As she exited the jetway, Dory found a Florida state trooper and an FDLE special agent waiting for her by the gate, right beside the hand sanitizer station.
“Dorella Quinones?” the six-one uniformed male officer asserted more than asked. His face was scarred from cystic acne like so many Floridians now. “You need to come with us.”
“What is this about?” Dory asked levelly, trying not to be antagonistic. She adjusted where the strap of her sample case rested on her shoulder. It dug but she dared not extend its handle yet to use its built-in wheels. Not until she knew how this encounter would unfold.
“We can do this here,” the female special agent in a grey suit and brown government-issued flats replied, glancing at her fellow passengers, several of whom stopped to stare once they moved around her, “or we can do this somewhere more discreet. Your choice, ma’am.”
Tucking her jacket through the strap of her case, Dory swept a hand in a lead-on gesture. After two years of data collection for the lab, she knew the drill. One of the reasons she hated Florida. But only one.
The trooper instinctively reached to grasp her arm to guide and control her but snatched his hand back an inch short of bare skin as if it might scald him. Instead, he took up position on her right, his body between her and his holster, poised to act should she try anything. Even after being escorted half a dozen times like this, Dory wasn’t sure what that might be. Grab a gun? Flee like a fugitive? Get back on the plane? She let it pass.
The special agent, whose skin disruptions were more expertly concealed beneath a layer of foundation, engaged Dory in seemingly casual conversation as they strode through the concourse, away from the monorail to the main terminal and the TSA checkpoint, against the flow of passengers.
“I’m trying to place your accent,” she said once she’d bracketed Dory to her left like a formal escort, or perp walk. “Where are you from?
“Seattle,” Dory answered, knowing full well that wasn’t the information she was looking for.
“I meant originally,” the special agent corrected easily, as if that question had been misunderstood a thousand times before.
“Originally?” Dory threw out the question as if considering it for the first time. “Isleta Village Proper.” She didn’t anglicize her pronunciation and didn’t elaborate. Best to see where this went, as if she didn’t know.
“Is that in Mexico?” the woman asked. The trooper turned, as if expecting Dory to damn herself with her answer.
She didn’t.
“New Mexico,” Dory responded, with the emphasis on New. “Just outside of Albuquerque. My mother worked in the national lab there.”
“Clerical or custodial?” she inquired, still faux chatty, still clueless and undeterred.
“PhD Researcher,” Dory replied dryly. “Mostly quantifying the environmental impacts to human biome diversity from a national security standpoint specifically as related to troop deployments, pandemic protocols, and veterans’ benefits. A lot of stuff she couldn’t talk about at the time that is now well understood from other private sector and academic research.”
“Oh,” came the expected response, now tinged with disinterest. The other woman wouldn’t pursue it.
They stopped outside an unmarked door with a small, blank, understated screen beside it which somehow blended with the minimalist modern design of the concourse. It was easily overlooked, like the discrete entry to a meeting area or a private lounge. The special agent reeled out her badge from the retractable leash clipped on her belt and laid it against the scanner. Behind the door, a lock snicked. The trooper pulled the door open and ushered Dory through, his hand hovering over but not quite touching her back.
The door stood as a threshold between worlds. Beyond, the décor transitioned from the sleek architectural lines and sweeping curves of metal, glass and polished stone to a corridor of bare cinderblock and concrete, naked conduits, and fluorescent ceiling fixtures reminiscent of the delivery warren which lay behind the unmarked doors at any mall.
Another reinforced steel door and scanner later, Dory found herself in a bright, sterile screening room containing a pearl-gray utilitarian table astride the door with two matching tubular aluminum, plastic seated chairs tucked opposite one another. A side table with a box of blue nitrile gloves, a yellow pop-top cylinder of off-brand antibacterial wipes, a teal aerosol can of disinfectant spray, and an industrial-sized pump of alcohol-based hand sanitizer stood off one end against the wall, an improvised sanitation station. And, of course, cameras pointing down from all four ceiling corners, likely with built-in microphones. Dory wondered who else might be watching or listening, if anyone. She knew she would be recorded.
“Put your makeup case and purse on the table and take a seat,” the special agent instructed, gesturing to the chair furthest from the door. Dory ignored her assumption as she unslung her sample case and set it on the table, followed by her handbag. The room was Florida arctic cold, so she slipped back into her jacket before she sat.
The trooper beelined for the side table where he first gooped his hands with sanitizer gel then gloved up. Dory noted that for all his paranoia, his technique was quite sloppy between the perfunctory wringing and waving of his hands and contaminating the gloves as he pulled them on. The special agent followed suit slightly more fastidiously once trooper positioned himself across the table from Dory, standing between her and the door. The other woman took the remaining seat beside him.
“We need to examine the contents of your bags, starting with your purse” the special agent said, nodding to the trooper, who didn’t wait for permission before pulling a mechanical pencil from his shirt pocket to work the zipper without touching it.
“Don’t you need a warrant or my permission or something?” Dory asked mildly. To his credit, at the word ‘warrant” the trooper paused.
The special agent smiled a cold, flat, condescending smile. “Not in an airport. You’ve already consented to a search by entering the terminal.”
Dory suspected the arcana of the law might say differently but sat back, opting not to dispute it. Easier and quicker to get this over with, or at least get to the part she knew she could contest.
Expertly, the trooper unzipped her purse. Before he reached in, he asked “I’m not going to get stabbed or cut by something sharp in there, am I?”
Dory shook her head. She knew they would be looking for a list of contacts, or a phone they could seize for a data trace. Even medical supplies had become tricky with the everchanging regulations of what could and couldn’t be carried on a plane or in the airport. No list, no phone, no excuse.
He riffled her paperback novel, opened her compact, extended and retracted her lipstick, thumbed through her cash and debit cards, setting each carefully aside after he examined it. She watched him impassively. Nothing that couldn’t be replaced.
