Chapter 1

Don mopped. He mopped the lunch room, he mopped the kitchen, and he mopped the bathroom. In that order, or he’d put bathroom germs into the lunch room and kitchen. He’d gotten in trouble for that once and never did it again, but today he’d start in the lab area, which he only got access to once a week due to the important stuff they were doing there, not a bit of which he understood.

“Hullo, Dr. Barbara,” he greeted the head scientist with an eager smile as he walked in with his mop and bucket.

“Hello, Don,” she responded distractedly as she peered into her microscope. When they had met, months ago, she had introduced herself as Doctor Barbara Chatham-Merriweather, but the dimwitted man had just called her Dr. Barbara, apparently unable to remember her polysyllabic surname, and she hadn’t corrected him.

Don glanced at the slim fortysomething brunette as he passed. Though she was wearing a white lab coat, it was open, so he could see her knee-length dark red skirt with black pantyhose that accentuated her well-defined calves. He gulped and moved on. As he headed further into the lab, his blue overalls contrasting with the stark white of the walls, floor, doors, and counters, he appreciated how clean everything looked but he knew that it really wasn’t ... not until he was done. At the far end of the lab was the test chamber, and as he reached the normally-sealed door, it swung open and one of the male technicians stepped out, holding his nose.

“Hey, there’s a spill in there ... go mop it up before Dr. Tightass finds out,” the man instructed Don as he looked to make sure that his boss didn’t hear.

“Dr. Barbara, not Tightass,” Don told him, his six-foot-three-inch form towering over the smaller man.

“Yeah yeah ... do yer job, willya?” The man held the door open. “Big breath before you go in ... squint yer eyes ... be quick.”

Don took a breath, lifted his bucket over the door seal, and swamped his mop in preparation. He had never been in the test room before, so couldn’t help but have a quick look around through half-lidded eyes that he could already feel were starting to burn. On a table was a long flower bed full of dark earth, but instead of flowers it had weird-looking white mushrooms growing out of it.

Through teary eyes Don saw the light blue puddle on the floor and moved his mop to it...

He opened his eyes. His throat was hurting! Also his head. “Wha--?”

“Don? Try not to move, son.”

The face of Dr. Phelps, the facility’s head of medical, came into view, covered by a face mask like everyone had to wear when they didn’t want COVID. The older man was looking at him intently. “How do you feel?”

“Wha’hoppen, Dr. Phelps?”

“Apparently you put too much bleach in your bucket, Don, and bleach plus ammonia makes poison gas. As for your head, well, you’re a big fella and that was a small room, so once you went ass over teakettle -- well, face into mushrooms, and then head onto hard floor -- you blacked out. They got you out pretty quick, but you’re going to have some breathing issues until you heal up. That’s what this is for.” He held up a small inhaler and put it on the bedside table. “You know how to use these?”

“Yeah, my cousin has asthma ... just stick it in my mouth, squeeze, and breathe in?”

“Pretty much. Now, how do you feel?” the older man repeated.

Don felt a tickle in his throat and coughed a little to clear it. “Ech ... lemme just...” He grabbed the inhaler, fumbled with it a little, and squeezed the end, which was unfortunately facing the wrong way. “Uh, sorry ... just a sec...” He managed to line it up correctly and immediately felt the cool, if bad-tasting, mist suffuse his lungs. “Ooh, that’s better.” Seeing the impatience on Dr. Phelps’ face, Don quickly said, “I’m actually feeling pretty good, Doc.” He gingerly rubbed the goose egg on the back of his head.

The doctor grabbed a chart from the foot of the bed. “Now, Don Craig, 22 years old ... of good bodily health...” He eyed the young man. “Built like an ox, in fact ... but you’re not like everyone else, are you, son?”

Don kept absentmindedly rubbing the goose egg. “Uh, you mean I’m not smart like other people?”

“Hm, yes ... I’m sorry to ask, Don, but is that genetic ... uh, were your parents like you?”

“No ... Mom said I got dropped on my head as a baby.”

Dr. Phelps made a note on the chart. “Do you live with them?”

“No, Dad passed years ago and Momma joined him a few months ago. I live by myself now.” Don gave the doctor a self-assured smile.

“Well, alright.” The older man noted that. “Now Don, you’re going to need to stay in the infirmary until I’m sure you’re okay ... plus, Dr. Chatham-Merriweather would like to talk to you. I’ll let her know you’re awake.”

“Okay.”

The bespectacled head scientist strode in a little later. “Hello, Don ... I hear you’re doing well. No, don’t get up.”

Don lay back. His mother had always told him to stand up when greeting someone. “Hi, Dr. Barbara ... I’m sorry if I ruined your experiment.”

She sat on a chair next to his bed, giving him a flash of her slim, stockinged legs. “It’s all been picked up ... don’t worry about it. We’re only behind by a day or so because of this, and it’s not your fault.” She put her hand on his, giving that naughty spot between his legs a thrill. “The idiot who dropped the ammonia solution and tried to use you to cover it up has been fired ... you’re not in any trouble. Dr. Phelps will be keeping you under observation until we’re certain there aren’t any side effects.”

Don nodded, not wanting to move much because then the pretty older lady might pull her hand back.

She gave him a squeeze. “Good ... you can take a paid week off, and your job will be waiting for you when you return.” She pulled her hand back.

“Thanks, Dr. Barbara ... I’m feeling fine, though.”

She thought for a moment. “Well, I’ll let Dr. Phelps decide when you can go home.” She glanced at the clock on the wall. “Ugh, my husband’ll give me an earful if I’m late for dinner. Good night!” Then she got up and strode away.

Don watched her go. He wondered why he hadn’t known that she was married. She never wore a wedding ring. Maybe because she worked in a sterile environment and rings, especially the more intricate ones, were breeding grounds for germs?

He frowned ... what a weird thought.

Dr. Phelps came back, this time not wearing the mask. “Alright, Don, try to sit up. Good, good ... any dizziness? Okay, now turn and put your legs over the edge of the bed ... still good? Well, let’s try standing up, but keep your hand on the frame.”

Don slowly stood up. “I feel fine, doc ... please let me go home. I don’t want to miss Vanna.”

“Vanna?”

“Vanna White.”

The doctor thought for a moment. “You watch Wheel of Fortune?”

“Yeah! Vanna’s pretty.”

“Right ... well, I will have to keep you overnight at least...”

“PLEASE, doc! I’m fine, really!” Don started doing jumping jacks in front of him.

“Okay, okay! Hold yer horses, champ! Hmm...” The doctor thought for a moment. “Well, I really shouldn’t, but you seem fine...”

“Thanks, doc!” He heartily shook the physician’s hand, grabbed the inhaler, and hoofed it out of there.

Don’s lungs were starting to burn again by the time he got to his apartment building so he squeezed another puff from the inhaler. “Ahh...” He was going to take the stairs but with his lungs in their current state, he decided on the elevator instead. His next-door neighbor waved for him to hold the door.

“Hi, Miss Beazly,” he greeted the blonde, twentysomething elementary school teacher as she joined him. He gulped as his eyes slipped over her large chest, held in place by a tight blouse.