What I really loved, what I really wanted—had always wanted—was to be a geneticist. To understand and wield the power of the source code of life to make the world a better place. I blamed that on growing up in my mother’s orbit. She was a juggernaut, and her influence had burdened me with outsize ambitions.
But I didn’t live in a world where any of my dreams were possible anymore.
And the hardest truth—the one that had been eating me slowly from the inside for most of my adult life—was that even if it was, I didn’t possess a fraction of the raw intelligence of an Anthony Romero or a Miriam Ramsay.
I had extraordinary dreams and an ordinary mind.
* * *
—
Exactly two weeks after my admittance to Denver Health’s ICU, the door to my bubble unzipped and Dr. Singh walked in with a broad smile on her face and a cascade of dark hair flowing past her shoulders.
“You have hair,” I said.
“I do. Quite a lot of it.”
“Where’s your suit?”
“Don’t need it.”
She came over and sat in the chair beside my bed—a bit younger than I would’ve guessed based on the huskiness of her voice.
“We feel comfortable saying that the virus, whatever it was, has run its course. You’re going to be sore for another month or so, but we’re kicking you out. Oh, and I have someone on my phone who wants to tell you something.” She took her cell out of her pocket, put it on speaker. “Director Rogers? You’re on with Logan.”
“Logan, can you hear me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your doc just filled me in on the good news, and I have some of my own to share. Your DNA analysis came back. You’re in the clear.”
“No changes to my genome?” I asked.
“None that we can see.”
I fought back tears.
“Thank you, sir. Thank you so much.”
“See you back in Washington.”
As Dr. Singh ended the call, Beth and Ava pushed through the opening in the plastic and rushed over to my bed. They both climbed onto the narrow mattress, sandwiching me between them.
“Watch the ribs,” I groaned.
We were all laughing and crying. I had missed the simple sensations. The smell of them. The tone of their voices in the open air instead of filtered through the face shield of a hazmat suit. The feel of skin on skin instead of latex.
After fourteen days in quarantine, it was like an invitation to return to my life again.
To come home.
THE DOOR TO THE bathroom creaked opened. Beth peered in.
“What are you doing?” she asked, bleary-eyed.
Fair question. It was three in the morning, and I was sitting in as hot a bath as I could stand.
“Did I wake you?” I asked.
“No, I reached for you, but you weren’t there. Is it the same thing as last week?”
“Yeah.”
“Where’s the pain?” she asked.
“My legs. My arms. My back. Basically everywhere.”
Beth stepped into the bathroom and started rummaging through the medicine cabinet.
“I already took some Advil,” I said. “Just waiting for it to kick in.”
She approached the claw-foot tub—cast iron with a copper patina overlay. The steam peeling off the surface of the water had filled the bathroom with a hot, heavy fog.
“You haven’t peed in there, have you?” she asked.
I laughed. “No, why?”
She untied her robe, let it slide off her shoulders and onto the subway-tile floor.
Taking hold of the side of the tub, she swung a long leg over and climbed in.
“Ooh, that’s hot.” She exhaled slowly through her teeth as she eased down into the water across from me. “I don’t know how you stand this.”
“That’s how bad it hurts.”
“What kind of pain is it?”
“Remember growing pains?”
“Sure.”
“It’s like that. On steroids. A deep ache.”
“Or maybe you’ve gotten soft and weak in your old age.”
I smiled and flipped her off.
Leaning back against the smooth enamel, I closed my eyes. Despite the hot water, my legs still throbbed. I’d taken three Advils, but I was starting to suspect I’d need something stronger if the pain persisted.
“I wish you’d talk to Dr. Strand about this.”
“I’m seeing him tomorrow.”
What I hadn’t told Beth was that I’d talked to Dr. Strand about this recurring pain at a check-in several days ago, and he was troubled enough to send me off for a round of X-rays. I’d tell her what was going on when I had concrete news. No point in worrying her if it was nothing.
“Will you be able to go into work tomorrow?” she asked.
“I hope so.”
The GPA had put me on leave since Denver, and tomorrow I was returning to work for the first time since nearly getting myself killed six weeks ago. My ribs were healing nicely, and the ice-inflicted lacerations had resolved without a single scar.
“What time’s your train?” I asked.
“Seven-fifteen.”
Beth was taking the loop up to New York for a sociology conference at Columbia. She was presenting a lecture on crime in Lower Manhattan, which had become a massive homeless encampment since it flooded and was condemned eight years ago.
“Are you still planning to stay for the whole thing?” I asked.
“Yeah. I wish you could come. We could make a week of it.”
We fell into easy conversation as the water cooled. Talking with Beth was one of the few pure joys of my life. In fact, when I’d asked her to marry me all those years ago, I’d phrased the proposal as: “There’s no one else on this planet I would rather have ten thousand dinners with.”
The pain in my legs slowly relented.
Beth finally stood and stepped out of the tub, sighing as she glanced at her phone.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“It’s after four. I still have to pack and get out to Union Station by six. No point in even trying to go back to sleep.”
“Sorry I woke you,” I said.
She donned her robe, tied the belt, came back to the tub.
Leaning down, she kissed me.
“Don’t ever be.”
* * *
—
In the morning, I dropped Ava at school, parked at a lot near the Arlington Cemetery station, and took the blue line into D.C.
The Gene Protection Agency was headquartered in Constitution Center, in the same office space that had once housed the National Endowment for the Arts.
I badged through security and took the elevator up to the suite of offices of the director and deputy director, where I’d been summoned to meet with Edwin Rogers at nine A.M.
I waited outside his secretary’s garrison for a half hour, and then Edwin emerged from his office, saying by way of greeting, “Had coffee yet?”
“Yes, but I could always have more.”
“Walk with me.”
He was an impressive, dominating man.
Six-five, slim with wide shoulders, and dressed in a gorgeously tailored suit.
At sixty, he was still lighter than ever on his feet, and I had to walk fast to keep pace with his long, confident strides.
We rode down to the building’s central park and got in line at the coffee stand. It was a mild morning for late November, and the ten, glass-fa?ade stories of Constitution Center that enclosed the one-acre courtyard kept us protected from the wind coming off the Potomac and the interstate noise just to our south.