Cup Half Empty, Cup Half Full

I was drinking an overpriced cup of processed sugar when a girl with black and white hair asked if I had time to discuss poison.

She wore purple lipstick and a chain necklace. Seven rings covered four fingers. As I chewed on the cafeteria's tasteless tuna sandwich, she dropped her own tray on my table and pulled up a chair. "Tell me about symptoms," she said. 

Well, chloroform messes with cellular respiration. Ethylene Glycol behaves like alcohol abuse before attacking kidneys with prejudice. Arsenic affects the digestive system. Belladonna creates fever and blurred vision. She nodded as I spoke, typing away on her phone. I noted that there were different types of poison, and many of them contained a detectable aroma or color.

I should probably mention that I study toxicology. In fact, as I rambled, I realized the girl was in my chemistry class. What was her name? Nellie, Nancy --

"Nina," she corrected with a smile.

"Nina," I said back, testing out the word.

Nina's eyes followed her notes on our discussion before meeting mine again. She seemed to perk up at the mention of Ethylene Glycol like she either knew exactly what it was, or had no idea.

"Are you writing a report, Nina?" 

"Something like that." She picked at her salad but didn't take one bite. My suspicions were confirmed when she added, "Ethylene Glycol… How does that affect the kidneys?"

It wasn't a complicated explanation: After consumption, the central nervous system makes itself known through headaches and slurred words, sometimes confusion. Then the solution overflows the bloodstream with oxalic acid, which turns into calcium oxalate crystals. A day or two later, assuming enough was consumed, you find yourself with renal failure. 

This seemed long-winded, though, so I simply shrugged and said, "It creates an overabundance of kidney stones that cut up your cells like a ninja."

To my surprise, Nina actually smiled. "Literally stabbing you in the back."

"Yep." I concealed my own smile with another sip of coffee. "Internally."

She fell against her seat with an impressed huff. "You know, I have some friends who are into this stuff. You might like to meet them."

"Are they like you?"

"They're a little worse. But they know a little more." She leaned over the table, and I was suddenly very aware of the people around us — we were practically shouting. Nina's eyes flitted across my face, searching for a hint of shared enthusiasm. "We aren't afraid of experimentation like your professors, either." 

I looked up, and her smile widened. Hook, line, and sinker.

"You're curious."

"Confused," I corrected, suddenly weary.

Nina didn’t miss a beat. "Vaccines are a contradiction, but the good kind: Illness curing illness. Turn that around, then what do you get? Nutritional supplements cause heart disease. Electrolytes make kidney stones just like dehydration does. Too much good, too much bad --" She spread her hands. "The difference between poison and remedy is nothing but a controlled dosage and a physician's point of view."

This wasn't a lunch break; it was an ambush. If I wanted to deal with those, I would have gone into politics. 

"I'm not a physician, though, am I?" I pushed my chair away from the table, took to my feet. "So I can't help you."

"Who said I was the one in need of help?" Her eyes dropped to the coffee cup I'd abandoned: an ultra-sweet, sugar-bomb of French Vanilla creamer.

It could mask anything.

Nina's smile was audible. Patronizing. She didn't touch my drink. She's lying. The voice was unconvincing. I found the barista in the crowded room, the one who'd filled my cup. Her face went pale. She ran into the back room. 

"Sit," Nina offered. "Please."

I did. Slowly. 

Nina picked the tomatoes out of her salad and scrambled what was left. She tilted her head as I waited, like a little kid. "That was one of my friends," she explained.

I fought to keep my voice level. "What did you use?" 

"Something unheard of -- that's what we do. This is a field test." She tapped her index finger on the fork. Every bite she took made me want to throw up. "We had to make sure the solution was undetectable -- not just to tests or autopsies, to people --, and you're the closest thing to an expert I know. So what do you rate it? Five stars? Ten? I'm curious."

"You're joking with me," I said. "Playing games."

"Okay." Nina stood so fast, locks of black hair swung over her shoulder and mixed with the white. She pulled a card from her purse. "Call that number in three days."

"Why three?" But I took it.

"Because by then, you'll know just how serious I am." She turned and walked straight out the door, not bothering to pick up her tray. I watched, dread sinking and sinking, until the corners of my vision turned black. When she was gone, I stood unsteadily and headed in the direction of the barista. I shouldered a cook who got in the way, pushed the silver doors open, and burst into the kitchen. But she was gone.

Hands on my knees, breathless from fear, I squinted at the card.

My situation was worse than I thought.

****

I stared at the boathouse we once called home and smiled. That clueless cafeteria boy had been the last name on my list. It was finally happening. 

In three days, twelve students would scramble to their phones to call me, desperate to be cured. Some were exposed a week ago, others only a day — hand-picked from the university roster. Twelve brilliant scientists, a spectrum of desperation, alertness, and rationality. The variables were intoxicating. 

But as fun as studying the poison's development was, it was more important that they get the job done.

Twenty years ago, a dream was created by a group of students. They hatched a plan to invent a cure for all ills -- a ludicrous elixir found only in science fiction. What they made instead was the worst poison imaginable: undetectable, untraceable, unheard of. They called it Palmarium. Devastatingly tedious, it wrecked the digestive system until medicine could no longer aid you. On the rare chance you survived, Palmarium left nothing but the shell of a mindless cadaver. A zombie. I've seen it first hand.

It was such a useful weapon, the students looked for buyers instead of a cure. Small-minded as they were, they sold their souls for money. So I bought them back. Now they work for me, with the sword of transparency over their heads.

I could tell their secret to the police. It would be easy. The infamous mystery of where this substance came from would be solved, and all I would need to do is give a statement.

Those students lacked incentive -- not the twelve names on my list. These people were motivated. They had their lives riding on a cure. The card I gave each of them explained everything: the instructions, the history, the challenge. They would figure out an antidote. They had to.

With trembling legs, I made my way to the boathouse door and knocked. A familiar face opened it.

His eyes were glazed, his body shook, and drool fell from the corner of his mouth. He was dying, but he wasn't so far gone that he didn't remember my name. 

"Nina!" My father hugged me -- although it came out as "neh-aw!" and the hug ended in his collapsing on the floor.

Any remorse I had for the cafeteria boy melted in an instant. This couldn’t continue. The world needed a cure. I pushed that boy to be a hero — to use his skills for something that actually mattered.

After getting him safely to the living room, I told my father about the scientists I’d convinced to help me, about how close we were. I knew he would forget an hour later, but that didn't matter. In three days, none of this would.

Still, the look in those student’s eyes when they figured out my intentions haunted me — this last boy in particular. When I approached, he’d been genuinely excited to share what he knew. If I had been more patient, would he have helped willingly?

There was no point wondering.

Instead, I thought about what I would say when he called. Perhaps I’d thank him for such a productive lunch break.