He then moved on to her rectangular sample case, which in her grandmother’s time might have been mistaken for a makeup bag. Obviously, it still was in this part of the country. He expertly unzipping the three sides of the cover with the pencil then paused. “Anything in here I should know about?”
“Only medical samples,” Dory said.
The agent and the trooper exchanged a look. The trooper flipped open the lid. He immediately pulled out her mini-notebook from the webbing behind the cover as though he had discovered the long, lost treasure of El Dorado.
“What’s this, then?” He thumbed through it, pausing to try to decipher her coded entries.
“A collection log for the samples,” Dory replied easily. Likely no one but her could make sense of the numbered shorthand entries representing when and where each sample had been taken along with any relevant circumstances. The trooper would only see a variable length alphanumeric with dashes and a date.
The trooper and the agent stared inside for a moment, mentally processing row upon row of sample swabs, each safely encased in its own sealed protective tube, a few with coded labels both on the tube and marking its slot.
“I’m going to need a sample of these for testing,” the special agent said as she reached in and extracted a tube to examine it in the harsh, overhead fluorescent light. Dory recognized it as one of the samples she’d collected in the plane lavatory after she’d preformed a routine touch greeting with the two willing strangers in her row. The second greeting had resulted in a kiss. Really just a brushing of lips.
It was Dory’s turn to smile a saccharine-sweet professional smile. “And I’d love to give you one, officer. As long as you have that warrant.”
“Probable cause…” the trooper started.
Dory finished for him as she captured and held his eye, “… doesn’t extend to medical samples covered by HIPAA.” She slowly reached into her jacket and removed her travel wallet which she flipped open and laid on the table. “As you can see, my medical courier credentials are all valid and up to date.”
“We can detain you for forty-eight hours and get a warrant,” the special agent said, tapping the table with a neatly trimmed fingernail that despite its polish showed the deep ridges of a vitamin deficiency. A pure intimidation tactic.
“You absolutely can,” Dory agreed, still smiling. “Although it will only take maybe a half an hour to consult with the onsite magistrate in the airport. Unless, of course, a flight from Columbia or Thailand landed just before mine which might make it closer to two. But I am sure he or she will be familiar with last year’s ruling in United States v. DeSantis which makes a warrant exceedingly unlikely.”
The two law officers exchanged another look.
“So, unless you are both looking to bite off a federal lawsuit,” Dory continued as she refolded her travel wallet, “or you’d like me to call my lawyer, I think we’re finished here. Or is there something else I can help you with?” She continued smiling pleasantly.
The special agent stood and slipped the tube back in place, shaking her head slightly at the trooper. Dory rose and began rezipping the top of her case.
“Just so you know,” the trooper intoned, “prostitution is illegal in the Sunshine State.”
“As it is in every other state except a few parts of Nevada,” Dory replied as she snapped the zipper back to its proper place. “Which is irrelevant because I’m not a prostitute.”
“Sorry, sex-care worker,” he said with exaggerated emphasis.
“I’m not that either.” She tucked her travel wallet back in her jacket then began carefully repacking her handbag. “I am a healthcare worker, specifically a registered biome distribution agent operating under the auspices of the Biome Exchange Initiative in compliance with the Bi-Ex research guidelines of the CDC.”
“Pretty fancy name for a common whore,” he said as he snapped off his gloves, contaminating his hands further. He tossed them in the red bio-waste container beneath the side table. He then slathered his hands with more sanitizer, wringing them against each other afterward as if trying to scrub off grease.
Dory flushed involuntarily, more with rage than shame. A riposte formed in her mind that she quickly bit down. She didn’t need another incident like the one in Helena on her record. So, she just stared back impassively. That’s what men like him expected. Docile women with whom they could get the final word.
The special agent laid a hand on his sleeve. “Let it go, Jim.” Turning to Dory, she said. “I think we’re done here for the moment.”
The trooper chewed on contradicting her. But he’d have to assert his own authority, which Dory knew he didn’t have. The FDLE agent was in charge. He was just for show.
“There’s something illegal here,” he finally snapped shaking his head before turning to implore his partner. “It’s like pornography, I know it when I see it.”
I bet you do, officer, Dory thought. Instead, she said, “In consensual contact? Even Florida hasn’t gone that far.”
“If the governor signs that executive order…” he started.
“Unless he does in the next week,” Dory cut him off, “it won’t impact me.”
The trooper narrowed his eyes at her, then adjusted his brimmed uniform hat. “Just know, we’re watching you.”
This time Dory didn’t bite back her retort. “I’m sure you’d love that, officer,” she said, glancing at two of the cameras in the corners of the ceiling, “but that’s not how the Bi-Ex protocol works. Another time, maybe.”
He flinched forward toward her. Thankfully, the table was still between them. The special agent tightened her grip on his arm in a warning. Holding Dory’s gaze, she snapped, “I said you were free to go. I suggest you take the opportunity.”
Dory did.
---
She navigated her way back to the concourse, rode the monorail to the main terminal, retrieved the lone remaining bag from her flight circling the luggage belt, and signed for her rental car. On the bus to the lot, she noted her bag had been searched and repacked. She hoped the happy agents had enjoyed fondling her underwear, although she suspected the plain pastel cotton might have disappointed them.
After she figured out the rental’s starting mechanism and aired out the concentrated combination of new car smell mixed with chemical sanitizer that was certain to give her a headache, Dory departed the airport and dropped onto the highway headed north. Thirty minutes later, she pulled off at the first exit after the interstate remerged with the bypass. Just past the string of charging stations, hotels and touchless fast-food restaurants, she spotted the strip mall with a U-Mail-It store anchoring one end.
Inside she found a wall of number mailboxes cast with faux bronze scrollwork to look like antique PO Boxes. She dialed the five-digit combination into an oversized box and pulled out a plain brown paper wrapped parcel. She verified the tape hadn’t been tampered with and checked the USPS postmark to ensure the zip code matched the combination to the box.
