“Take your painkillers,” I say, leaning into a scolding tone to distract myself.
“Fine,Mom,” she says with a roll of her eyes. She downs them with a bottle of water, kisses me on the forehead, and heads for the door. “You better call me right after work tomorrow. I want to heareverything.”
“I will.”
She hesitates in the doorway. I can tell she wants to say more, but knows she’s just stalling. And I know she’ll miss me just as much as I’ll miss her. She’s being as selfless as she’s always been by nudging—well, shoving—me into moving here.
I hope she sees it on my face—how I get that the best thing I can do to honor her selflessness is to throw myself into thischance whole-heartedly. I’m going to give it everything I can.
“Love you,” she finally says.
“Love you too, Mom.”
And she closes the door, leaving me in the silent, empty apartment.
#
The next morning, I go through the motions that will become my new routine: wake to the sound of my alarm and pull back the blackout curtains that block out the city lights overnight; brush my teeth and swallow the dose of suppressant that will make the overstimulating city bearable as it renders my scent bland and uninteresting to alphas; pour a serving of French-press coffee into my thermos, half-jog down the stairs, and catch the next subway train.
I stare at the maps app on my phone, counting the stops to be doubly sure I don’t miss mine. Once I emerge from the rumbling subterranean tunnels of the subway, I’m surrounded by gleaming skyscrapers, cooing pigeons, and hurried commuters.
I can still note the cacophony of scents on the wind, but the suppressant is doing its job of dulling them enough to be tolerable.
I glance at my maps app again, but as I round the block, the Artemis Pharmaceuticals headquarters building is impossible to miss.
Outside, it stands apart from the rest with its wood-look paneling and space-age curves. A larger-than-life statue of the goddess who lent her name to the company stands with bow raised and pointed out over the city, muscled curves draped with lifelike silk, all made of stone. The company’s minimalistic logo,ARTEMIS PHARMAcircumscribed by a crescent moon, glows from a laser-cut metal panel over the door.
Inside, it’s the most impressive building I’ve ever seen.Its lobby is a sweeping glass-draped atrium, filled with tropical plants flourishing in the soft warmth and humidity. Natural wood tones trace the organic curves of balconies above, and beyond them, state-of-the-art labs gleam behind floor-to-ceiling glass.
There’s nothing medical or sterile about it, and I think that’s on purpose. I think it’s supposed to make me feel like I’m part of something bigger than just a company—like a whole ecosystem or something. It’s working.
I hand my ID to the person working the front desk, who smiles warmly and gives me a name tag.
“You’ll get your badge at orientation. Go down this hall to the right, last door on your left.”
I worry I’ll get lost, even with such simple directions. But there are freestanding signs lining the hallway, with big font and arrows pointing out the orientation room, the bathrooms, the kitchen.
I get the sense that whoever planned this orientation is the type of person who prints out labels for every compartment in their drawers, even though they’ve memorized the layout.
I like that kind of person. Like I can hear them saying through the signs,I know it’s overwhelming. It’s going to be okay.I feel a bit more at ease.
I think I expected a sharper edge from Artemis. More of a corporate ‘sink or swim’ mentality. The graduate labs had certainly been that way. So I don’t totally let my guard down, but I breathe a little looser as I step into the orientation room.
The two dozen other new hires are mingling and chatting, also looking both nervous and relieved.
A handsome beta man cracks a joke, and the others around him laugh and giggle. I’m like two seconds into the corporate world and I can already tell he’s in sales.
I find a chair at a table on the far side of the room, notquite up for introducing myself yet. I don’t even know if I’m going to see these people again—this company is huge.
A chipper young woman with her brown hair up in a high ponytail comes in, introduces herself, and welcomes us. The orientation runs like clockwork, polished corporate slides walking us through the schedule for the week, the structure of the company, their various benefits. We’ll spend our first week in this class, then report to our various departments.
“And,” the woman gushes, “this is a very special week! Friday is our fifteenth anniversary! You’re all invited. I know you might still be feeling new, butpleasecome. It’s a fantastic way to meet new people! And you can ask literally anyone anything. We have a full open-door policy here.”
I quietly doubt that. Not the intent, just the hyperbole. I don’t really want to meet so many new people yet. I’ll probably stay home.
The woman makes eye contact with me, looking hopeful.
Reflexively, I smile and nod. Shit. She must have clocked me as an introvert and has now artfully ensnared me with a social contract.
