Thin-Skinned

“Tony’s coming in today.”

“You’d better not let him hear you call him that.”

Several other employees in the lab look up.

Brian asks, “He’s coming? When?”

Jennifer says, “I don’t know, Michael told me. Michael wants to be left alone to finish the progress report on Komnaremab before you-know-who gets here. Sheila, you don’t have a lab coat on. You know how he hates that—unless you’re wearing a gown.”

Komnaremab, the drug they’re developing, is designed to correct recalcitrant eczema.

Tony Sabatier, Ph.D., Senior Director of Biologics for Makeia Labs, was known for many things: his excruciatingly high standards, his intolerance of departmental politics, and supporting the labs’ resource requests. He also ensures that there’s adequate staffing for all the labs. Some think this is showing the human side of him. Others think he only cares about long-term efficiency.

Jennifer joins the group huddled at the end of the black lab bench to discuss the situation. Early summer sunlight streams through the long, high windows on the north side, softening the fluorescent lights over the workstations. A newbie lab assistant stands on tiptoe on the other side of the bench, peering over the reagent rack to follow the conversation.

The lab door swings open, with Michael, the senior research scientist, and Dr. Sabatier right behind him. The Ph.D. studies the room, a slight scowl on his face. His face is always pink, with fair blond hair brushed up from his forehead. He wears an impeccable navy-blue suit, which makes his blue eyes seem even more piercing than usual. He has the build of a swimmer, the straight back of an army sergeant. His hands are pink also, perhaps the result of overzealous handwashing, with manicured nails. It’s known that he hates to shake hands. The lab has speculated that he must be a germophobe, or maybe OCD. Or maybe he just hates people and loves science only.

Michael says, “Please everyone, just continue working.”

Dr. Sabatier goes to the first workbench and looks on. He turns back to Michael.

“How’s the prep coming?”

“We’re on schedule. The first batch of Phase 2 subjects will be injected later today.”

He wanders over to the lab bench where Jennifer is mechanically filling a syringe from a vial, a tray of filled, labeled syringes by her side. She looks up, her face shield reflecting the light, making it hard to see her face.

Dr. Sabatier asks, “Is this the monoclonal antibody drug?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And this is the proposed therapeutic dose?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” He picks up the one closest to himself. She gasps as he uncaps it and jabs the needle into the inner aspect of his left forearm, pushing the plunger all the way.

She stutters, “What? What are you doing? Sir!”

Michael exclaims, “Tony! What have you done?”

He recaps the syringe and drops it into his jacket pocket.

“Consider me a test subject, if you will. You can get my demographics later.”

And with that he turns and marches out of the lab, past a frozen tableau of lab assistants and research scientists.

#

Dr. Sabatier proceeds to walk briskly down to Dr. Angela Larkin’s lab, a few doors down. They’re doing research on a CRISPR gene therapy for a vicious variant of ichythyosis, a genetic disorder that causes large, thickened scales on the skin. The drug’s proposed name is Sybria.

The lab techs and research scientists all straighten up as Dr. Sabatier enters the room. He nods to the room in general, then approaches the nearest researcher. “I hear that Sybria’s going to be injected into the mouse model today.”

Aaron says, “Yes, sir, would you like to see anything?”

“Where’s the medication stored?”

“Back here, I can show you.”

He leads the director to the back of the lab, into a room full of mouse cages. One of the lab assistants, a young woman with long blond hair tied behind her head and wearing a lab coat, has just put on gloves.

“Morning,” he says. “Is this Sybria?”

“Yes, Mr. . . .”

The scientist says, “This is Dr. Sabatier, our Director of Biologics.”

“What’s the dosage?” he asks.

“Two milligrams per kilogram of body weight.”

“Do you have any solution that hasn’t been diluted yet?”

“There’s the starter vial. It’s 80 mg/ml.”

“That’ll do. Sorry to spoil it.” He takes the syringe from his pocket, pulls the plunger out to the 3 ml mark, then jabs it into the rubber stopper of the vial.

The first researcher steps forward, his hands weakly reaching for the vial, but Dr. Sabatier turns away.

Aaron chokes out, “What are you doing, if I may ask?”

“A little experiment,” he says, and jabs himself in the arm as before.

The assistant says, “No! We don’t know what the effects will be. That’s twice—"

Aaron interrupts, “—We don’t know where it will insert itself into the human genome.”

“I’d say we’re going to find out.”

The researcher asks, “Doctor, why would you do that?”

“Because this research is taking too blasted long.” He caps the syringe and deposits it into a nearby sharps container.

“I’ll be seeing you,” he says, and he goes through the doorway and into the lab, where most of the staff don’t know what’s occurred. He nods again and makes his way out to his office.

#

Tony walks straight past the people in the hallway to his office door, looking neither to the right nor to the left until he gets inside and closes it. He leans back against the door and exhales.

He takes off his tie and jacket, then sits down at his immaculately organized desk to down a large drink of water. He takes a fan from a drawer and fans his face.