Satisfied, she tucked the package under an arm, closed the door to box and spun the dials back to zeroes. She nodded to the attendant at the counter watching her just to acknowledge him. He nodded back then quickly returned to staring at his phone. She took that as disinterest so didn’t offer to engage him with a touch greeting.
Outside, she got back in the rental and resumed her journey north. She pulled off at the next exit with an information sign advertising the national hotel chain she favored for her work.
---
Safely checked into a generic yet decently appointed room, Dory sat on the second bed, opened the package she’d retrieved and laid out the largesse. Carefully packed inside she found an emergency replacement biological sample kit, including spare swabs with sealed containers, a cardboard swab rack, pH strips, labels, tamper seals, chain of custody forms, a waterproof pocket notebook and a fine point Sharpie. A near perfect stand-in had her sample case been confiscated at the airport. It also contained a number of ancillary items she found unuseful to her mission: alcohol wipes, Nitrile gloves, a disposable mask, a scalpel, spatulas, sponges, hemostats, shears, miscellaneous sample jars, a mini-storage clipboard, and, inexplicably, a 2 oz can of chlorine-based, industrial sanitizing aerosol, TSA approved, that looked like it had been added in. All in a cheap, plastic box.
She quickly restocked her sample case, wondering what new intern had sent the package. Perhaps it was less expensive to purchase a full DNA/biological evidence kit than restocking individual items. After considering the tiny aerosol can, she tossed it in her sample case so she could confront someone in the lab with it when she got back to Seattle.
Separately in the package, she also found a box her favorite protein bars, a variety pack of flavors, and another box of organic jerky, along with a small container of single-serve powdered electrolyte drink envelopes and another of dehydrated French Roast. Plus, a large bag of dark chocolate M&Ms. Someone back at the lab was looking out for her.
Finally, she pulled out a disposable smart phone, its retail plastic container already removed. She unlocked it using the +4 Zip Code from the package. IT had stripped it down to basic apps which included a VPN, several levels of custom privacy protecting security software, and an encrypted email account based in Switzerland. Most of the memory was taken up by an onboard map set that wouldn’t siphon off her data to one of the major tech companies, although accessing GPS was still a risk. They might figure out how far the rental car had gone but not precisely where if she avoided the interstate cameras and any toll roads, and left the phone turned off.
There was also a big, red-buttoned, custom-configured app that would reset the phone to factory settings with a single touch. Ten-cycle overwrite if it had time. It would also deactivate the email account to a state that would be difficult to recover. The Swiss took privacy very seriously.
She already had a return ticket through a different airport in a different corner of the state that she could change without penalty. In between she had no official itinerary or reservations other than the car. If she came back to Florida, next time she might have to fly into Georgia and drive across the border. She could still fly out that way if she had to.
These ancillary procedures more resembled a covert operation than any data collection protocols she’d learned in grad school. But here her research also had a secondary objective. The entire project was mired in thorny biomedical ethics concerns even though all participants signed a waiver and consent. No university would go near it.
Dory connected the phone to the hotel wi-fi. Tunneling through the VPN, she checked the encrypted email. She found contact information for seven candidates the lab had forwarded for her to review.
Two of them struck Dory as obvious plants, though she couldn’t pick out exactly why. She deleted them immediately. In other states, she might accept all five remaining. Here she had to be more circumspect. And with the dedicated denial in Florida, she had to be more careful. With travel restrictions and other precautions, three was pretty much her limit.
First, she reviewed each candidate’s latest test results in detail. One STD and her career was over. She was vaccinated against HPV and other viral vectors although variants still occasionally slipped through. Viruses she could fight preemptively. Bacteria were a different matter. There, her own diverse biome would help defend her, at least against the most easily fought off infections. For the worst, she’d need a phage. Her collection safety protocols brought a whole new meaning to contract tracing.
The first potential contact that caught her eye had signed up through an underground church network, which meant he had been partially vetted. It usually meant the contact, Kyle Andrews she noted, was in a serious, long-term relationship. But he was young enough that if it didn’t work out, his average lifetime contacts would leverage any microflora she seeded him with. He was a few hours from her hotel, so she slotted him in first.
Next, she chose a direct applicant, M. J. Lopez. This one had been flagged by the lab team which meant someone either knew him directly or had done their due diligence with a background check to verify his story. Not a lot of personal information which spoke to a tenuous situation. Dory skimmed what little was there to ensure no red flags were raised. Finding none and seeing he was in a county adjacent to her departure airport, she penciled him in last.
Which left three possibilities to fill the final slot. All three had entered the lottery. In Florida, that attracted thousands. The lab continually pressured her to make contact with more lottery winners as outreach. The problem was that all manner of wildcards applied. The only concession she’d gotten was they allowed her to pick from the three. She threw out one from The Villages immediately. Experience had taught her those residents could be more volatile than most. Their average number of lottery entrants were easily double that of any other zip code.
The other two looked equally benign by comparison. Neither stood out as particularly dangerous or risky, just routine, vanilla contacts if such things existed in the Sunshine State. In the end, she flipped a coin, which came up with Richard Caron, who was mid-state between the two airports. She’d use the other one as an alternate in case any of the chosen three backed out or were unavailable. Unlikely but possible. She then plotted out her travel route.
When she finished, she emailed a confirmation to Kyle Andrews requesting fresh test results taken within twenty-four hours of their scheduled meeting and awaited his reply.
---
Dory wound her way up the old US highway that used to be an artery in this part of the state. Now it felt sclerotic along with the anemic communities that it fed. That a church from this area had even contacted the lab revealed the depth of the problem facing the country.
