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The making of Fear Extinction
This is the prologue of the novel, which in the end wasn’t used in the book:
Alberto Maldonado didn’t know what to believe anymore. So, the government wants you to find out how to extinguish fear, how to make pain irrelevant, at least temporarily, without using anaesthetics, how to make the human body tougher and more enduring, but then at the slightest hint of the possibility of an ethics violation, they’d opt out. How did they imagine this would work? Did they think that the Chinese felt the same way? Much as he believed there should be ethical considerations, there had to be a weighing of cost and benefit.
You’d kill a couple monkeys, so what? They were bred for the purpose, and sometimes sacrificing a few animal lives couldn’t be avoided. In the continental US, though, work on primates was all but prohibited; they simply wouldn’t let you do it. Certainly not at universities that made most of their revenue through educating young adults. Not at research institutions that depended on public funding, because anyone could look up what their usage of experimental animals was. So, then there is industry.
You did your research using cultured cells and animals that nobody cared about: mice and rats. Once you needed experiments on primates, you’d have it done somewhere in Vietnam, for example. Monkeys were cheap there, and people didn’t care about their fate.
Once you got past the monkeys and were ready for human trials, you’d face another regulatory nightmare. In the end, one should not be surprised that bringing a successful drug to market could cost a billion or more. There had to be a cheaper and faster way.
So now his business model was this:
Yes, the whole world is afraid that there will be genetically modified babies, they say. Babies that will grow up to be stronger, smarter, fairer than the rest of us. And to some extent that is true: it will happen. We have already seen the beginnings of it. Janqui He did it, to great fanfare, in China, but the Chinese government did not appreciate the publicity and put him in jail. The bottom line: you do not want to do this out in the open; you should not expect a government to officially sponsor the genetic making of Olympic athletes; but that doesn’t mean that they don’t want those athletes.
But before genetically modified babies are made, consider this: Even the all-powerful billionaire can only make a copy of himself. He won’t be able to improve his own health, intelligence, or lifespan. Oh wait, — he can. If you can engineer cells that will fight your cancer, why stop there. Why not make blood cells that transport more oxygen, muscle cells that have more power, stem cells that don’t age and keep renewing your skin, heart, liver, your lungs? If your body didn’t age as much, would that not help the brain to stay youthful as well?
And here is the point: People are already spending money to appear more youthful. Imagine how much more they will spend to BE more youthful? When you age, what is important? Is it how many years you live? No, it isn’t. It is how many years you live without impairment or disability. If you can affect that, which rich person would not pay, and who would not strive to make sufficient money to afford this treatment? The genetic elite in GATTACA was genetically engineered or at least selected, but that can always only be true for your offspring. What if one could offer you a longer, healthy life by taking some of your blood, modify it, and then re-transfuse it into your body. There would be much mileage in this approach. But to get there, you’d have to abide by regulations and rules to get your method approved.
No. Alberto had always had a healthy disrespect for arbitrary rules and regulations. If getting your experiments funded and the results approved was more time – and money intensive than your actual research, then that approach was not the right one. There had to be an easier way. Sure, certain rogue nations already had programs, but their protagonists would still be dependent on the whims of their leader. Some stellar researchers from the West had already left for Singapore or even Shanghai where the authorities would build them their own institute, but all it needed to terminate your job was a new minister who failed to see the immediate payoff behind your work. No. You’d want to be as independent as possible. You’d have to do your experiments clandestinely, not out in the open…
Fear Extinction, Chapter one
Jefferson, Louisiana, September 13, 2017
As he killed the engine of his pickup truck in the dirt lot near the jetty, Duane Dassyan wondered whether they had finally conquered fear. Raising the binoculars, he could make out the silhouette of the open speedboat approaching from upstream. Irritated, he looked at his watch. Alberto was going to be at least three minutes late. Not good. Hanging out by a docking site alone roused suspicion. Luckily there was nobody around. Dassyan opened the driver’s door and stepped out into a heat so humid even the dust was limp. He broke out in a sweat immediately. The air was saturated with algal stink emanating from the Mississippi river. The muted sound of water lapping against the jetty was gradually being pierced by the high-pitch whine of two twin turbo outboards, now only a few hundred yards away. Dassyan opened the top lid of the truck’s cooler bed and unloaded several aluminum crates. Using a trolley, he wheeled them over to where the boat would dock in a minute. Condensing moisture was forming beads on the shiny crates. The speedboat made a tight arc toward the jetty, Alberto standing behind the windshield. Behind the aviator shades his face was betraying a sense of achievement.