About five minutes later, there’s a knock on the door.

“Yes?” Tony wipes his hand across his eyes. He was expecting this.

“It’s Chris.”

“Come in.”

The door opens slowly, revealing Chris Richardson, Vice President of Makeia Labs.

He asks, “Is it safe to come in?”

“Sure, sure; please, close the door if you would.”

Chris has short silver and gray hair and wears a dark gray suit. He’s trim, like many of the executives of the company.

He says, “I think I’ll sit down. Tony, is what I’m hearing correct? Two research scientists called my office, nearly incoherent over what you just did. Did you really inject yourself with two experimental drugs? Just like that?”

“I did.”

Tony stands up and rips his starched white shirt open, popping the buttons, then rips open the thin white undershirt, revealing large, thick scales, with cracked skin and red lines in between. He gets out from behind his desk, stretches his arms, and paces.

“I can’t stand one more day of the itching, one more day of the pain, one more day of hiding.”

“Tony, I’m sorry, I had no idea.”

“I worked mighty hard to make sure no one did.”

Chris stares at the desk. “This explains why you pushed these two research projects so hard.”

“I was born with the collodion membrane, like a shrink-wrapped package, had to go to the NICU. When it shed, the baby picture looked like a lizard boy. I’ve had to have plastic surgery on my eyelids. It’s a rare variant of icthyosis, with relative clearing of the face and extremities, that is, if I work on it like a son of a bitch.”

Chris’s eyes are wide open. “I’m still trying to take this all in. At the same time, I have to say, you shouldn’t have done this.”

“What was I supposed to do? Wait some more? I’ve waited my whole life. I can hardly go out into the sun. I’ve never been in a relationship.”

He reaches into a closet where a stack of neatly folded undershirts and hangers holding white button-down shirts wait. He takes off the torn shirts and puts on fresh ones. When he turns his back, Chris can see thick plaques like irregular stone tiles across his skin, scars that look like a dinosaur raked his back, and scattered redness and scabs.

Chris stands up, running his hand through his hair.

“I see that these are extraordinary circumstances, but still. . . .”

“I’m perfectly sane, by the way. I’m not depressed; I’m not on drugs. I don’t sleep well, but that’s always been true. I just—”

“—I don’t get it, then. Why now? Why today? You may have ruined a brilliant career.”

“I don’t know. Yes, I do. It was a little thing. It was just a little warmer today, the sky was blue, no clouds. It reminded me of my grandmother taking my sister and me to the beach when we were kids. I had never gone, but when I was twelve she asked my folks if she could take us. I was sitting in her car, arms crossed, all mad that we were going to go to a place where I’d look stupid wearing long sleeves and pants, sitting in the shade, trying not to scratch, while everyone else had fun.”

“Then she pulled something out of her beach bag.”

“’Do you know what this is?’ she asked. ‘It’s called a rash shirt, and all the kids are wearing them this year who boogie board or surf around here. And your legs are in good shape right now. You’ll fit right in.’”

Tony starts putting his jacket and tie back on. “It was the most wonderful present I ever got in my whole life. I forgot to scratch most of the day. I felt so safe in that shirt with my secret, that my granny understood.”

Chris asks, “Did you go into the water?”

“I tried. But there was too much skin inflammation. The salt water made my legs feel cold and on fire at the same time.” He sighs and looks at Chris. “I want to go to the beach again and feel the breeze on my skin. You know, I can hardly sweat, so I can’t afford to get too warm. And I don’t have much skin sensitivity, except where the skin’s inflamed or cracked. I hardly have any feeling in my skin.”

Chris blinks. He doesn’t say anything for a moment.

Then, “I was going to tell you that there will need to be an investigation, and you should take a leave of absence for the duration. But I’ll write up a summary of the events, plus the extenuating circumstances. I’ll still have to ask you to go on leave until we’re sure you won’t do anything crazy like that again. And you’ll have to sign some waivers about not suing us for whatever happens to you.”

Tony says, “You’re the only person besides my family and doctors who know about me. Thanks.”

“We’ll keep it confidential. Now, go home, and make an appointment with your doctor immediately. And keep me posted. I want regular reports.”

Tony makes an effort and holds out his hand. “Thank you again.”

#

A day later, Tony develops a mild fever. He’d already notified his specialist about what he’d done, and he was going to be seen in a week. But he sends a follow-up message, and the nurse calls back, saying the doctor has ordered stat labs.

For the next five days, he feels like he has a terrible sunburn, with body aches and chills. They repeat the labs. They show rising levels of inflammation, his liver enzymes are elevated, too, but not enough to send him to the hospital. He worries constantly.

Tony has an extensive skin care routine to keep the scaling down. He exfoliates and moisturizes religiously. He cleanses any skin breakdown to prevent infection. On the day of his appointment, he gets out of bed, and when he showers, a thick layer of dead skin sloughs off. He keeps rubbing and rubbing, and more gray material washes away. He does another round of stat labs before heading to the clinic. The fever’s gone.

