California, Early Twenty-First Century
M ark trots across the parking lot to a low, unassuming building. Barely pausing, he jerks the glass door open and darts inside, the door almost smacking against the outside wall. From behind her computer screen, a receptionist’s head snaps up, eyes wide.
“Conference Room Two—I’m Mark Hayek from the Parkinson’s Institute,” he says before she can open her mouth.
The receptionist pats her chest and takes a quick breath.
Mark blinks at her, chagrined. He hadn’t meant to startle anyone.
She points across the room. “Go through that door into the hall. It’s the last room on your right. Don’t worry”—she shakes her head—“the fun and games haven’t started yet.”
“Thanks,” he says, going toward the door. But now it’s Mark’s turn to be rattled. Fun and games —he doesn’t like the way those words sound. Surely this blasted meeting hasn’t been scheduled during the same time slot as something else. He groans inwardly and takes long, loping strides down the empty hall.
Genetics and Me, Inc. will provide important research used to further explore the genetics behind Parkinson’s disease, and he fully comprehends that. But this meeting the company asked for means precious time is being taken away from his own worthy efforts.
Even filling the small, clear tube from a kit G&M sent over was time-consuming. He slipped inside a bathroom near the break area, taking the kit along, sure that he would only be in there a moment. But rapid-fire spitting into the tube was a bad strategy—his mouth soon went dry. He waited long minutes for more saliva to flow while several people tried the bathroom door, rattling it in vain before giving up.
The attached note said he could drop off the tube at their offices at Santa Clara. Instead, so he wouldn’t have to leave work early, he mailed it in their provided prepaid packaging.
Mark’s supervisor made it sound like an honor that she’d chosen him to be the lead collaborator with G&M. Mark now wishes she’d taken that honor for herself. Let her be at their beck and call.
A loud clattering behind the door of Conference Room Two makes him pause, hand on the door handle. He sighs. Apparently, they’re just now setting up the meeting area. He checks his watch. If he is to be an errand boy, then he’ll perform this task efficiently and get out of here as quickly as possible. No longer than thirty minutes inside , he promises himself. He doesn’t bother to knock before going in.
A confusing beehive of activity greets him. People are pushing chairs to the corners of the plain, veneer-paneled conference room. A table is being set with food platters, wine, and beer. A man stirs a pot on a hot plate, steaming out a savory aroma. The smell is almost familiar—it reminds Mark of chili.
“Excuse me,” he says to a woman in a lab coat as she rushes by. “I’m looking for Dr. Gregory Underwood.”
She stops and searches the room. “Over there in the blue shirt. Right under the banner.” She gives an explosive little laugh.
Mark stiffens and wonders what’s so amusing but, remembering his manners, simply thanks her as he turns away. Tilting his head while he walks, he reads a banner hung from the ceiling. Oddly, it reads Proud to be Neanderthal.
He fingers his closely clipped beard. That’s like saying you’re proud to be extinct, and that doesn’t make sense. Mark catches himself pulling at his beard and yanks his hand down. It’s the latest habit he’s been trying to break.
A somewhat stocky guy under the banner is fiddling with note cards on a podium, and Mark can’t help but grin a little, although “Viking” would probably be a better description than “Neanderthal.” Gregory Underwood’s hair and eyebrows are as blond as Mark’s are dark.
Mark reaches into his jacket pocket and brings out an envelope as he approaches the Viking. “Dr. Underwood, I’m Mark Hayek from the Parkinson’s
M ark trots across the parking lot to a low, unassuming building. Barely pausing, he jerks the glass door open and darts inside, the door almost smacking against the outside wall. From behind her computer screen, a receptionist’s head snaps up, eyes wide.
“Conference Room Two—I’m Mark Hayek from the Parkinson’s Institute,” he says before she can open her mouth.
The receptionist pats her chest and takes a quick breath.
Mark blinks at her, chagrined. He hadn’t meant to startle anyone.
She points across the room. “Go through that door into the hall. It’s the last room on your right. Don’t worry”—she shakes her head—“the fun and games haven’t started yet.”
“Thanks,” he says, going toward the door. But now it’s Mark’s turn to be rattled. Fun and games —he doesn’t like the way those words sound. Surely this blasted meeting hasn’t been scheduled during the same time slot as something else. He groans inwardly and takes long, loping strides down the empty hall.
Genetics and Me, Inc. will provide important research used to further explore the genetics behind Parkinson’s disease, and he fully comprehends that. But this meeting the company asked for means precious time is being taken away from his own worthy efforts.
Even filling the small, clear tube from a kit G&M sent over was time-consuming. He slipped inside a bathroom near the break area, taking the kit along, sure that he would only be in there a moment. But rapid-fire spitting into the tube was a bad strategy—his mouth soon went dry. He waited long minutes for more saliva to flow while several people tried the bathroom door, rattling it in vain before giving up.
The attached note said he could drop off the tube at their offices at Santa Clara. Instead, so he wouldn’t have to leave work early, he mailed it in their provided prepaid packaging.
Mark’s supervisor made it sound like an honor that she’d chosen him to be the lead collaborator with G&M. Mark now wishes she’d taken that honor for herself. Let her be at their beck and call.
A loud clattering behind the door of Conference Room Two makes him pause, hand on the door handle. He sighs. Apparently, they’re just now setting up the meeting area. He checks his watch. If he is to be an errand boy, then he’ll perform this task efficiently and get out of here as quickly as possible. No longer than thirty minutes inside , he promises himself. He doesn’t bother to knock before going in.
A confusing beehive of activity greets him. People are pushing chairs to the corners of the plain, veneer-paneled conference room. A table is being set with food platters, wine, and beer. A man stirs a pot on a hot plate, steaming out a savory aroma. The smell is almost familiar—it reminds Mark of chili.
“Excuse me,” he says to a woman in a lab coat as she rushes by. “I’m looking for Dr. Gregory Underwood.”
She stops and searches the room. “Over there in the blue shirt. Right under the banner.” She gives an explosive little laugh.
Mark stiffens and wonders what’s so amusing but, remembering his manners, simply thanks her as he turns away. Tilting his head while he walks, he reads a banner hung from the ceiling. Oddly, it reads Proud to be Neanderthal.
He fingers his closely clipped beard. That’s like saying you’re proud to be extinct, and that doesn’t make sense. Mark catches himself pulling at his beard and yanks his hand down. It’s the latest habit he’s been trying to break.
A somewhat stocky guy under the banner is fiddling with note cards on a podium, and Mark can’t help but grin a little, although “Viking” would probably be a better description than “Neanderthal.” Gregory Underwood’s hair and eyebrows are as blond as Mark’s are dark.
Mark reaches into his jacket pocket and brings out an envelope as he approaches the Viking. “Dr. Underwood, I’m Mark Hayek from the Parkinson’s
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