Data Driven Jeannie Tseng (bio) Jeannie Tseng, Data Driven, Fiction, Prose, story The mouse pup moves in anguish but its screams are ultrasonic, heard only by its mother. The fingers and toes are clearly defined—each one finishing in a delicate nail. Round, black eyeballs are visible underneath translucent eyelids: it's a miniature alien nestling in the palm of her hand. Ziggy drops the pup onto the cold, stainless steel countertop and stretches out the tiny body against the ruler. This newborn mouse—only four days old—flails its stunted limbs, unaware of its greater destiny. Now that wasn't too bad, was it? You'll see, little one; it only gets much worse. She tosses the pup back into the cage where it lands on a pile of wood chips. Ziggy works with robotic assurance: one mouse in, another mouse out. Eight years of graduate school training have given her quick hands and a confident eye: 2.2 cm, 1.8 cm. She pulls out another pup from its tangle of siblings; the mice huddle underneath their mother who is too tired to protest, only managing a few noncommittal nose twitches. Ziggy records her measurements in a brown lab notebook. Later, she'll enter the numbers into her computer, onto elaborate tables listing parental lineage, litter number, gene modification, screening dates. She's meticulous with her data, the only pinpoints of light guiding her through this labyrinth of research science. Snip with the nail scissors; squeeze with her fingers. Tiny drops of blood are forced out of the pup's tail, into a labeled Eppendorf tube. She'll run the DNA tests later, when most people in the lab have gone home. Ziggy dodges the curious looks and elliptical questions from her lab mates at any cost. If she never sees the light of day again, it will be worth it. Eight years in, still running experiments for her doctorate—this is unheard of in their department. These mice are her last hope. ________ "Ziggy." Rosenbaum approaches from behind, startling her. She's alone in the tissue culture room, absorbed by the repetitive work in the sterile hood. The rhythm of her movements and the drone of the airflow [End Page 164] duct had lulled her into complacency. She's been ambushed. The small room is uncomfortable, difficult to escape. She pipettes calf serum onto a batch of cultured cells, gently sluicing the walls of the petri dish. Without turning, she says, "You stayed late. I hope that it isn't on my account." "Ziggy. We have to talk," he says. The man is an empathic genius. Here I am, in the middle of this never-ending slog and now he wants to TALK? "Sure, boss! What's the latest news? Another Science article for Byrdie? Or how about that big grant from the NIH?" She throws these conversational gambits over her shoulder like spilt salt into the face of the Devil. "Don't think I haven't noticed you slinking around here like we've all got communicable diseases." Her pipette falls with a clatter; she snaps off her latex gloves, tossing them into the waste bin before swiveling around in her chair to face her adviser. Dr. Jed Rosenbaum leans against the counter, arms crossed, his belly paunch pronounced in a slim-fitting oxford shirt. There is a sharp crease down the front of his slacks; even his shoes glint underneath the fluorescent lighting. Rosenbaum is meticulous with his wardrobe: disheveled scientist is not on his C V. "You don't need to look so pained." Rosenbaum's eyebrows are like enormous question marks on his forehead. "Why not? That's how everyone else looks when they see me coming." "You're paranoid. You know that?" He is exasperated that his graduate students aren't better behaved, or at least better medicated. She really doesn't want to do this—not really—but she's overheard the jokes about her cursed hands (did you hear about Ziggy's latest major fuck-up?) during Neurobiology Department meetings. On slow days, the department lapses into lazy, recycled gossip about her "situation." It was a terrible...
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May 5, 2022
Mohammed R Shaker + 2
Open Access
