Page 185 of The Bone Code

Thursday, November 25

Neither Vislosky nor I had been overwhelmed with invitations. Being Canadian, Ryan had no plans. And to say Anne was insistent would be like saying the Allies dropped by at Normandy.

Once we’d all accepted, she outdid herself transforming the entire first floor. Harvest-themed kitsch covered the walls. Gourds stuck with mums and Shasta daisies, cardboardMayflowerpop-ups, ceramic pumpkins and turkeys, and figurines of banqueting Pilgrims and Native Americans filled every horizontal surface. Spiced candles and apple pie diffusers scented the air.

We took our places at five, every millimeter of tabletop crammed with platters and bowls overflowing with seasonal favorites. Turkey. Stuffing. Cranberry. Marshmallow-topped yams. Molded Jell-O. You know the drill.

Anne reigned at the table’s head. I was seated to her left, next to Ryan. Vislosky was opposite me, an empty chair to her right. No amount of cajoling could get our jolly hostess to reveal the identity of the missing guest.

We’d just filled our plates when Anne suggested a variation on an exercise Mama often forced on my sister Harry and me at mealtimes,a game that involved sharing our “warm fuzzies” and “cold pricklies” as she called them. I wasn’t a callous kid. But I hated laying out my feelings for the benefit of an audience. Still do.

“I’ll start,” Anne said. “This Thanksgiving Day, I am grateful for such glorious weather, for being in the most beautiful place on God’s earth, and for the company of dear friends, old and new.”

Anne raised her wineglass in Ryan’s direction.

“I am thankful for the lovely and brilliant lady to my right. I hope she will always be a part of my life.”

The lovely and brilliant lady kept her eyes on the plastic turkey beside her placemat. Wondered what it had to smile about.

“Tempe?” Anne urged.

“I am thankful that no one has teased me about my face. Except for Ryan’s Darth Vader quip.”

“And Anne’s reference to Wile E. Coyote and the rake,” Vislosky said.

“And that.”

“Tonia?” Anne prompted after casting a withering look my way.

“I’m thankful to have Huger’s ass in the bag.” Gruff. “Pass the cranberry.”

Clearly, Vislosky’s enthusiasm matched mine.

Nothing from the empty chair.

“Well, then. I guess that’s it for gratitude.” Dramatic Anne sigh. “Fine. Let’s talk about Huger.”

Not the divergent path I’d have chosen.

“Let me get this straight.” Anne pointed one lacquered nail at me. “Huger was spiking vaccine with a virus that attackedwhat, now?”

“Epithelial cells.”

Anne stared, wide-eyed. Chardonnay-eyed. I wasn’t judging. It was Thanksgiving, and she’d been cooking all week.

“Blood vessels,” I clarified.

“How’d that work again?” One corner of Vislosky’s mouth was hitching up. I suspected her question arose out of a wish to bait Anne rather than a desire for more detail.

“The virus delivered the CRISPR/Cas9, which snipped the DNA and replaced the gene that would normally prevent infection from capno.”

I pantomimed scissors with one hand. Then, calling Vislosky’s bluff, elaborated further.

“Specifically, the blood cells were altered to make an adhesion molecule that allowed the bacteria to attach and grow.”

“After an animal bite or scratch,” Anne said.

“Yep.”