Dad stared for a long time, taking another signature long pause. “He may not be coming off the right way, but he’s trying to help you. He’s putting the patient’s needs before work politics. He’s not wasting time kissing your ass and cushioning your ego—which is exactly what you like.”
“But that’s not what happened. You had to be there, alright?”
“What if he’s right?”
“What do you mean?”
“What if he’s right about the metabolic deficiency?”
“He’s not. I tested everything.”
“Answer the question.”
“I…I don’t know. Then he’s right, and we can begin treatment.”
“I mean, if he’s right, will you accept him? Will you take his feedback as an asset rather than an attack?”
I rolled my eyes again. “You’re on his side.”
“Not necessarily. I can attest to his brilliance and credibility. You’ve lived your entire life being at the top of your class, skipping grades, scoring at the genius level on the IQ scales, always being right about everything. I think you don’t like the fact that he’s pushing you.”
“Pushing me?” I asked incredulously. “I thrive on the opportunity to improve. That’s not the issue.”
“Then what is the issue?”
“The way he goes about it. He’s difficult.”
“Sweetheart, people that brilliant don’t know how not to be difficult. I’ve come off that way my entire career. You’re unique because you inherited a good amount of social intelligence from your mother, and he probably has no idea how to react to that. Cut him some slack. He’s never met anyone like you.”
I gave a loud sigh and took a drink of my beer.
“I don’t want you to change for anybody, but this is something you need to consider. My biggest weakness is communication. To this day, I’m still terrible at it. You’ve witnessed that firsthand. Think about it that way.”
4
Atlas
Cardio and weights were completed first thing in the morning.
That left me the rest of the day to get shit done and have a beer while I worked on the couch before bed.
I got to Hamilton Pharmaceuticals bright and early, transferring the antibodies into the tubes before being tested in the machine. We were studying immune therapy with a new cocktail that was a mixture of natural cells from the rats we tested, along with antiviral components.
Cancer had no cure, but we’d keep trying.
I’d left my position as a full-time researcher but stayed on for part-time opportunities. It cost me one hour of sleep, but it was worth it. The only reason I left my position at Hamilton was because the clinic was the position I wanted more—my life’s passion.
I hadn’t expected to take the top position without resistance, but I also hadn’t expected that resistance to be so blatant.
And I also hadn’t expected a Hamilton to be the one causing the strife.
I continued my work until everything was transferred over then I took a seat at the monitor. Once the mice were injected, we would draw the blood and harvest the data. Research was a big aspect of my life, but I still got frustrated that it took so long. My boss, Dr. Deacon Hamilton, had been doing this his entire career and made progressive movements to battle cancer, either getting patients into remission or at least buying them time, and he still hadn’t made dramatic headway.
Sometimes I wondered if cancer couldn’t be beat.
My biggest fear? That the cure was in a flower in the wild, a fruit in the rainforest, in a creature now extinct—and they were all gone.
The door to the lab opened and closed. “You’re here early.”
I looked away from the monitor and saw Dr. Hamilton enter the lab, his white lab coat on top of his sweater and jeans. The facility didn’t have a dress code and encouraged researchers and physicians to wear whatever they felt comfortable in. I carried that forward into the rest of my professional engagements because I agreed with the reasoning. No reason to waste any headspace and money getting slacks and a tie. “Wanted to get a head start. Have a meeting at the clinic.”
Dr. Hamilton moved to the other side of the table and lowered himself to a stool. His goggles were pushed to the top of his head, and he set his notebook on the counter. He opened the first couple pages and read through the notes he’d made for himself.
Dr. Hamilton was nothing like his daughter. He was serious about work, but he was also laid-back. Didn’t talk much either. Hard to believe the two were related, other than their appearance. Both had dark hair, but the rest of Daisy’s features were a bit softer.
He grabbed his pen and made a note.
“I transferred the antibodies and the cocktail for the mixture. Just need to inject the mice now.”
“I can handle that so you can take off.” He pulled blue nitrile gloves from his pockets and pulled them up to his wrists.