“Good afternoon, Dr Dassyan,” he hollered over the chugging sound of the idling engines, “I am sorry I miscalculated the distance to today’s meeting point.” “That’s okay Alberto; let’s just get the stuff loaded.”
Alberto didn’t bother to fasten the boat while Dassyan handed him the crates down. Once Dassyan had jumped into the boat, Alberto put the engines in reverse, made a swift turnaround, and they were on their way back, direction upstream, full throttle.
Half an hour later they reached the dock of the old warehouse at the end of the rivers sidearm. They tied the boat alongside the Nola, an old motor yacht that had served as Alberto’s live-in laboratory for the past six months. Dassyan climbed on deck of and lowered a hook using a hand-operated winch to haul up the crates.
“Dr Dassyan,” Alberto finally said, climbing up, pointing at the crates, “let’s stow the reagents in the freezer below deck before I’ll show you the animals.”
Alberto patched in the code and rolled open the gate of the weathered warehouse. Inside the cavernous structure built decades ago their steps reverberated as they walked along rusty conveyor belts, arriving at a long one-story cool house of the former seafood packing plant. The only light came from translucent fiberglass tiles in the tin roof two stories above them. The door to the cool house was solid steel and was fitted with a facial recognition camera, in front of which Dassyan now positioned himself.
“Welcome back Dr Dassyan, I hope you are having a great day today,” said the female machine voice as the door clicked open.
“Hey, she still remembers me after all this time,” Dassyan said, laughing. They were now in a brightly lit small anteroom. The smell of river, rust, and old machine oil dominating the warehouse had abruptly given way to an air-conditioned atmosphere with a faint reek of zoo. Alberto opened a cabinet with green and white disposable clothing on hooks. They put on hooded paper suits, shoe covers, gloves, and masks. Alberto opened the next door and they stepped into a narrow corridor with a glass wall to the left. Through the glass, they were looking at five macaque monkeys in individual cages with opaque sidewalls, so the animals could hear but not see each other.
Dassyan was taken aback.
“Alberto,” he whispered, “what about the usual screech when we enter? These animals are totally silent.”
“I treated only one of them,” Alberto said, “and that one appears to have a calming effect on the others. They communicate vocally without seeing each other.”
“How are they doing with their learning tasks?”
“Well see for yourself, Dr Dassyan. Can you pick out the one that has received the stem cells?”
The monkeys had a small touch screen in their cage. Dassyan had devised the short-term memory test himself. A set of numbers flashed on screen in random locations: 1, 2, 3. After half a second, the digits were replaced by identical triangles. The task was to touch the triangles in order from the smallest to the largest digit they represented. If done successfully, the monkey earned a treat that would come down a chute and land in a dish. If the animal performed correctly ten times in a row, it would become more difficult, and a number would be added. Now it would be 1, 2, 3, 4. Within a few days, macaques could do this task up to six or seven without much of a problem. No human could do this over more than four or five digits. Dassyan looked closely. There was one monkey that did twelve. He looked at his assistant.
“If I hadn’t seen this just now, I wouldn’t believe it. When did you say you implanted the engineered microglia?”
“Two days ago,” said Alberto, nodding reassuringly. Dassyan looked at the monkey tapping away on the screen without being distracted by their presence, the dish with the treats full to the brim.
“So, the targeted part of the hippocampus continues to work fine while short term memory is boosted,” he said.
“Not only that, but also concentration and motivation,” Alberto added, “look, she can phase out any distraction, meaning the modification of the amygdala works as anticipated as well. She’s not afraid of us. She seems to be calculating her risk.”
“I noticed this particular animal doesn’t react to being stared at, but are you sure that’s the definitive cause? Where is the male you treated last week?” “Oh, I moved him to a separate room. He’s doing really well.”
Dassyan took in his assistant’s statement, nodding slowly.
“Interesting,” he said, “so you say there’s more to come? Suspense! Let’s take a look at him.”
Alberto led the way toward the door at the opposite end of the chamber.
“I had to modify the behavioral paradigm,” he said as they were entering the next room. “The regular test was too simple. I shortened the flash time to fifty milliseconds.”
