
“You have my phone,” Dr. Gaffney says, pointing to a table.
“Go. Now,” the dean says. “And not one word of this to anyone.
“You.” Dean Hayes points to me. “And you and you.” He points to Ammie and Patrice. “Somebody better tell me what the hell is going on here.”
Over the coming days and weeks, several meetings are held. Half the departments on campus want a piece of Snortorious. Initially, Dean Hayes wanted to relocate him （and this is still a possibility）， but we’ve since convinced him that Snortorious only trusts us, especially after the many failed attempts to get him to speak without me or Ammie present. We’ve added security measures, of course—a guard at the door, limited access to the lab for preapproved personnel only. Today, neuroscience has their dedicated time with him. I’m sitting in the corner, overseeing the session. Snortorious looks to me frequently, letting out subdued, melancholy squeals as the doctors place sensors all over his body. Dahktar. Dahktar. I want to chase them off and hold him.