Blood Bound

A Tale

Job was twenty minutes behind schedule. A coughing fit forced him to pull over. He got out of the cab, not that it helped breathing in dust and hot desert air.

Now he turned into the driveway for The Satellite Center for Biomedical Research of Arizona. He pulled up to the guard station.

"E-manifest?" the security guard asked robotically.

Job held out his BodyTech bracelet to the lighted strip on the guard station.

"Anything else we need to know?" the guard asked.

Job swallowed. They'd done this song and dance a hundred times. He'd been driving an armored car for The Center for five years. He kept his hand with his BodyTech held out. "Did you get me?" he asked.

The guard took his hand, and pulled it closer to the strip, "It's finicky sometimes," he said, as he took the folded cash bill from Job's hand. "There we go." He let go. "Loading dock."

Job pulled slowly around The Satellite Center grounds. It was actually more beautiful here than in Buffalo, even though the northeastern location was the hub of all things Apex. Here in Arizona, the grounds never felt the shock of freezing winds off Lake Erie, nor endured the mountains of lake-effect snow. Here the cacti, the purple bougainvillea, the pink desert rose all popped against the red-brown soil. The patients walked the grounds all day, in flowing white linen. It looked like a spa.

Job backed the truck up to the loading dock bay, and got out. He waited for the guard from the station, and another, to flank the truck before he unlocked the back hatch. As the door rolled up with a rhythmic bang-bang-bang all three men watched in astonishment.

Every two weeks for five years, Job drove from Buffalo to Arizona. It was his route. He'd pick the refrigerated truck up in the morning on the first day. He'd check in with the guard at The Center, loading the e-manifest into his BodyTech. Packaged in two-foot by two-foot gray plastic racks, stacked in blue bins in neat lines in his truck, he never saw the Apex enzyme until he arrived in Arizona.

After driving for three days, stopping in crappy hotel rooms to sleep when he reached his drive limit, he'd arrive at The Satellite Center, where he'd grease the guards' palms to "drop" a vial or two as they unloaded. "Damn racks," the guard would joke. "All that money, you'd think they'd be able to afford some better shipping materials." And then he'd slip the vials into Job's hands.

It started when Emilia was born. Julia's pregnancy was perfect—not a moment of morning sickness. But when Emilia was placed in her arms, pink and screaming her head off, Julie tried wiping the purple off the right side of the baby's face; it would not come off. "It's a birthmark," the nurse said gently, "But in a few weeks, you'll want to see Dr. Noman to make sure it's not something more serious."

It was something more serious, PHACES to be exact—a rare genetic disorder that could affect Emilia's heart, neural development, and her complexion for the rest of her life. Julia cried and cried, holding Emilia close.

On their first outing, three weeks after Emilia was born, Julia was on edge, but they managed to have a nice time, eating sandwiches and indulging in a glass of wine. When the bus boy came to clear their plates, he asked: "What's up with her face?" and Julia crumbled.

That night they researched doctors who might be able to help. The closest was in New York city and their limited insurance would not cover the visit. It would be $2,000 out of pocket just for a consultation. But they scraped together the money, and they went.

The doctor recommended an aggressive course of treatment. "Think about kids on the playground, guys," she said. "You don't want money to stand between Emilia and her self esteem."

When they got back to Buffalo, Job did the laundry and weighed his options. He was headed to Arizona the next day.

He would take two vials. Just two vials, to heal his daughter. To protect her. To make sure no one could call her names, and that everyone would come to her birthday parties.

But her miraculous recovery made the rounds among other parents Julia met online via the PHACES parents' sites. "Can't we get two vials for Bobby?" Julia pleaded with him. "I can't bear to see his mother go through this. She'd never tell a soul."

Job paid the guards off for two more. Then two more after that....

Now he took some off of every shipment. He reasoned with himself that the arrangement was not hurting anyone. The guards made a little extra money. Job helped out friends who needed Apex. And Emilia was a beautiful, normal three year old.

But today, as the door to the truck rolled up, bang-bang-bang, the guards saw only three blue plastic boxes, a third of the expected shipment.

"Whoa, man," the guard from the gate said. He took the folded bill out of his pocket and slipped it into the pocket of Job's shirt. "I don't want nothing to do with this, man," he said.

The other guard backed away as well. He lifted his wrist and said something into his BodyTech.

"There must be some mistake," Job said, peering into the blackness of the nearly-empty truck, the cold hitting his flushed face.

"Your manifest says nine crates," the guard said, projecting the document onto his forearm. "That's three."

"I— I know, but I don't know where it could have... I didn't...." Job stammered.

"I'm sorry man."

"Come on, come on, I don't know what happened, this isn't my fault!"

"Got greedy," the guard said, as he took handcuffs off his belt. "Greed will get the best of you every time, man."