Almost every small city and town she passed through was decorated in themes of ultra-patriotic red, white and blue. Not to mark any national holiday, more to pay homage to a jaded, mythical past, the antebellum illusion of glory which they couldn’t let go, or more couldn’t let rest. Hard-working, hardscrabble communities left behind by a confusing progressive apocalypse which had pied-pipered all their youth away. Insular and aging. Very much like the parts of New Mexico she’d grown up in, only stultifyingly humid rather than desiccatingly arid.
These were the places that needed her contact the most. They also had much to offer in return. A few wild, otherwise endangered strains of microflora might revitalize the nation’s biome should the lab be able to be cultivate, curate and distribute them. And yet they were increasingly difficult to collect. If only because of obstinance, ignorance and denial, all politically motivated by a false-flag culture war that served no one’s best interests.
In California the lab had coopted the legal and highly regulated porn industry, with its regular and randomized testing. In New York they operated through the Department of Health. Even Kansas had a discreet semi-official network setup through participating churches with recommendations by ministers who knew their congregations better than their parishioners thought.
But between the politics, spring break and the Villages, Florida was the Wild West. Although Dory had heard Disney was considering setting up its own lab, catering to their high-end resort guests. At least their program would be clean and professionally run, with full testing, vetting and vaccinations from what she’d heard. As long as you didn’t mind dressing up as a princess.
Regardless of how individual states dealt with the crisis, the human biome was dying. Not just in this country, throughout the world. In the past thousand years, a third of symbiotic human microflora species had disappeared, mainly from the skin and digestive tract. Partly due to environmental degradation, partly from the overuse of sanitizers and antibiotics that swept away both good and bad bacteria.
The absence of certain microbiota in the digestive tract, or overproduction of others to fill a vacant niche, had led to significantly increased disease. Obesity, allergies, asthma, diabetes, depression all had documented links to impoverished gut flora. Arthritis was increasingly likely as were certain forms of hepatitis. Various strains of cancers, from colon to breast, were strong candidates. Incidence of heart disease, dementia, a host of autoimmune disorders and severe mental illnesses had exploded in recent years. Most directly linked to inflammation, which circled back to an unbalanced biome, and a gut-brain axis that still wasn’t well understood.
But Dory knew the human skin biome had been equally as devastated from excessive use of antimicrobials in hygiene products. And that before the pandemic protocols of the past five years had eliminated another third of the microflora species that remained. The implosion of diversity had caused an explosion of dermatology disorders along with a legion of new lethal skin cancers they were still trying to understand. Moles, cysts, eruptive acne, eczema, psoriasis, and lesions were all telltale indicators of the skin biome’s demise.
She would tell her contacts that the skin protects us against the environment but also absorbs toxins as it breaks down, creating another unguarded entry point into the body. Another layer of immune defense that lay in ruins. There were thousands of species uniquely adapted to precise locations around the body, the crook of the elbows, the corners of the nose, the navel, behind the ears, the vagina. Like gut flora, the beneficial ones kept the detrimental ones in check.
All of which had combined to reduce the country’s average lifespan since before the pandemic by seven years, which remained on a downward trajectory. The likes of which hadn’t been seen in the developed world since Russia first threw off the yoke of Soviet communism but then didn’t know how to cope with the mental and economic malaise that followed. Which the Russians had characteristically self-medicated using alcohol, with predictable results.
Worse now that the combined skin and gut biome extinction events had resulted in plummeting birth rates and skyrocketing complications during pregnancy as well as associated birth defects. And because most of the human biome gets passed from mother to infant, from the birthing process to later intimate contact, separating the microflora of skin from gut in early childhood development was difficult. Babies put their mouths on anything, and everything into them.
The human population was crashing in a viscous cycle that few wars, pandemics or economic upheavals had previously witnessed, and then only temporarily, even if they were sometimes devastating regionally.
Like the landscape she now drove through.
Dory passed several rundown and abandoned Depression-era roadside motels, most with burnt out roofs or gaping, gap-toothed opening where windows had once stood, supported by bare concrete block walls coated in graffiti both uninspired and unrefreshed. Their gang signs leaned more toward the Proud Boys, Oath Keepers and 3%-ers than the Crips or MS-13.
Finally, she came to a crossroads, a spot of civilization in the tri-county area. Past the Supercenter, through a downtown damnation alley of fast-food restaurants, and just beyond a quilting museum, she spotted two economy hotel chains, either of which would serve her purposes. She chose the one with interior halls that she regularly used as experience had taught her it was safer. She checked into two rooms on different floors with the excuse that her business companion, who she implied was a trainee, would be arriving late. Her professional skirt and jacket, and wheeled sample case helped sell that story. She charged both rooms to a prepaid debit card and accepted both keycards, saying she’d get his to him.
She settled her luggage into the lower room. At the faux wood desk, she munched a blueberry protein bar and some cranberry buffalo jerky while she texted her contact Kyle with the other room number and a time. She gave him the cover story that he’d arrived early if questioned at the front desk, which she knew was unlikely. She brushed her teeth before he was due to arrive, saving the chocolates and coffee for after. Then she looped the Do Not Disturb hanger around her door handle, and shouldered her sample case to take with her to the upper room. There, she waited.
Promptly at the time she’d given, there was a tentative knock on the door.
Dory peered out the peep-hole to find a fresh-faced, sandy blond young man nervously glancing around the hall. Even through the fisheye lens, he didn’t look much older than a clean-cut pizza delivery boy, only dressed in his button-up Sunday best, thankfully without the jacket and tie. She hoped he was at least eighteen. The lab was supposed to verify that but she couldn’t rely on others. She’d check his ID. The easiest charge she could fall into was contributing to the delinquency of a minor, or worse, statutory rape.
