The article was titled “Steroids for School. Why Smart Kids Are Turning to Drugs.” It described a brand-new drug flooding the illegal market called Neuritol, which was supposed to enhance brain function and memory. It apparently went a step beyond classic nootropic supplements like Piracetam or Aniracetam, both in terms of the clarity of the enhancement experience and the potentially harmful side effects. Emily Muniz had bought the drug from another high schooler, packaged in a repurposed albuterol inhaler, and then had been admitted to Baltimore Washington Medical Center when she lost consciousness during a math test. As of the writing of the article—early that morning—her survival was still uncertain.
I checked Melody’s office, but she was gone. Back at my desk, I stared at the screen, the words drifting out of focus. Shaunessy had been right. Now I knew what was going on, but there was nothing I could do about it. Annoyed at myself and feeling guilty for my nosiness, I threw myself back into my work. Shaunessy’s software was running well now, leaving me plenty of semi-translated messages to sift through.
They still weren’t making much sense, but I hoped that with more volume, we would start to get enough context that some kind of meaning would become clear. If not, we would have to find one of the few linguists who understood the language and work out some kind of temporary security clearance to allow them to translate the messages.
Around dinnertime, Shaunessy opened up a container and the sharp smell of Thai food wafted through the office. “Smells delicious,” I said. “Where did you get that?”
“I ordered it from the cafeteria. They deliver.”
“Wow. You can do that?”
“Sure. They can’t really have you ordering pizza or whatever from outside the complex. There are thousands of people living here, though, and thousands more working late. The solution is in-house takeout.” She held up the container. “The guy who makes it was a CIA informant in Thailand for a decade before they pulled him out.”
Twenty minutes later, I was digging into my own container of Chicken Kao Phad.
“So what’s it like to be following in your father’s footsteps?” Shaunessy asked. “All those years, he couldn’t tell you the secret things he did at his job, and now you work here, too.”
“It’s bittersweet, actually,” I said. “I always wanted to be like my dad. But he has Alzheimer’s. He’ll never really know.”
“Wow, that’s rough. I’m sorry.”
“He was my hero, especially after my mom left. Paul always took Mom’s side. He went the academic route, got a doctorate—he even works at the University of Maryland, just like Mom did.”
“She was a professor, then? Your mom?”
“Astrophysicist. She still teaches some classes at UMD, though she cut her hours way back to help take care of Dad.”
Shaunessy used a napkin to wipe a stray piece of noodle off her chin. “I thought you said they were separated.”
“Yeah.” I waved a hand vaguely. “It’s complicated.”
“Sorry. I shouldn’t pry.”
“No, it doesn’t matter. It’s old news. My dad was stationed in Brazil when I was five and Paul was six. Mom had her career, teaching high-energy astrophysics, doing research into neutron stars and black holes. She didn’t want to leave the US.”
“And your dad just went without her?”
“That’s what Paul would say, but it wasn’t like that. Originally, she was going to come along. They made all the plans for relocating together. When it came to handing in her notice, though, she couldn’t do it. She said she just had some things to finish up for the summer, and then she’d join us. Only she never did.” I shrugged. “She might tell the story differently, though. I don’t know.”
“How much do you remember?”
“Oh, I remember it all, at least what I could see and understand at the time. Five years old is old enough to hold onto something like that. I hated her for a while. And I hated Paul for defending her.”
“How long were you in Brazil?”
I stirred my rice. “You saw my resume. Ten years, near enough. Only, about three years in, suddenly Mom showed up in Brazil. She had worked out some kind of co-research arrangement with Pico dos Dias, a big observatory in Minas Gerais, more than a twelve-hour drive from Brasília. She visited every other weekend for three years, and then she was gone again, back to the States.”
“Sounds pretty rough,” Shaunessy said.
I looked for a trashcan to toss my empty food container. Some kind of green initiative in the NSA had swapped all the normal office trashcans for divided ones with a large compartment for recyclables and a tiny one for other trash. The foam carton didn’t fit, so I broke it up into tiny pieces and inserted them one by one.
“So your mom takes care of your dad now?” Shaunessy asked.
“She does a lot of it. We all pitch in, though I’ve been helping a lot less since I started working here.” I felt a twinge of guilt at that. Before I started at the NSA, I had spent more time with him than anyone. “Have you ever known someone with Alzheimer’s?” I asked.
She shook her head.
“It’s like going through early childhood again, but backward,” I said. “I don’t just mean losing mental function. Alzheimer’s actually follows the same myelinization paths in reverse, eroding your brain centers in the reverse order that they develop in early childhood. You lose the ability to form long-term memory first—one of the last things you develop as a child. Then you start losing vocabulary and sentence structure. You can’t handle finances or pick appropriate clothes to wear. You lose the ability to use the bathroom or walk or speak at all. By the end, you can’t even smile or hold up your head. It’s like reverting back to infancy.” I found there were tears standing in my eyes. “And there’s nothing that anybody can do to stop it.”
I was the only one still at work late that evening when Melody returned to the office. “How’s the whistle translation going?” she asked. She looked tired and worn.
“Fine,” I said. “Lots of translated words, not much understanding.”
“I found a linguist,” Melody said. “Katherine Wyatt, a retired Christian missionary. She and her husband were the first outsiders to crack the Johurá language, almost forty years ago. I’m flying her in from Massachusetts tomorrow.”
I was amazed. Her granddaughter might be dying, and she still found the time to track down a linguist who was probably the only person in the United States who could translate our messages. And made travel arrangements.
I hesitated before speaking. “I’m sorry about Emily,” I said.
Melody seemed to physically collapse in on herself. Her professional demeanor crumpled, and she sank into Shaunessy’s chair. “I don’t know what she was thinking,” she said.
“It’s tough sometimes, being a kid. Trying to measure up.”
“It’s my fault, really,” Melody said.
“Yours?” It seemed unlikely. I didn’t think Melody was out buying her granddaughter illegal drugs.
“I pushed her mother too hard into science and math. She dropped out of college instead and did her own thing. But now she’s pushing her own kids the same way. Emily’s bright, gets top grades, and her mom wants her to go to an Ivy League school. It’s a lot of pressure.”