Parasite (Parasitology, #1)(31)

“I’ve been listening to the audio versions.” It was hard to avoid learning about the hygiene hypothesis when I was dating a parasitologist. Half the literature Nathan had around his apartment was about the hygiene hypothesis, its impact on the field of parasitology, and the various ways it could be approached, ranging from “gospel truth” to “fringe science become multi-billion-dollar industry.” Even if I couldn’t read it for myself, he was more than happy to explain it all to me.

“I’ll make sure you get a copy of my autobiography before you leave today,” said Dr. Banks, still looking pleased as could be. “I’ll even sign it. And personalize it, of course. Wouldn’t want it showing up on one of the auction sites, now, would we?”

He laughed. I didn’t.

Apparently, that was the cue for him to get down to business. Dr. Banks sobered, folding his hands on his desk and leaning slightly forward, like a kindly professor on one of the crime dramas Mom liked to watch in the evening. “It really is good to see you, Sally. I worry about you. But you know there’s another reason that I wanted to meet with you today.”

I never would have guessed, I thought. Aloud, I asked, “What’s that?”

“I think it’s time we strengthened the relationship between SymboGen and your family. You’ve been here so much over the past few years, I really feel like you’re already a part of SymboGen. Like this is already your home.”

Cold terror clamped down on me with an iron hand, balanced by an equal measure of relief. This was it, then; this was the day when they decided they no longer had to let me leave. How much would they have to pay my parents to make this acceptable? How many zeros on the check that paid for a person? “Oh?” I said, hating the way my voice squeaked on that single syllable.

“We have an animal research division. They’re dedicated to developing strains of the Intestinal Bodyguard that can be used to protect domestic pets, even livestock, from medical calamity. You’re not suited to work in the research arena, obviously, but the animals need care. Many of them originally came from shelters or animal rescue groups. I’m sure they would appreciate having a human to provide them with the love and attention they desire.”

I stared at him for a moment, unsure of how I was supposed to be responding. Finally, I asked, “You think I could do this job?”

“Not with all the animals, maybe, but with the dogs and cats? Absolutely. They need walking and brushing, petting, and to be told, occasionally, that they are good boys and girls, and that someone loves them. It seems to me that this is the job you already do, but now it would come with higher pay, and with the absolute guarantee that your fears about SymboGen deciding to terminate your care would remain unfounded. We don’t leave our employees without health care, ever. That would go against everything that we stand for as a company. I mean, part of the inspiration for the Intestinal Bodyguard was the idea that it would provide truly universal health care—rich or poor, swallow a single tailored capsule and your personal health implant will begin taking care of your every need, for as long as you need it to.”

There were times when I couldn’t tell how much of what Dr. Banks said was sincere, and how much he was reading off some private internal monitor that provided him with a constant feed of the official SymboGen party line. This was definitely one of those times.

“They need me at the shelter,” I said, finally.

“Are you sure?”

The question was mild, and sent another jolt of terror through me. “Yes,” I said, as steadily as I could manage. “If you asked Will, he’d probably tell you I was replaceable, because he’s a good man like that, and he wouldn’t want to stand in the way of an opportunity. But he’d be wrong. The shelter needs me.”

“You know, Sally, I respect your devotion to your responsibilities. It shows just how well you’ve managed to bounce back from your tragic accident.” Dr. Banks leaned back in his seat. He was smiling again. “Maybe it’s time we reconsidered your position on speaking to the press. I don’t know if you’re aware, but Rolling Stone is very interested in interviewing you.”

My mouth went dry. “They… they are?”

“Very interested. You know, they published a profile on me earlier this year.”

“I know,” I said, in a small voice. The piece in Rolling Stone was called “King of the Worms.” It described Steve Banks as part genius, part entrepreneur, and part savior of mankind. Nathan threw the magazine across the room in disgust the first time he read it, and wouldn’t let me see. I had to download the files myself after I got home, and struggle through reading them on my own. I’d wished almost immediately that I’d left well enough alone. From the way Dr. Banks described me, I was a brain-dead husk preserved only by the Intestinal Bodyguard, a perfect proof of concept for their miracle medical implant. Without the worm, I would have died. That may have been true, but it shouldn’t have been enough to make me a sideshow freak, and that was exactly what Dr. Banks seemed to want me to be.

“You’ve read it?” Dr. Banks looked pleased. I felt sick. “Then you understand why they’d be interested in including your perspective with a follow-up article. It would be wonderful press for SymboGen and the Intestinal Bodyguard. You could help us sway hundreds to the side of getting their implants, finally freeing themselves from the daily routine of medications and worry.” He looked at me expectantly, like there was something I was supposed to say in response.