She painted on her best professional smile and opened the door. Greeting him warmly but businesslike, she shepherded him inside. When she turned to face him after closing the door, she found him staring wide-eyed through the open bathroom door, then blushing as he quickly turned away as if he’d been caught peering inappropriately into her private sanctuary, perhaps envisioning an array of philters and elixirs, or a range of alchemical salves, phantasmal color sticks and aromatic sprays by which she might seduce him, but instead finding only the basket of complimentary, single-serve personal hygiene items set out by the maids. She guessed he didn’t have any sisters.
His flush deepened as he emerged from the short entry hall and spotted the pair of unruffled beds. His eyes roamed wildly, searching for a safe place to land before finally settling on studying the colorful abstract picture over the small desk opposite the beds. His posture was as taut and wary as a trapped cat. He nearly jumped when she laid the barest finger on his arm and motioned him toward the pair of padded conference chairs that looked like midnight blue refugees from discount dinette set perched at right angles to the tiny circular table tucked in the corner. So close their knees almost touched as Dory smoothed her skirt and sat down.
“How do we, uh, start” Kyle asked tentatively. Dory noted his skin was pale but remarkably clear. A good candidate.
She popped open her sample case that she’d set beside her chair, ensuring he got a good look inside, slid an instruction sheet out from the side compartment and handed it to him. He accepted it uncertainly.
“While you look this over, I need to see your ID,” Dory said, “Just a formality to make sure everything’s in order.”
He fished his wallet out of his pocket and handed over his license, then pulled out a tightly folded-up paper from deeper within. “Do you need my test results, too?”
She smiled and shook her head as she examined his license. “I already reviewed the last set you sent electronically.” She verified the Real ID marker on his license and the holographic state seal, then checked his birthdate. He was nineteen, twenty in two months. An organ donor. “Everything looks good, Kyle.”
“Do I need to sign a contract or something?” he asked.
“All that was taken care of when you enrolled in the program. No need to repeat it. Unless you really want to.” She smiled teasingly.
He shook his head.
“So, I’m not sure how to go about this,” he said, reddening further.
“Don’t worry, I’ll walk you through everything step by step as we get there. But first, why don’t we talk a little.”
“Talk?” he asked. This part always seemed unexpected to her contacts.
“You know, get to know each other a bit. Decide whether this still feels right
to you.”
That seemed to relax him a little. He gently uncurled some from retreating into his personal space as defined by the arms of the chair.
“I’ll get us started,” Dory said. “How did you get involved with the lab?”
He smiled sheepishly. “My father signed me up with the Wild Oats program at our church.”
“You have a girlfriend?” Nine times out of ten, that was the case with the church-based contacts. A father trying to ensure his family’s future.
Kyle nodded and smiled fondly, “Amy.”
She wondered if Amy knew he was here, but dared not ask. Instead, she said, “Your father must be very concerned about you two.”
“I guess,” he replied, looking down at the carpet. “All he talks about is wanting healthy grandkids.” He finally looked up. “I just don’t know why do we have to do it this way? Isn’t there a spray or something? Or an additive like they put in food?”
Dory smiled. “We tried all that. Probiotic supplements are much less effective. They tried adding them to the water, but chlorination kills them. Even the ones they put in food aren’t as good as having a diverse microbiome in our farmland. They are just the best solution we’ve got until we can rebuild the soil.”
Kyle nodded, seeming to understand.
“It’s the same with our skin,” Dory continued. “They tried installing misters in public spaces but the blowback was immense. We aren’t even exactly sure which strains in the wild are the most beneficial or how they interact. There’s a lot of moving parts. But our studies indicate nothing beats skin-to-skin contact. We know from the results that the protocol is completely safe, and it works.”
Kyle didn’t say anything, just chewed his lip as his eyes drifted back to the deep blue carpet, working through a conflict.
Even though he’d have heard any facts and statistics Dory could cite already, the litany of health issues the procedure might prevent in him, his girlfriend, and any children, or the even greater benefit it might have on society, there was no use explaining further why contact was necessary. He all knew that, in his head not his heart.
So, she chose a different tack.
“Does Amy know you’re here?” Dory asked gently, feeling awkward saying the other woman’s name but knowing she must. She tried not to imply it in her tone, but she knew his answer would determine how the rest of the night unfolded.
He nodded, still not looking up. “We talked about it last night. She agreed that I should come. She said she couldn’t do it herself even though we knew that might be better.”
“You love her,” Dory said. It was an open-ended statement rather than a question.
“I do,” he avowed.
“And you both want kids?” She kept her tone neutral, trying not to make assumptions. Even more mature adult partners had trouble answering that question honestly with each other.
“Yes… No… Maybe?” he finally offered. He shook his head. Tears welled within his eyes. “I don’t know.”
Dory struggled not to sigh. She understood his reluctance. Religion rubbing up against personal ethics made her job more difficult, especially combined with a nineteen-year-old’s uncertain vision of the future.
“Then do it for you,” she finally said. “Do if for her. Do it for any children you might have. Or don’t if it bothers you. But don’t worry about anyone else’s expectations.”
After a moment Kyle looked up at her. He wiped the back of his hand across his eyes.
“Show me how,” he said, his voice taut with emotional resolve.
Dory dabbed a fingertip to his damp cheek then touched the corner of her eye. She then ran a finger inside her elbow, then rubbed same place on his. Touched the crease where her nose and cheek met, and brushed the same spot on him. Skimmed a finger behind her ear, and then gently stroked it behind his.
Kyle shivered with each caress but didn’t protest as they became more intimate.
---
When they finished, Dory quietly but efficiently dressed. She saw Kyle watched her guiltily from the corner of his eye, his body turned away. This was the most difficult part of the evening for her, first making a physical and emotional connection with a complete stranger, then breaking it cleanly so that no feelings lingered on either side. The trouble was, they almost always did, at least with the genuine ones.
Businesslike again, she repeated the instructions from the handout she’d given him. “Don’t shower for at least twenty-four hours. Longer is better. Don’t take a bath or swim for at least a week. No hand sanitizers, no antimicrobial soaps. Read all the labels. After Covid, they’re everywhere. Check the fact sheet for the most common ones.”
