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Indianapolis, Indiana, USA
4th of April, 12:00 p.m. (GMT-4)
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Stephen Forester barreled east, taking the loop around Indianapolis to avoid city traffic. He knew he was getting close to Ohio when he saw the signs for Skyline Chili and couldn’t resist. He preemptively placed another dissolvable tablet under his tongue and managed to eat a 4-Way with onions. Nowhere else in the world could one find chili served on spaghetti.
He had intentionally saved Columbus for last, in part because he was ambivalent about returning to his roots. Ohio was the place where everything good began—where he grew up, found his passion for biology, fell in love, and married Kelly, who made him a home that became complete with Janey’s birth. But it was also where everything fell apart—his research ended, his career stymied, his marriage broken, his home in ruins.
He knew Janey blamed him for leaving, but it was over long before he boarded that plane with two suitcases. She made it sound like he didn’t try, but he did. She was just too young to remember. He tried working private sector—in labs, industrial manufacturing, oil and coal, pharmaceuticals—wherever his Masters of Science could open doors. And it would be fine for a while, until he got bored. Until he figured out how things worked better than his bosses. Until he felt trapped in a life not of his choosing.
He was drowning, and on a lark, he applied to do his doctorate at the Institute of Molecular Biology and Genetics of the National Academy of Sciences of Ukraine. It was a self-governing state-funded organization that was flourishing in its post-Soviet freedoms. They attracted scientists and researchers from all over the world, and the shadow that followed him in the provincial pool of academia among North American universities did not darken his prospects in Eastern Europe. They even had an English journal where he could publish his research. He could start again, and he’d had every intention of bringing Kelly and Janey with him. He kept telling himself that he would go and check things out, and that his family would come when called.
It was easy to see all the signs in hindsight. How many times did he accuse Kelly of not being supportive, instead of listening to the numerous ways she was trying to tell him she didn’t want to uproot their lives? How many times did he see everything she’d built as a weight dragging him down? How many nights and weekends did Janey spend at her grandparents because Kelly didn’t want her to see them fighting again? If he had been a wiser man, he would have understood that they were already slipping away and taking that flight to Europe was the nail in the coffin. It was only because of his hubris that he was surprised when he received the divorce papers in the mail. But God help him, he would do it all over again, in spite of everything.
In time, he’d become accustomed to life in Kiev and even picked up conversational Ukrainian, but it had never felt like home. No matter how routine things became, it still wasn’t right in some fundamental way...like a persistent irritation crawling just under the surface of his skin.
He hadn’t been sure how he was going to feel when he returned to Ohio, and he was relieved when an eerie calm came over him as the Honda passed under the “Welcome to Ohio” sign. He knew that, however imperfect the circumstance, he had finally come home. He’d had to leave to do his work, but he refused to die in exile.
Once he passed the sign, the white-on-green countdown began— first to Dayton and then to Columbus, the state capital and home to Ohio State University’s main campus. We are all counting down, he bleakly joked to himself.
Forester was a private man, who kept to himself. There wasn’t anyone in Kiev with whom he’d felt the need to share his diagnosis, and he certainly didn’t tell anyone at work. Not only was it none of their business, it would have been a distraction from all the irons he had in the fire. By the time the doctors caught it, it had already spread. He had considered radiation and chemo; as a scientist, he had access to the most recent research and could do all the math to figure the statistical probabilities of eradication or remission. But there was no way for him to account for the non-numerical factors until he found himself considering those three fateful words: quality of life.
Had his research been approved, he would have stayed until his condition prevented him from working. He’d had wonderful success with Serum 132 in his mice study. He had effectively convinced cells that they were in a state of oxidative stress without actually harming them, so much so that it changed their genetic expression toward aggression—their serotonergic activity plummeted and they became rabid. Forester applied for further research, but where he saw progress, the review board saw “cruel treatment of animals with minimal scientific benefit.”
The rejection on ethical grounds tore open an old wound he had long considered healed. Facing mortality gave him a moment of clarity—it all started at OSU with the disciplinary hearing. If things had gone right there, the rest of his life would have had a very different trajectory.
His rejection had been infuriating, so he’d privately made tweaks to the serum to translate it to ungulates and discreetly conducted small proof-of-concept tests while still working at the Institute. Once the new formula had been adjusted to take into account the difference in physiology and neurobiology, Forester had produced more serum; enough to fulfill the needs of his North American trip.
His colleagues had been surprised at his decision to take a sabbatical, considering his history of continuous toil, but they could not begrudge him the time off. They felt it was healthy for academics to take a break from their work from time to time. Little did they know that Dr. Stephen Forester had no intention of returning to either the Institute or Ukraine. They also were unaware of the illicit vials of modified Serum 132 tucked into Forester’s attaché on his last day at the lab. In a fit of spite, Forester even removed all his papers and wiped his computer, assuring they could not piggyback off any of his innovations once he was gone.
The gas light lit up on his dashboard, breaking his reminiscing—he had forgotten to fill up after the 4-Way! He cursed and started looking for the nearest gas station. He had anticipated the progressive physical symptoms—the fatigue, nausea, loss of appetite, weight loss—but those things didn’t bother him nearly as much as the cognitive changes. He was a man of the mind, and the diminished concentration and mental fog were by far the greater insult to him. Forester turned on his signal and steered the Honda into the exit lane.