Living Proof, стр. 21
“Really? Wow.” Trent seemed surprised but knew she was talking about a technology called PGD—preimplantation genetic diagnosis. And he knew more than just the name; he remembered the controversy precipitated by the department shortly after he started working there, when PGD had made the news: In May of 2025, scientists figured out how to use the technique to screen all twenty-three pairs of chromosomes in a five-day-old embryo, leaving no diseased strand undetected. While most commentators hailed the progress as a boon to future generations, Dopp and the others had warned the media about eugenics, doctors playing God, and discrimination against genetically inferior EUEs.
“Yes,” she said. “And there’s no happier place to be, most days, than in the delivery room. I wouldn’t trade my job for anyone’s.”
She beamed at him. He had seldom seen people discuss their work with that expression—it was the kind of unreserved flow of happiness he associated only with sex, and even then, he often felt guilty for feeling it. Or felt he should, anyway.
She was looking at him thoughtfully. “What do you love about your work, Trent?”
He paused, caught off guard. The possibility of drawing his answer from his current job didn’t cross his mind. But before he could reply, her cell phone trilled in the front pocket of her backpack, at the foot of the rock.
She hoisted it up and unzipped the pouch. “Excuse me,” she said, looking at the caller ID, “I have to take this. Hello? Hey … From the injection last night?… How swollen?… Well, don’t panic, I’ll swing by now and check it out.… Bye.”
When she closed the phone, Trent was studying his watch. The second hand ticked around the blank white face, a poker face if he ever saw one.
“Sorry,” she said, “but I should get going. My cousin’s having surgery in a few days, and she’s having some trouble with her medication.”
“What kind of surgery?”
She looked at him a little sharply.
“Sorry,” he blurted. “I’m just really interested in medicine and science. I don’t know much about it.”
She brightened. “No, it’s okay, I didn’t realize you were interested in it.”
“Oh, yeah. I’d love to talk more about it sometime.” Like what kind of research interests you most.
She laughed and he grew embarrassed.
“What?” he said, aiming for a playful tone. “Something wrong with that?”
“I just never hear anyone say that. I’m usually the nerdiest one in the room.”
“Well, maybe not anymore,” he said, recovering with a grin. “I would actually really benefit from some biological knowledge for this section I’m writing soon. But it’s so easy to get lost in all those textbooks.”
She stepped off the rock, putting a hand on her hip in mock frustration. “Well, why didn’t you say something earlier? I could talk about this stuff for days. We could meet up again for another bike ride and then chat some more if you’d like.”
“Great. That would be perfect,” he said, rising and walking with her across the grass. “What’s your schedule like?”
“Well, I never go into the clinic on nights or weekends. If anything, I’ll get called into the hospital for a delivery, but usually I work normal business hours. I also have a prior commitment on Sundays and some weeknights. Let’s see.”
It was like dangling aces in front of an underage gambler: He had to restrain himself from asking what kept her so busy. Back off, he reminded himself. You’re not a reporter anymore. And it’s only the first meeting.
“I think next Tuesday might work, depending on how my schedule works out. Let’s talk in a few days. You have my number.” She stopped and turned to him, crossing her arms, but her tone was light. “By the way, I’m happy to chat and bike, but I can’t date you, if that’s what you’re here for.”
He smiled at her bluntness, unsure how to react. She really did like being direct. Maybe it was a social flaw, but it could also be a huge plus, if he maneuvered correctly.
“Hey, I’m fine with just hanging out, working out, whatever. I recently got out of a relationship, so I’m not looking for that right now. Just good company.” And your trust.
“Fine. As long as we’re on the same page.”
What’s your reason? he wondered. But he said nothing and she offered no explanation.
No matter, he thought. Eventually, you’ll tell me everything I want to know, and you’ll think it was your own idea to do it. May God help us both.
SIX
Thank God it’s raining, Trent thought as he waited on a bench near the fountain in Washington Square Park: his umbrella was an excellent facial shield. The sky was a sopping gray sheet overhead. College kids scurried past, guarding books under their arms. Nobody seemed to find it odd—amidst the twenty-four-hour chess players in one corner of the park and ever-present drug dealers in another—that Trent was sitting outside in a mild storm, apparently doing nothing. But he was watching a specific brown door on the south edge of the park. He was far enough away to remain unobserved by those who passed through the door, but close enough to distinguish their faces. It was 5:15 P.M. on Monday, the twelfth of December. Where was Arianna?
Just over a month had passed since their initial bike ride, with regular rides once a week, and lately, every few days—opportunities shrouded in the guise of workouts. He wondered why she took him on such difficult roads when it seemed she struggled to keep up, but when he suggested as much, she shook her head defiantly and pedaled harder. Meanwhile, her clinic had passed the December 1 inspection, to no one’s surprise. The embryo count remained inexplicably stratospheric, and Dopp’s encouragements to patience were fading. Trent inferred that he would lose his chance at the case if he didn’t make significant headway soon. He also knew they had limited time to continue regular bike rides, as the weather