Free Incubation (The Incubation Trilogy Book 1) by Laura Disilverio Page B

the lab door open or his footsteps. The tiny clink comes again as the beaker knocks against his teeth. He says nothing. His throat works as he swallows, stiff white hairs of unshaved beard vibrating as his Adam’s apple moves. I don’t realize I’ve reacted until the crinkle of paper tells me I’ve crushed the maps. I whip my hand behind my back. Maybe he hasn’t noticed what I’m holding. It’s possible he’s drunk enough Wexl not to notice much.
    “Dr. Ronan! I wasn’t . . . I was just—”
    “You’re leaving,” he says, his words slightly slurred by the intoxicant.
    “No! I mean, yes, I’m leaving the lab now. I needed to check on—”
    He shakes his head back and forth in exaggerated slow motion. “No, no, no, Jax. Let’s not part with lies. You’re leaving the Kube, going in search of your parents.” He throws back the rest of the Wexl and sets the beaker down with a sharp click. He takes a step toward me, swaying ever so slightly. He’s close enough now I can smell the Wexl’s chemical sweetness on his breath.
    “I had a daughter once. Did you know that?” Not waiting for my startled negative, he continues. “Nothing like you. She wanted to be a ballet dancer of all things, back when we had time and resources to indulge in the arts. Can you believe the government used to fund painting and dance, opera and photography? She took her first class when she was three, and I can still see her in her pink leotard thingie and tights with a little puff of a tutu—that’s a ballerina skirt made out of stiff netting,” he explains at my puzzled look. “She had her hair up in a bun, like ballerinas wore, and the biggest smile I’d ever seen on her little face. To the day she died, she had that same smile every time she danced.”
    He clears his throat. “She seemed fragile as a dandelion puff, ethereal as a moonbeam when she danced, but she was all muscle and discipline. In that, she was like you—a hard worker, committed.”
    My chest tightens at the comparison.
    “She could move people to tears. Early on, I tried to interest her in science, in botany or genetics, but dancing was fundamental to who she was. It would have been a crime against nature to try to make her be anything else. I didn’t recognize that soon enough.”
    His eyes gleam wetly and he reaches for the empty beaker, stares into it blankly, and then sets it down again. “She died in the second wave of the flu pandemic. My wife died three months later.” His jaw slides from side to side.
    I whisper, “I’m sorry, sir,” having trouble getting my head around the idea of Dr. Ronan with a family. He seems so self-contained, so focused on his work, so beyond needing people that I have trouble envisioning him falling in love, playing with a toddler.
    “It is what it is, Jax. It is what it is.” His gaze sharpens and falls on the backpack.
    I stand helplessly as he pulls it toward him along the length of the lab table and rummages through it. I expect him to fling my survival items out, accuse me of theft, turn me in. I think about hitting him with a chair and tying him up or locking him in the storage room, but almost as soon as the thought materializes, I deny it. No way can I harm Dr. Ronan. I stand irresolute, trying to think of a way to warn Wyck and Halla, to keep Dr. Ronan occupied until they’ve realized I’m not going to show up at the docking station and leave without me. I pray they don’t come here looking for me. I’m so caught up in my thoughts, I don’t process Dr. Ronan’s words at first.
    “I said, you’ll need medical supplies,” he repeats impatiently. “There’s a first aid kid in the storage room, top shelf, on your left. What are you waiting for? Go get it.”
    Almost in a trance, I obey, returning with the compact kit. I should have thought of it myself. “You’re helping me,” I state the obvious. “You’re not mad that I’m leaving?”
    “Might as well be mad at water for being wet,” he