Free Parasite (Parasitology) by Mira Grant

to stand, put my arms loosely around his neck, and kiss him enthusiastically back. We passed several pleasant minutes that way. Finally, Nathan pulled away, cheeks flushed and eyes a little overly bright behind his glasses.
    “You are amazing, and I am
starving
,” he said. “Lunch?”
    “Lunch,” I agreed. “Indian?”
    Nathan grinned. “It’s like you read my mind. Let me get my coat.”
    He left me in the office while he took care of the last few details required before he could leave the hospital. I walked over to the terrarium, bending to study the King Sundew. It was already relaxing into its new environment, fronds fully extending as it mapped out the limits of its space. It would have insects stuck to those leaves by the next morning, using the nutrients in their bodies to feed its own.
    “You’re beautiful,” I murmured.
    “Sal?” said Nathan, from the office doorway. “You ready?”
    “I’m coming.” I straightened, smiling again. “Let’s eat.”
    Nathan clicked the office lights off as he stepped out to the hall. The lights in the terrarium stayed on, casting a bloody red glow over everything. I grabbed my bag from the chair and followed him into the hall, leaving the silently growing plants behind.
    The Indian restaurant we wound up in was half a mile from the hospital, tucked into one of those odd warrens of half-residential, half-commercial streets that seemed to spring up allover San Francisco. Every neighborhood had its own character, a mixture of city natives, transplants, and people who thought of themselves as just passing through, even though they’d been living there for longer than I’d been alive. On such blends are cities built.
    Nathan took a sip of his mango lassi as he looked thoughtfully at his goat curry. I leaned over and poked him in the arm with my fork. He looked up, startled.
    “What?”
    “We’re supposed to be having lunch together, but I don’t know where you are,” I said. “What’s on your mind?”
    An odd look crossed his face. Putting down his lassi, he reached up and adjusted his glasses—a sure sign that he was uncomfortable. “Did you know that curry powder is a natural antiparasitic? That’s probably part of why it was originally so popular in Indian cuisine. India has a warm, moist climate. That encourages high levels of parasitism, and the more parasites you have, the more ways you’ll need to keep them out of your population. Assuming you want to have a healthy population, that is.”
    “And it’s not until recently that we’ve been put into the position of needing to
add
parasites for the sake of our health, rather than getting rid of them,” I said. “I know. You tell me things like that every time you don’t want to talk about what’s really on your mind. It’s a good thing I was never enthusiastic about developing a taste for sushi. I think you’d get us kicked out of any sushi restaurant worth visiting.”
    “Just because people don’t want to consider the risks inherent in their food choices—”
    “Nathan, what’s
wrong
? You don’t usually try to change the subject twice in one meal.”
    He paused before sighing heavily. “If I say you really don’t want to know, Sal, will you believe me?”
    “Yes, but I won’t stop asking.” I poked him with my forkagain. This time the action earned me a brief smile. “I would be a terrible girlfriend if I didn’t make you tell me what was on your mind. You listen to me whine about dealing with SymboGen enough. I can listen to you.”
    “It’s about what happened last night.”
    The words were simple, but still sent a thread of unease into my guts, where it curled and twisted like a parasite in its own right. Last night he’d been dealing with an accident. I hated hearing about accidents… but this was Nathan, and he deserved better than me shutting him out because I was uncomfortable. “I’m a big girl,” I said. “I can handle it.”
    He sighed again. This time he took off