She flipped to the second page of the handout to point out the list. When she saw that Kyle was no longer watching her, she left it open on the desk beside the room key.
She grabbed her sample case and strode purposefully toward the door. Before she opened it, she paused and looked back. He remained curled up facing the window, trying to master his body so it wouldn’t betray his silent sobs. Whether guilt or relief, she couldn’t know.
“The room is yours,” she called back to him in a professionally detached voice. “It’s rented through the night. Just remember, there’s a deposit in your name.”
With that, she straightened her skirt and left, heading for the stairwell at the end of the hall.
In the safety of her other room, she began the evening’s second routine. First, she sent an encrypted message to the lab confirming the encounter had ended successfully. She then started swabbing a precise litany of locations on her body, labeling them and updating her data collection notebook.
When she finished, she called the front desk to request a late checkout for her own room, but not the other. She then indulged herself with a single-serve wine bottle from the minibar instead of coffee and broke into her bag of M&Ms. As she fell back on the bed waiting for the middling cabernet to dull the memory of Kyle’s tear-filled eyes, she tried not let her own spill down her cheeks.
---
The Florida morning dawned uncharacteristically gray and overcast which settled over Dory in a melancholy. A hollowness filled her chest as she stood at the front desk, confirming the other room was now empty and settling any additional charges. Other than her minor wine indulgence, there were none. Some older contacts watched a movie once she gave them the room. Others ordered room service or raided the minibar. Kyle apparently hadn’t lingered.
When Dory had requested housekeeping check his room earlier, before her checkout time but after his own, the maid she’d spoken with had said the bed had been made when she checked, and the towels were unused. Nothing had been left behind other than the room key. Dory gave the woman a generous tip.
On rain-slicked backroads she began the long journey north toward the site of her second contact. For their meetup, she had chosen the same hotel chain at the crossroads of two interstates. If nothing else, it offered a familiarity of setting for her next encounter. Because she had a little extra time in her schedule, she gave herself a day for driving and another to decompress before she met up with him.
With nothing else to focus on as she passed through acre after acre of straight-line pine farms, her first encounter lingered in Dory’s mind. She was beginning to hate church-based contacts. So many of these kids struggled to make sense of what they’d been taught all their lives in what often amounted to self-isolating enclaves with what they thought was right once the larger world crept in. Like climate change or Covid, by the time the need for action drifted down to them, a crisis was well at hand.
The boys were more conflicted than the handful of girls she’d encountered. Too many were self-aware and conscientious enough to recognize the double-standard which saddled them with the expectation to be the betrayer. In these communities, the girls were all too used to being labeled Eves and Jezebels no matter what they did. Theirs was just one more secret to conceal.
She tried to comfort herself by saying these were the people who most needed her help, and were in the position to give something back to the greater society at large. But witnessing her contacts wrestle with their consciences firsthand continued to deepen the mark each encounter left.
She wondered which of Kyle’s seven average lifetime sexual contact she’d been. The first judging by his experience and reaction. Women generally had fewer, more like three if you believed the self-reporting, which made the procedure more problematic with them even though it benefited them most personally. If only because they tended to have more intimate contact with the next generation, from giving birth to immediate, if not exclusive, infant care.
Dory knew she was the exception to the statistical sexual contact rule. But like Kyle, the thought of children left her somewhat ambivalent and confused. She wondered how her research would impact any potential partner who might be ready for that level of commitment. Not that she had anyone particular in mind that she was willing to raise children with right now. And she’d be damned if she’d go it alone. She’d seen her mother’s struggles and had no desire to reenact them for herself. Society hadn’t changed that much.
But for all the shame and suspicion she was subjected to, Dory still felt she could make a difference. The projections of biome collapse were dire, like so many other current environmental crises. Either way, it was her body and her choice. And as with so many women, that choice was just another secret society expected her to keep. In silence.
At the intersection of a pair of two-lane roads that marked her turn from the coastal counties inland, Dory pulled over at a pop-up farm stand. When she’d first come to Florida, she’d seen them scattered on rural roads all the time. Now they had become increasingly rare even out here in the wilds. She purchased a quart of organic strawberries along with a small sampler of local wildflower honey. The girl eagerly accepted her offer of a touch greeting. Surprisingly, she already knew what it was.
Dory munched individual strawberries absently as she drove the empty county road, interrupted only by the occasional rattling log truck passing, full or empty. The tart sweetness of her snack improved her mood as much as her encounter. She saved the honey as a treat for the next morning, plotting out where she might find fresh baked biscuits.
When she reached the hotel that evening, she confirmed the time and place with her second contact, the lottery winner, by an encrypted message sent through the VPN, again requesting second test results. He confirmed immediately, as though he’d been waiting.
---
The night of the encounter, Dory set up a similar dual room situation as before, only this time the two rooms were in different hotels. Lottery winners, true to their provenance, tended to be random and unpredictable. Experience had taught her it was best to have as much separation between the encounter and where she stayed the night as possible. She had used this interstate junction before for just that reason. The multiplicity of hotels made it easier.
That morning, she’d walked across the parking lot to a local breakfast franchise and brought half a dozen biscuits back to her room along with a container of fresh whipped butter, and a large, insulated mug of maple dark roast coffee. She’d devoured three biscuits dripping with butter and honey along with half her leftover strawberries from the day before, saving the rest for breakfast the next morning before she hit the road again. She’d spent the rest of the day reading and napping, with a little time sunning herself by the pool but not swimming. A private relaxation ritual she thought of as her energy saver mode.
All that stored, relaxed calm evaporated the moment she met her second contact.