His specialist’s amazed. “You’ve got fresh, clear skin on your back I’ve never seen on you before. And I’ve known you since you were a baby. Any other side effects?”

“A lot of energy. I think this is joy.”

He smiles. “In my medical opinion, I concur. May I give you a hug?”

Tony hugs the doctor, who holds him carefully. Their eyes are bright as they part. Tony says, “I haven’t tolerated a hug since I was a kid.”

“I hope this is the beginning of something great for you. The labs are improving. Contact me right away, though, if you have any other new symptoms.”

A few weeks later, Tony asks Chris to join him for coffee at a shop away from work. Tony’s bought new clothes—polo shirts, shorts, sandals. He still wears a thin undershirt in case anything starts to bleed.

Chris stops when he sees Tony, then goes over and puts his hand out, not sure if he should give him a high five or a fist bump. Tony holds out his hand to shake again, the second time he’s done that all year.

When Tony shakes his hand, he feels elation, but he doesn’t think it’s coming from himself. It radiates from Chris.

Chris says, “You look different, you look relaxed, like you’ve been on vacation. And the symptoms?”

“Doing okay so far. I’m seeing my specialist regularly, and he can’t believe how my skin has improved.”

He pulls his collar open. The weeping red patch of skin that was there that day he revealed the disorder, is gone.

“It’s a miracle. I’m happy for you.”

Tony says, “I guess we won’t know if it was the Sybria alone that did the trick, or the combination, until the testing is a lot further along.”

Chris says, “Let’s go inside.”

When Tony picks up his iced latte from the barista, the cup slips a little and he accidentally brushes the edge of the barista’s hand. He feels sudden anxiety, stress; worry. It passes in a few seconds.

The barista looks up from his work, hands busy. “Was there something else?”

“No, no, just wanted to say you’re doing a great job.”

“Thanks, man.”

Tony goes outside. The breeze is warm. He sits down and doesn’t worry about developing uncontrollable itching. It’s fantastic.

Chris says, “The company is still in turmoil over what you did. But seeing you look so well, I think it’s a good idea for you to meet with the CEO and the other execs. The sooner, the better.”

“I agree. Though now I could wish for a little vacation. I’m enjoying everything more. And I sleep like, well, every cliché. Like a baby, like the dead, like a rock. It’s heavenly.”

Chris smiles at that.

Tony says, “I never expressed much emotion when I was at work, did I?”

Chris snorts.

Tony asks, “How about Monday?”

“Fine, let’s say 10:00. The conference room. I think, considering what I’m seeing, it’ll just be a matter of form. Do you realize you’ve proven we have a cure?”

They chat about the office for a while. Tony occasionally notices Chris staring at his arms, which are exposed to the outdoor air for the first time that he can remember.

They part with another handshake. Tony feels warmth and goodwill.

On the drive afterward, to the next doctor’s appointment, he wonders what’s going on. He knows no one gets impressions of other people’s emotional states from a simple touch. Aaron had said they couldn’t predict where the gene therapy would insert itself into his genome. It could interrupt a gene sequence. It could cause the release of some protein that affects receptors they haven’t even characterized yet. But it was probably a combination of effects from the two medicines being taken simultaneously. Eczema is related to ichthyosis.

His doctor takes one look at him and grasps his shoulders. “This is a miracle.”

Tony feels a jolt—happiness mixed with sadness.

The doctor says, “Did that hurt? You look shocked.”

“No, no. Did something bad happen to you?”

“I thought I could hide it better than that. One of my colleagues is getting a divorce. He’s not doing well.”

“I knew it when you touched me.”

He looks at Tony, a little puzzled.

“I mean, I knew the barista today was stressed when my hand touched his. And when my colleague shook my hand, I felt what he felt. This is weird.”

“Maybe you’re just hypersensitive to others’ emotions now that you’re not so wrapped up in your own problems.”

“It’s more than that. I have some form of . . . super empathy.”

“I don’t know about that. You’re bound to feel a little like an adolescent, being freed from all your symptoms.”

On Monday he dresses carefully for work, enjoying the feel of the shirt against his skin, the absence of pain or itching anywhere.

Getting off the elevator on the 34th floor, he nearly runs into an assistant director, Dr. Heather Lopez. She almost passes him by, then pauses, surprised.

“Tony, you look great. Welcome back. I heard you had an accident in one of the labs.”

She lays her hand on his forearm. He suddenly knows that she cares for him; no, it’s more than that. Unrequited love.

Tony was attracted to her the very first time they met, but he’s kept the relationship to occasional light banter.

“Heather, would you like to have coffee with me after my meeting?”

She smiles. She’s so beautiful when she smiles. He wants to make her smile more often.

“Yes, I’d love to.”

His life is going to be so strange. It’s as if his emotions have awakened along with his skin. And more. How will he handle knowing how anyone feels that he touches?

He’s going to find out. He’ll have a different kind of secret now. Tony opens the door to the conference room.