As with the previous chamber, there was a narrow corridor for the visitors divided by glass from the rest of the enclosure, which was essentially a single cage. It was dimly lit, with ropes hanging from a net bridge that spanned the length of the room. There was a large monitor behind glass on one end and the little touch screen that the monkey could use directly in front of it. A solitary macaque was sitting in the middle of the room with his back to the visitors. Now he turned his head and looked at them over his shoulder, quizzically.
“Why is he alone?”
“I added a stress test that the control animals couldn’t take.”
“What did you do?”
“This little guy has control over his environment, lighting, sound, food supply, and of course over what’s on the large monitor,” Alberto said, “but he can only access the controls after memorizing fifteen digits flashed once for 1/20th of a second.”
Without waiting for Dassyan to reply he pulled a smart phone from his pocket and typed a command. Dassyan looked at the large screen, which came to life with a leopard on it, apparently ready to pounce, facing the monkey, its roar amplified through speakers in the wall. The monkey had already placed himself calmly at the touch screen the moment he saw the smart phone. He typed the flashing fifteen digits precisely, got the menu to the next level, switched off the large screen, and muted the sound in what seemed like two seconds at most. Alberto typed another command, and strobe lights came on, but a second later the monkey had switched those off, too.
Dassyan just stood there, speechless, grappling with what he had just witnessed.
“That’s outstanding,” he said, “much better than I would have hoped.” “You can do anything to try to stress this guy in any combination, and he will switch it off without losing his cool. Untreated monkeys would be up in the net for the next half hour, traumatized. That’s why I had to remove them.”
“What’s the failure rate?”
“This macaque hasn’t made a mistake in a week. The behavioral changes are very robust.”
“That’s it,” Dassyan finally uttered, “that’s precisely what we wanted; heightened awareness, improved short term memory, and suppressed fear in the face of danger. We did it.”
“Yes, Dr Dassyan, I believe we did, quite so.”
Alberto couldn’t suppress a smile.
“Okay so the transplanted microglial cells enter the brain and modify fear extinction and hippocampal function. What happens to the cells once their job is done?”
“They’re gone without a trace. We eliminate them before they can wreak havoc.”
Alberto was a genius when it came to manipulating cells. The kid was an excellent molecular biologist; you had to give him that, Dassyan thought.
“So we’re ready for human trials,” Alberto said.
Dassyan swivelled around and faced him.
“Human trials? First, I wouldn’t authorize that, second, who would want to undergo this procedure, given that scores of monkeys went crazy? Alberto, we need a procedure that is not only robust, but also fully reversible, preferably through pharmacologic intervention. Only then could we even begin to think about human trials.”
Dassyan shook his head.
“But Dr Dassyan, this procedure is robust. Just show it to DARPA, it’s already worth millions and-“
“Alberto, I don’t want to show a partial success to DARPA before we’re even sure this one monkey isn’t a fluke accident.”
There was anger in his voice than he intended, and Alberto was clearly shaken by his brusqueness.
An hour later they were on their way back in the speedboat. It was going to get dark soon. A slight drizzle had set in, but neither of them was noticing it. “It’ll take me a week to analyze the monkey brains from the failed attempts,” Dassyan shouted over the noise of the engines.
“Then we’ll need a few from the successful runs to show that anatomy is what we think it should be. Then, and only then, can we think about the next steps.”
“I think we should be ready for DARPA to take a look in a week and a half, Dr Dassyan.”
“I’ll call Major Prince tonight to discuss matters, Alberto, but a week and a half is way too early.”
They were getting close to the jetty.
“Just drop me off, I can handle the crate myself. You need to get back before dark.”
Alberto steered the boat towards the low dock, where Dassyan climbed up and Alberto handed him the crate.
“Thank you for the excellent work, Alberto. But let’s not go overboard with what we have here. I’ll let you know tomorrow once I’ve talked to Dr Prince.”
Alberto looked disappointed but made an effort. He a saluted like a sailor.
“Aye Sir.”