When Dory opened the door after his authoritative rapping, Caron assessed her with a long lingering look from hair to shoes. His wry smile did nothing to disguise the same expression the trooper at the airport had eyed her with, one she’d increasingly begun to think of as disglust. His skin, sun-worn, pitted with pockmark scars and housing an ugly, ragged mole high on his right cheek, revealed a great deal about his lifestyle and lack of precautions. As he strode past her, she caught the barest whiff of bourbon and stale sex.
She motioned him toward the pair of chairs in the corner anyway, these upholstered in burgundy rather than of midnight blue. He was tall and wiry. He carried himself like a cop or a veteran, although he was dressed more like a low-level exec, slacks, a button-down shirt, polished dress shoes, black not brown.
The room arrangement was exactly the same as her previous encounter two night before, mirrored left to right. The only other changes were the pattern on the bedspread, the generic wall art, and the color of the carpet. So instead of joining Caron in the corner, Dory retrieved her sample case and took a seat in the wheeled desk chair, which placed her closer to the door.
She opened her case and retrieved the standard paperwork. She tapped the papers authoritatively on the desk to align them before setting them before her. She made a show of reviewing them slowly, page by page, making a few noncommittal noises as she did, stalling for time as she decided exactly how to proceed with this contact.
Caron licked his lips as if in anticipation, either of the lie he was about to tell or what would happen after. That settled Dory on being brutally direct which she opted to mimic. So, she set down the papers, tapped open his latest test results on her phone and held the screen up toward him.
“Before we get started,” she said, adopting her best professional tone, “are you sure you haven’t had intimate contact with anyone since your last test?”
“What do I look like?” Caron snapped back quickly, accompanied by a dark glare.
Dory didn’t answer, just stared at him impassively, patiently awaiting an answer rather than an evasion.
His eyebrows shot up as his head tilted to the right. “You calling me a liar?” he drawled.
That dispelled any doubt of how this encounter would play out. Dory shot a glance at her open sample case to reach in for a set of rejection criteria similar to the post-encounter instruction sheets she also kept in there.
In that instant of inattention, Caron moved faster than she thought possible, closing the distance between them in a fraction of a second. Before she could react, he seized her wrist. The initial stab of pain as he clamped his hand tight caused her to drop her phone. It bounced harmlessly off the carpeted floor and slid half under the bed.
Too late, she realized that she’d provided the only excuse he needed to unleash his inner nature. She knew what was coming next, if she let it.
Her eyes darted back to her sample case. She spied the previously unwanted can of sanitizer lurking in the bottom. The small spray cannister was the size of a pepper spray, the only thing resembling a weapon within reach of her off-hand. The can was covered in tiny print, black on white. She hoped it would do the trick as she snatched it and pointed it directly at his face, her finger poised on low-profile nozzle.
“Mace will just piss me off” Caron growled in a voice that made Dory believe him. He tightened his grip until the bones of her right wrist ground together.
“Not mace,” she stated, then lied through gritted teeth as tears blurred her vision, “A cocktail of ancient bio-flora, bacteria, from caves in Nevada. That I’ll guarantee I’m immune to but your prostate isn’t. So, unless you are looking to shoot wax darts for the rest of your life with a fifty-fifty of permanently having to sit down to pee, you’ll let me go. Right. Now.”
He glowered at her, gauging her resolve, trying to peer through her bluff. She held his eye even as the first tear leaked down her cheek unbidden. But she didn’t flinch. Somehow her left hand managed not to shake.
Caron released her by snapping his fingers open and casting her wrist away. It took all her discipline not to gasp a sigh of relief. The white-hot pain in her wrist quickly dulled to a hammering ache as the blood throbbed back into her hand. There’d be a bruise if not a sprain.
“You still owe me.” The larger man loomed over her. “I won the lottery.”
“Check the fine print, asshole.” Dory’s grip on the sanitizer didn’t waver. Nor did her aim as the desk chair wheeled back when she stood and put distance between them. “You’ve gotten all you’ll get from me. Now get out before I start screaming. This is the type of hotel where people notice.”
When he didn’t move, she filled her lungs with a deep breath to reinforce her threat as she retreated another step, fully prepared to douse his eyes with a chemical cocktail before she fled.
When the door finally slammed behind him, Dory quickly swabbed her wrist for a sample before she retreated to her room across the street. An hour later, as her wrist purpled, she checked out of the other hotel by phone, sending security to clear the room before she settled her debt. Then she sent the lab a detailed report of the unsuccessful contact.
---
The next morning, Dory awoke with a headache. Her wrist was stiff and sore but functional, not as bruised as she’d feared. But she’d slept only fitfully. Her wrist had throbbed each time she’d shifted position. Every pulsing pain reminded her how dangerous these field collection trips had become.
As a distraction, she turned on the TV while she packed. Where she learned the governor had just signed Executive Order 28: Any woman caught acting as a Bi-Ex distribution agent was to be considered a prostitute and treated as such. He had scheduled a news conference later that afternoon, where it was rumored he would promote his most recent cure for the biome crisis. An anonymous source said it was the very spray sanitizer someone had stashed in her care package, the one she’d made such effective if unauthorized use of as a deterrent last night.
She wondered if the governor’s big hedge fund donors had a stake in this company, too. Just like the last mildly dangerous product he’d promoted despite all the research and data saying not only would it not work but that it was counterproductive. Any such criticism he merely labeled as anti-science propaganda promoted by his political enemies, reinforcing that the fight against the biome crisis was a matter of personal liberty.
He was more willing to spend taxpayer money on a pound of cure than an ounce of prevention. Where there’s life there’s hope, one of his political rivals in the cabinet noted, but where there’s death, there’s profit.
Dory felt like giving up. Just changing her flight and fleeing to the airport. Either way, this would be her last sample collection trip in Florida. She was unwanted here.
She felt a tinge of self-pitying shame as she remembered her final contact, the direct applicant whose story someone high in the lab had found compelling. These were the people she needed to reach most.
