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One
JULIANA
The interior of the building was warm and inviting, not the least bit as cold and clinical as I’d expected it to be. It could’ve been the back end of a museum, or even a library. Carpeted floors and strategically-placed plants guided us down another hallway, as I followed the primly-dressed woman in front of me.
“Sorry to make you wait so long, Ms. Emerson.”
She paused at a frosted glass door, rapping sharply three times while wearing her best plastic smile. After poking her head inside for a moment, she eventually opened it wide.
“The director will see you now.”
‘The director’. It sounded so important, so official. The term was also starkly meaningless, especially in the context of why I was there.
Could you please come to our main office? The director has something important to discuss with you.
That cryptic email had forced me from my conference room mid-presentation, out of my office, and into the nearest cab. Sixteen blocks later, here I was.
“Ms. Emerson?”
I was ushered into what could’ve been a doctor’s, lawyer’s, or even a dean’s office, the three made completely indistinguishable by the sheer number of bookshelves around me. Each was stacked floor to ceiling with a thousand leather-bound books that might never get read in today’s digital age, but sure as hell looked impressive.
“Ah, Ms. Emerson.”
A gaunt, balding man with wire-rimmed glasses smiled weakly at me from across his desk. He stood up halfway, gesturing to one of two leather seats in front of him.
“If you please.”
I took the chair he didn’t point to, just to set him off guard. Not that there was aneedto set this man I’d never met before off guard, but old habits died hard.
“Thanks for coming so quickly,” he said in a soothingly, velvety voice. “I appreciate you taking the time to—”
“I’m here. Just tell me.”
His eyes registered surprise at my bluntness, but also a little concern. It was the concern that concerned me.
“Alright then,” he leaned back. “Straight to the point.”
The man took a moment to clear his throat. When he spoke again, he looked a lot less comfortable.
“The donor you selected with us is unfortunately unavailable.”
It took a few seconds for the words to register. When they did, my heart sank.
“And why the hell not?”
“Because the samples were destroyed,” the director replied coolly.
The sentence was like a punch to the gut. It felt exactly like I’d gotten the wind knocked out of me.
“W—What? How?”
The man steepled his fingers together across his scrawny chest. In his white labcoat and glasses, he looked like some skinny cartoon professor.
“The long version of that story involves an unforeseen mechanical failure, and an oversight in transferring certain samples to our backup freezer,” the director said. “The short version is that some samples reached degradable temperatures. They became nonviable, and unfortunately had to be discarded.”
My mouth was suddenly bone dry. All those weeks of searching through profiles, reading bios, looking at photos. Of pouring over pros and cons. Of making lists, and narrowing things down.
All of this work was now gone in an instant. Before I’d even gotten started.