* * *
Lieutenant Vincent Nuno was on his way home in his unmarked police SUV. It would soon be dark and the dark clouds piling up heralded heavy rain. He was about to switch on his headlights when he saw the pickup truck by the river. It was half hidden behind the shrubs. He stopped and got out. The license plate was from Louisiana and checked out. He saw nothing out of the ordinary in the cabin; the flatbed was locked, and, strangely, cold to the touch. A whining motor alerted him of a boat approaching. He parked on the other side of the lot and stayed low behind the wheel. Within seconds a downpour set in. He could barely make out the boat stopping at the jetty and a man climbing on land. The boat took off and the man carried a metal crate to the pickup and proceeded to load it into the flatbed. Nuno switched on the searchlights on the roof and activated the speaker, which gave a crackle. The man froze in the glistening light. He was black.
“NOPD. Put your hands up and face the light.”
The man turned around looking dazedly into the light.
“I said put your hands up, now,” Nuno demanded.
The suspect was now holding his hands at shoulder level, palms out.
Nuno got out and stepped into the light. He had his handgun pointed at the man.
“What are you doing here?”
“I was just loading a case of monkey brains into my truck. Is that illegal?”
“Turn around, face the truck,” Nuno said, “with your hands on the back gate.”
“Officer, I am a private citizen, and you have no right to search me.”
“I’m not searching you; I am just checking for weapons. Besides, I don’t recall asking you a question,” Nuno said, patting the man down checking that he wasn’t armed.
“But I will ask you a question now: What’s in the crate?” He said.
“You can’t just search me, and you certainly can’t search my car, lieutenant, without probable cause and without a warrant,” the man said firmly.
“Oh Boy,” Nuno said, “black man arrives on a speed boat at dusk in the middle of nowhere and tells me I need a warrant to take a peek inside this crate. We are aware that there is drug smuggling from the Gulf up to New Orleans. Now open the crate, smartass.”
“I am not doing anything illegal here.”
“Open it!”
“Opening it in the rain will destroy its content, lieutenant.”
“That’s a new one,” said Nuno. “Step back,” he barked, and pulled the crate off the truck’s bed. It landed in the mud on its side.
“Now will you open it, boy?”
“I’m not going to be intimidated by a police officer hurling insults at me without any reason, or right, whatsoever. I am a professor at Tulane University, I am a free citizen, and I will not open this crate, the contents of which you have just severely damaged. This will have serious consequences.”
Lt Nuno scowled at him and lowered his gun.
“You can say that” he hissed.
A single shot rang out. The bullet pierced the suspect’s thigh. The man lost control over his leg and went down in the mud.
Nuno kicked him in the stomach, and the man moaned, writhing in the mud, holding his abdomen. Nuno aimed at his head and pulled the trigger.
Fear Extinction, Chapter two
New York City, June 2021
As Elektra McLane came up the stairs, the trees in the roof garden were swaying in a slight breeze. Her aunt, sitting in a wheelchair, was looking out over Gramercy Park.
“Aunt Diane,” Elektra said softly, “I won’t be long.”
Her aunt turned and looked at her, a worried expression in her face.
“Are you leaving for Cambridge again, Ellie?”
“Not until tomorrow, Auntie, I have a job interview.”
“On a Sunday?”
“Yes, over lunch.”
“I so much wish you could be staying here, Ellie. I miss you.”
“I’ll do my best, Auntie,” Ellie said, and kissed her on the forehead.
On the way down she stopped at her room and grabbed her satchel and a pair of shades. She found the housekeeper in the second-floor kitchen.
“I’ll be gone for the afternoon, Carmen, please take care of her.”
The middle-aged woman looked at her.
“Oh Ellie, you won’t have lunch with us?”
“I’ll be back for dinner, I promise.”
A minute later Ellie walked down Irving Place. This lunch was going to be important. She wanted to be near Aunt Diane, she wanted to come back to New York; she wanted this job. Union Square and University Place were almost pre-pandemic lively. Washington Square, however, was different. The park had taken a turn toward mild chaos with droves of partying youth. Perhaps this was not an ideal meeting point after all. Matt Simon, the editor of The East Coast Weekly, wasn’t at the fountain, where they had arranged to meet. Perhaps he was going to be late? Then she saw him. He was sitting on a park bench opposite a chess table, his hands folded in his lap, closely watching the match. He did not see her until she blocked his view.
“Hi Mr. Simon, Elektra McLane.”
“Oh, yes, Dr. McLane,” he said, momentarily irritated at the interruption. He got up. Simon was a lanky man with grey hair and a stubbly white beard, looking down at her.