Guilt finally convinced her. Reluctantly, she sent an encrypted message to Lopez with a narrow time window at a hotel near the airport the night before her departure. She resisted opening the timeslot wider. Let fate play its hand. If this encounter was meant to be, her contact would be available. If not, she could return to the lab knowing that she’d tried.
Less than a minute later, her final contact confirmed the appointment. The same quick response as Caron set Dory’s stomach churning.
---
Dory was surprised when she opened the door and found herself staring at a woman. A younger Latina very much like herself in stature but with rougher edges from physical labor and wearing more practical clothing. Her skin was sundrenched but radiated health. She didn’t look to be much older than a girl. The kind of young woman Dory recognized from growing up in New Mexico as tending the earth on a farm, usually someone else’s.
Dory stared a moment, taking this young woman in, wondering briefly if there had been a mistake, if she had been sent to the wrong room on the wrong errand. She caught herself in the bias so often applied against her. But not before she felt color rise to her cheeks.
“M. J. Lopez?” she finally asked, as pleasantly as she could muster.
The other woman ducked her head in a kind of self-conscious nod. Her calloused hands twitched as if she resisted wringing them. “Maribel Jimena,” she offered in a familiar Spanish lilt. “Mari.”
Dory recovered, painting on her best welcoming, professional smile. “Mari. Come in.”
She guided her to the chairs in the corner of the room by the window, these hunter green rather than the previous blue or burgundy. She ran through the preliminaries quickly but breezily, trying to put the other woman at ease, sensing her uncertainty. She was unsure whether that was from language skills, education or reluctance, so she kept her presentation as direct as possible, pausing frequently in case the other woman needed clarifications or had questions.
There were none. Mari just stared through the pauses behind a neutral mask, giving no sign, no feedback either way, adding to Dory’s apprehension about her understanding. Regardless she plowed ahead.
After Dory’s simplified explanation of the procedure, Mari finally said, “We are similar, you and I.”
“How so?” Dory asked, feeling confused, fearing she had not communicated effectively.
“The farm where I work is organic but traditional. They use the old ways not because they are popular but because they work. We plant maize and beans and squash and peppers all together so they can support each other. Each takes what it wants from the soil, putting back something the others need to grow stronger than if they all stood alone. They replenish the land which has fewer harmful insects. Less intervention. Everything is healthier, more fruitful and productive. The land is more bountiful for the community. It just needs more tending because all the plants are intertwined. Tending by unseen women like us. The milpas.”
Mari smiled openly for the first time at the kind of teasing only women of similar background could share and understand.
Milpa. Dory liked that word. She might adopt is as her job title. Her body was like a cultivated garden where various symbiotic microflora not only grew together but thrived in close proximity. She was like the Janey Appleseed for a strong, diverse, productive biome. Hers was a rich soil, a Mississippi floodplain or the Nile River delta for growing beneficial strains. Her body was a marvel of evolution or a gift from God, or maybe both depending.
All of her hesitancy and reservation about this encounter disappeared. Mari understood completely, perhaps better than Dory did herself, with a simplicity that resonated deeply.
Dory appraised the young woman for a moment through tear-welled eyes, as she remembered what had drawn her to this work to begin with. The other woman had given her exactly what she’d needed, a renewed purpose.
But there were still practicalities to deal with in this arrangement. Challenges to overcome. Dory once again turned her demeanor to businesslike to ensure emotion clouded neither of their judgement.
“Have you ever been with a woman before?” she asked, directly but not harshly.
Mari shook her head, no longer meeting Dory’s eye. Just like Kyle only more passive.
“I can get a male Bi-Ex agent out here on next run,” Dory offered gently.
Mari’s gaze came up from the carpet, full of hope. “How long will that take?”
“Six months,” Dory stated. There was no way to cushion the delay. There weren’t many male agents because they weren’t in high demand. The backlog was immense.
Mari shook her head ruefully. “I don’t have that long.”
Dory’s eyes flicked down to her belly. No sign yet, at least that her work clothes revealed.
“Pregnant?” she asked.
The girl nodded, looking down again.
Damn. In this part of Florida that could be bad.
“What about the father?” Dory asked. “It’s nearly as effective if I distribute to him and he transfers to you right away.”
Mari shook her head emphatically. “He’d never. He’s a good Catholic.”
“Another friend maybe?” Dory knew it was a long-shot even as she said it. Despite their proximity to the city and the airport, the surrounding counties were rural and quite conservative, especially about things like what they’d have to do.
This time Mari shook her head more slowly. “Ours is a small community. Word would get out. But I need this for my baby.”
That Dory knew from the CDC data maps. All the telltale indicators were all rampant up here. Diabetes, obesity, asthma, allergies. Melanomas and psoriasis through the roof.
She paused for a moment to allow Mari to back away. When she just stared back with wide, apprehensive, dewy doe brown eyes, Dory nodded.
“Then we’ll go slow,” Dory reassured her. “Let’s start with a routine touch greeting and see what happens.”
Dory ran a finger inside her own elbow, then rubbed same place on Mari. Touched the crease where her nose and cheek met, and brushed the same spot on her. Skimmed a finger behind her ear, and then gently stroked it behind hers…
---
When they’d finished, Dory saw Mari was crying. Tears like transparent pearls leaked from her eyes one by one, runnelling down her cheeks. Whether from joy or relief, she couldn’t tell. But not shame. Unlike Kyle, Mari hadn’t turned her face away. She hadn’t even closed her eyes.
Either way, the protocol was complete and hopefully successful. For both of them.
On some instinct to connect and comfort that she didn’t normally give into, Dory gently dabbed a finger in the shallow reservoir of tears pooling near other woman’s nose. She first touched the corner of her own eye, then kissed the comingled remnants away.
As they both lay sharing this final exchange in silence, a subtle saltiness lingered sweetly on Dory’s tongue.
© 2021 Edward P. Morgan III
