the pile , along with my dissertation , into a white kitchen bag . I place that bag into another , and another , until there are three layers of plastic protecting my work . Today , I need to tell them . They need to know about the worms . Worms that first appeared as I was live-streaming a performance of the New York Philharmonic in the University ’ s main lab . I ’ d been examining samples of white blood cells under a microscope , and the worms splashed down on my specimen like a rainstorm from a cloudless sky . They writhed across the slide , opened their mouths , and devoured the blood cells until nothing remained .
“ Call NBC ! ABC !” I ’ d shouted . “ The CDC ! The FCC ! I ’ m on to something big !”
But my professors and my peers weren ’ t interested in hearing about the worms . Neither was my sister , Deidre . Deidre hates you . I ’ d tried to warn her the night I saw the skin on her daughter ’ s hand undulating , when a spark from Allison ’ s cell phone leapt to her flesh and pushed , needle-like , into the veins on her wrist . As quickly as this explosion ignited , it quieted , a reverse big-bang that led to nothingness , save for the worms writhing beneath her skin .
Deidre hadn ’ t seen the spark . Allison said she didn ’ t feel anything . They gave me a funny look and Deidre sent me to my room . She wanted to call Dr . Atkins in private . “ Stay away from Allison ,” she ’ d said . “ I mean it .” But I couldn ’ t . I needed to protect her . That night , while my niece slept , I scraped off just enough cells from her hand to examine under my microscope ; just enough to try cutting the heads off those worms before they began devouring her immune system . 16