“Sorry, I was momentarily absorbed,” he said.
Ellie looked at the chess players.
“It boggles the mind,” she said, “how people spend lots of time honing a skill that any cheap computer is better at. Why not play guitar or learn a language?”
“That’s a somewhat, say, utilitarian way of looking at this wonderful game, Dr. McLane,” he said. “Haven’t you watched ‘The Queen’s Gambit’?”
“What I said is just an expression of personal preference. Everyone can do as they wish with their free time, playing chess or watching Queens Gambit.”
“Before we get into a match,” he said mildly, “I’d prefer if we were to conduct the rest of our meeting on a first name basis. My name is Matt.” He offered his hand.
“Fully vaccinated,” he said and smiled. Ellie’s face relaxed. She shook his hand.
“Ellie,” she said, “me, too. Are we still having lunch?”
“Yes, I think so, of course,” he said, “I took the liberty of reserving a table at Fanelli in SoHo, would that be okay?”
“It’s a nice place,” she said.
“I forgot; you went to NYU.”
“Yes, I grew up in Gramercy Park.”
“Ah so you’re a real New Yorker, which would explain your, um, outgoing personality.”
She grimaced when he wasn’t watching. They walked past the row of old music clubs on Bleecker.
“You fancy live music, Ellie?” “Yes, I used to go to the Bitter End a lot. I love the Blues.”
“You don’t think that was a waste of time?”
“Maybe I don’t enjoy chess because there’s no creativity in it, just plain strategy.”
“Alright, but computers can do music and language, too.”
“Emotion and creativity, I don’t see that in a machine.”
“Maybe they’ll learn that soon—do you play an instrument?”
“Electric guitar.”
“Do you write music yourself?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I think I’m not good enough yet.”
“Maybe one day you will,” he said.
Does this man enjoy being a pain in the ass, or is this his twisted idea of testing me?
They crossed Houston, walked east on Prince past expensive fashion stores and galleries on the ground floor of old cast iron factory buildings.
“So, you are earnestly looking to change career, Ellie.”
“Not change, evolve, in biology parlance – combine scientific method with expressive writing.” “I’m not sure being a science staff writer at The East Coast Weekly provides that,” Matt said.
“Okay, let’s simply say I’ve been editing scientific papers long enough,” she said. “I feel it’s time for something more advanced.”
“You’d be surprised how many scientific papers a science writer has to read.”
Editing, not reading, dummy. Aren’t you the editor? Is he trying to wind me up by playing dense?
She decided it was a ruse and told herself to stay vigilant. When they arrived, Fanelli was half empty. The waitress told them to sit anywhere they liked. A quick look at the menu yielded a Bison Burger and a Tuna Niçoise. The interview could begin in earnest.
“Consider this a pre-interview,” Matt said as if reading her thoughts, “we usually have a formal one at headquarters with a number of staff attending.”
“That will have to be on Zoom,” she said, “I’ll be back at my job in Cambridge tomorrow.”
“We liked your background in genomics and molecular biology,” he went on.
“What about my current position as editor of a top tier scientific journal?” He ignored the question.
“You also have some background in organic chemistry,” he said, “from your undergraduate degree; that’s unusual.”
“It was a matter of convenience. I was already firm in chemistry when I enrolled; I chose it as major so I could concentrate on languages and literature.”
“What, your parents are chemists?”
“My uncle. I was brought up by my aunt and uncle.”
“Chemistry college prep course at home, this has got to be a first.” He seemed impressed.
“Yeah, synthetic pathways scribbled on a white board in the kitchen and explained over breakfast cereal.”
“You still use your chemistry chops?”
“To this day it drives me nuts when I see people who have structural formulas printed on t-shirts or even tattooed on their skin, cocaine or caffeine. They think it’s mysterious, or perhaps makes them look educated, whereas I see the synthetic pathway in front of me.”
“So, your uncle taught chemistry?”
“His name was Carl Diamonds.”
Now Matt raised an eyebrow.
“What, not THE Carl Diamonds, the god of steroid hormones?”
“Yep, for me, it was chemistry on steroids,” Ellie said.
“Especially during puberty?”
She looked at him for a few seconds.
“Well, what would the world be without dad jokes,” she said.
“I couldn’t let that one slide.” He smirked.
“You already have a science staff writer, Matt. Why does The East Coast Weekly need more?”
