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FUN FACT ABOUT me: I am a fairly mellow person, but I happen to have a very violent fantasy life.
Maybe it’s an overactive amygdala. Maybe it’s too much estrogen. Maybe it’s the lack of parental role models in my formative years. I honestly don’t know what the cause is, but the fact remains: I sometimes daydream about murdering people.
By “sometimes,” I mean often.
And by “people,” I mean Levi Ward.
I have my first vivid reverie on my third day at NASA, when I imagine offing him with poison. I’d be satisfied with a quick and painless end, as long as I got to proudly stand over his lifeless body, kick it in the ribs, and proclaim, “This is for not answering even one of my seven emails.” Then I’d casually stomp on one of his humongous hands and add, “And this is for never being in your office when I tried to corner you there.” It’s a nice fantasy. It sustains me in my free time, which is... plentiful. Because my ability to do my work hinges on my ability to magnetically stimulate brains, which in turn hinges on the arrival of my damn equipment.
By the fourth day, I’m convinced that Levi needs some miracle-blade stabbing. I ambush him in the shared kitchen on the second floor, where he’s pouring coffee into a Star Wars mug with a Baby Yoda picture. It says Yoda Best Engineer and it’s so adorably cute, he doesn’t deserve it. I briefly wonder if he bought it himself, or if it’s a present from his child. If that’s the case, he doesn’t deserve the child, either.
“Hey.” I smile up at him, leaning my hip against the sink. God, he’s so tall. And broad. He’s a thousand-year oak. Someone with a body like this has no business owning a nerdy mug. “How are you?”
His head jerks down to look at me, and for a split moment his eyes look panicked. Trapped. It quickly melts into his usual non-expression, but not before his hand slips. Some coffee sloshes over the rim, and he almost gives himself third degree burns.
I’m a cave troll. I’m so unpleasant to be around, I make him clumsy. The sheer power I hold.
“Hi,” he says, drying himself with kitchen paper. No Fine. No And you? No Boy howdy, the weather’s humid today.
I sigh internally. “Any news about the equipment?”
“We’re working on it.”
It’s amazing how good he is at looking to me without actually looking at me. If it were an Olympic discipline, he’d have a gold medal and his picture on a Wheaties box.
“Why exactly is it not here yet? Any issues with the NIH funds?”
“Authorizations. But we’re—”
“Working on it, yes.” I’m still smiling. Murderously polite. The neuroscience on positive reinforcement is solid—it’s all about the dopamine. “Whose authorizations are we waiting for?”
His muscles, many and enormous, stiffen. “A couple.” His eyes fall on me and then on my thumb, which is twisting around my grandmother’s ring. They immediately bounce away.
“Who are we missing? Maybe I can talk to them. See if I can speed up things.”
“No.”
Right. Of course. “Can I see the blueprints for the prototype? Make a few notes?”
“They’re on the server. You have access.”
“Do I? I sent you an email about that, and about—”
A phone rings in his pocket. He checks the caller ID and answers with a soft “Hey” before I can continue. I hear a female voice on the other side. Levi doesn’t look at me as he mouths, “Excuse me,” and slips out of the kitchen. I’m left alone.
Alone with my stabbing dreams.
On the fifth day, my fantasies evolve yet again. I’m walking to my office, schlepping a refill bottle for the water cooler and half-heartedly considering using it to drown Levi (his hair seems long enough to hold on to while I push his head underwater, but I could also tie an anvil to his neck). Then I hear voices inside and stop to listen.
Okay, fine: to eavesdrop.
“—in Houston?” Rocío is asking.
“Five or six years,” a deep voice answers. Levi’s.
“And how many times have you seen La Llorona?”