Part 13 (2/2)

”Maybe that's what you need. To go back to your old life.”

”I need to be here.”

Mack leaned forward, his face inches from Caleb's. ”Then detach yourself right f.u.c.king now.”

Caleb took a step backward.

Something wicked flashed in Mack's eyes. ”Let me tell you something about history.”

Caleb nodded unsurely.

”History is the study of small differences. When explorers discover a new tribe, on some remote island, you know what they find out? That the people with big ears hate the people with little ears. f.u.c.king hate them. The big-eared people teach their children that the little-eared people eat their own babies. They go to war. There's generational violence over ears. Follow?”

”Sure.”

”Ninety percent of all worldly strife is caused by small differences. And when you and June get this involved, you create a small difference with everyone else in the house.”

”Are people upset?”

”People don't know yet. But relations.h.i.+ps have”-Mack circled his hands-”reactions. If they succeed, other people feel they need one too. It's mimetic desire. If they fail, bad vibes invade our house. Look Caleb, if you feel the need for a one-on-one relations.h.i.+p, that's very cool. You can have that and still compete at a very high level. But not here.

”I like June. I love little Lily. But I don't care how good a runner you are. If you don't get it together, they're gone. I want you out training when June is in here. And in here when she's out.” He nodded his head. ”I sent Annabelle packing when she was winning in every Fat Race in Colorado, because she was spending time with that mustached motherf.u.c.ker bartender. And June isn't winning any races.”

Caleb's stomach clenched. If Mack expelled them, where would they go? He needed to keep them here, while he waited for Shane to tell them what to do. He would agree to anything for that.

Mack stared at him. ”'But where is what I started for so long ago? And why is it yet unfound?'”

Cowed, Caleb turned for the door. Then, his hand on the k.n.o.b, he turned and said boldly, ”She's in her room. Lily is.”

When Mack answered, his voice was gentle. ”Okay, buddy. I'll do some work with her tonight.”

Caleb opened the door, moved straight outside, onto the dirt road, through the field's fallen leaves, into the unfriendly sky, and began to run, out and out, and out, and out.

6.

At midnight, Shane sat in his cubicle, dimly aware of the cleaning lady behind him.

He had decided to open an orphanage. A well-managed operation, with the goal of placing just one orphan: a drug for alpha-one ant.i.trypsin deficiency.

Since his revelation in Nicholas's room, Shane had been overwhelmed by thoughts of Lily. Sometimes in the whine of the refrigerator he heard the wheeze of her breathing. When his foot hurt after a run, he thought of her swollen feet. It was impossible to conceive of continuing to live his life any longer without doing all he could to help her.

So all week he had stayed late, researching orphan grants. It had been days since he had seen Janelle or Nicholas at night; even Stacey left the office before him, casting him an arched eyebrow.

He had begun crafting a formal proposal suggesting Helixia apply for one. He filled it with numbers, charts, examples, projections, all based on profit models he had read online. Slowly he was piecing together a sober argument to conduct trials on Prajuk's drug, which would switch on the gene in the fourteenth chromosome that ordered the liver to begin production of alpha-one ant.i.trypsin.

Orphan grants excited him. Cystic fibrosis and Tourette's syndrome were currently being treated with biologics which had been produced under the Orphan Drug Act. One of the most profound examples was Ceredase.

In 1984, scientists at Genzyme had discovered a treatment for Gaucher's disease. But the small number of people suffering from the condition, a few hundred thousand, gave Genzyme no financial justification to spend eight hundred million dollars producing it. Instead, the company had applied for an orphan grant. The National Inst.i.tute of Health paid for small clinical trials, did very well, and now Ceredase was earning a billion dollars a year.

A billion, Shane whistled. And Genzyme had been granted market exclusivity for a decade.

Only a fraction as many alpha-one ant.i.trypsin deficiency patients existed as Gaucher's, but his math still worked; they could a.s.sume some small profit. If they won a grant.

He had not realized how much he enjoyed putting together a report; it felt good to be so lost in work. That weekend, Shane printed his proposal and showed it to Janelle over a gla.s.s of cabernet.

”I think you make a good argument,” she nodded.

”Thank you. So you'd product-manage this?”

”It doesn't matter what I'd do. The challenge is getting someone who matters to listen to you. You're a commercial specialist. I love you but that doesn't carry much weight with Science.”

”I'll send it to Anthony Leone.”

”Anthony won't read it.”

Shane frowned, swirling his gla.s.s. Anthony Leone was Helixia's Director of Science, and one of the three senior executives. He was moderately sized, balding, and tended unfortunately toward floral ties. Anthony had made his millions decades ago but worked six days a week; his belief in the company was unshakeable and inspiring to all of them.

”Why not?”

”Because who are you? The scientist who discovered this drug should have his name on it and present it personally. You need creds.”

”Prajuk won't do that.”

Janelle shrugged. ”You might be kind of f.u.c.ked otherwise.”

The following week, Shane sat nervously in his Sorion status meeting. A chart on the front page of their decks displayed its chemical compounds and genetic codes. Though he could not read it, Shane sensed its intrinsic majesty, similar to seeing a poem written in Mandarin.

Anthony was there, watching the team present an a.n.a.lysis of its generic compet.i.tors. Shane studied him surrept.i.tiously. He seemed entirely focused, his hands rigid. He possessed the distant eyes of a mind on a different plane.

When the meeting adjourned, Anthony stood to leave. Dennis joined him by the conference room door. This was a study of biological opposites: tall, charismatic, silver-haired Dennis, and small, distant Anthony. Shane took a breath and walked toward them, clutching his carefully printed proposal.

”This is Shane Oberest,” Dennis explained kindly. ”Shane's lighting Sorion on fire.”

”h.e.l.lo,” Anthony muttered, exuding the air of a professor late to his next cla.s.s.

Shane brightened. ”Doctor Leone, I was wondering if you'd have time to read something.”

He was aware of Dennis looking at him and realized too late that he should have run this by him.

”What is this?” Anthony said, suddenly locking eyes with him.

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