“Why does a magazine need another journalist? Because there is too much to do. We need someone who excels in human genetics.”
Ellie was momentarily distracted by the TV above the bar. It was CNN News, with the sound muted, showing a mug shot, Cartel boss Omar Cárdenas dead, it said underneath.
“What’s that,” she said, “they just jailed him in good health three months ago and now he dies in supermax prison? Doesn’t that ring a rather Jeffrey Epstein-esque bell?”
“The convenient death of the drug king pin,” Matt said, glancing at the screen, “but look, says he died of leukemia.”
“Previously undiagnosed, no less,” Ellie said. “Would be interesting to see what made the disease so fast and deadly, genetically.”
“I’m sure Twitter is going to be all over it. Do you use Twitter, Ellie?”
“Yes, keeps me up to date on big developments.”
“What The East Coast Weekly is interested in is big developments that are not on Twitter yet: human genetic modification. Nobody will have any problems with it if it saves lives. Editing the human genome to cure people of AIDS or sickle cell anemia or cancer will be acceptable, but what do you think about ‘augmenting’ the human species?”
“What people including myself think is irrelevant, Matt, because it has already happened. You can’t stop progress. The question is: How do we deal with it.”
Matt looked at her CV.
“You wrote here we’ll see it soon in elite athletes.”
“Yes, in a way, they already are genetically selected individuals,” Ellie said, “and it’s going to be tricky. If a genetic modification is not obviously artificial, then the International Olympic Committee cannot disqualify the carrier. WADA, the World Anti-Doping Agency, has founded a panel on what they call ‘gene doping’ over ten years ago, which looks at anything with genetic modification that takes effect in muscles, lungs, heart and other relevant tissues.”
“Do you have any insight as to what WADA is actually up to?” Matt asked.
“Not directly, but an old friend is a muscle geneticist and works at the Riken Institute of Genomics in Yokohama. They’re helping WADA to do genome sequencing of medallists in disciplines that they suspect will show up first on the horizon of genetic engineering of athletic ability: power and endurance.”
“Well, we are very interested in getting in on the story ahead of other journals.”
“And?”
“And you are uniquely qualified,” he said. “We’ll give you an allowance for travel, accommodation, and other daily expenses at this point and of course pay for the story once it’s written up.”
Ellie looked at him, raising an eyebrow. The she leaned towards him as if about to tell a secret.
“Matt,” she said,” honestly, do you want to hire an intern or a professional?” He looked surprised.
“That’s how we usually handle new hires. You have to earn your wings, Ellie.”
“And if your new hire comes with wings, what then, Matt? Remember, I currently have a well-paying job that’s not exactly irrelevant.”
“Well, despite that, you’re a rookie as far as journalism goes.”
Ellie squinted. Does he really think he can dupe me and get a story like that on the cheap?
“I just told you I have a contact in Tokyo,” she stated calmly. “If you think any of your able professionals can do the job better, then why not have them do it?”
“Well,” he said, “we don’t have to have that story.”
“If I have to go on my own steam, I could sell the story to the highest bidder.”
He thought for a moment.
“Well then what had you imagined, Ellie?”
“Regular pay. That is what I had imagined.”
“Like what?”
“Matt, please. Your staff writers are on one-year contracts. That’s not great, but better than freelancing. Let’s say your writers make 2500 bucks a week, then that’s what I get for the research, plus the allowance and expenses.”
He frowned, as if mulling her words over. Then he shrugged.
“I see you did your research,” he said finally.
“That’s what researchers do.”
She leaned back in her chair.
Check.
“What if your story ends up not being great, Ellie?”
“You won’t have to hire me as a writer until the story is printed. You can write a contract specifying that.”
“But then I will have paid you for the research already…”
“Yes, and your point is?”
He hesitated, then said, “Okay,” and smiled. She smiled back.
“Deal,” he added. “When do you want to start?”
Checkmate.
“Pretty much with the start of the Olympics, but first I am going to see how I can get to an agreement with my CEO on taking two weeks off.”
“Does he have to know?”
“We’re too close. She’ll see the writing on the wall right away, namely the beginning of the end of my job at Cambria Biology Press, if I end up wanting to write for The East Coast Weekly.”
“Wait, you mean you aren’t even sure?”
“Never before the king isn’t cornered.”