The rest of my day was sorta this contrived "is-that-paranoia-sweat-trickling-down-the-small-of-my-back-because-Carlton-Drake's-goons-are-watching-my-every-move-or-is-it-just-the-residual-condensation-of-a-morning-spent-in-the-'splash-zone'-with-Skuggar-for-an-exploitative-photo-op-that-wasn't-even-included-in-the-cost-of-the-tour" kind of blur. It wasn't all bad, though; Head Orca Trainer lady would've asked for my number — if she'd had anywhere in her wetsuit to stick it. And I did ride a dozen rides. But — that whale ice cream? — yeah, I was definitely gonna ask Drake for a reimbursement for that rip-off.

Tick tock, right at the stroke of six o'clock, I was there at the faux-vine-covered back gates of the Rehabilitation Center, gettin' just a little tingle outta very blatantly ignoring the urgent admonishments from the park-wide loudspeaker system: that Our Ocean Planet was NOW CLOSED and ALL VISITORS should be makin' their way to the PARK EXITS. OR ELSE… is what it felt like, anyway.

A heavy padlock coupled with a very thick chain began to clank-rankle from the obscured side of the gate. Here it was… All us bad little boys and girls were gonna find out exactly what the "OR ELSE" really was.

A pair of wide eyes peeked out at me through thickly magnified corrective lenses, spying out from the impertinent gap in the gate. (I guess that whole nerdy-scientist-look has gone so far outta fashion and stereotype that they were reclaiming it now with a sense of intention and empowerment — 'cause those were definitely some kinda custom Louis Vuitton coke-bottle glasses.) "Hello." She said quietly, succinctly, untrusting.

"Yeah. Hi." I shrugged as she blinked at me. "Uh… Can Carlton come out to play, or…?"

She pursed her lips at that, then shoved the gate open just enough to admit me through. "Mr. Drake said to expect your… irreverence." She waved me in impatiently — or was it fearfully…?

"Well, gotta stay on-brand these days, Miss…" I glanced at her lapel. "Sorry — Doctor —Skirth." Boy, could that Doc slam a gate closed, and make a guy feel that chain tightening around his neck with just a look.

She took off at a strained, clipped gait; but it was entirely my responsibility to keep up with her — that was in no way under negotiation. She didn't look back once.

She only paused, and only for a moment, when we reached the actual doors of the central Rehabilitation facility. Some inner turmoil, that she quickly shoved aside as she slotted her key harshly in the lock. I could hear the not-so-distant splashing of the unknown creatures being housed in the Rehab Center's outdoor tank farm. But the chills that went up my pre-moistened spine could only have been from the rush of climate-controlled conditioned air that sucked us into the building from out of the humid evening that was developing.

"Welcome, Mr. Brock," Doctor Dora Skirth said now with an unusual hospitality, which had clearly been rehearsed and recited to tour groups a hundred times or more. "I'm sure that Mr. Drake will join us shortly."

I nodded politely, took notes politely, felt impatient politely, while she showed me the indoor facilities, the care regimen and schedules for the recovering animals, and the standards for assessment of the whales and dolphins and all the other wet things on display in the park.

She steered me up to the mezzanine floor, as though I wouldn't notice the clearly marked corridor to the clean laboratory still below us, and ushered me to the outer balconies and steel mesh walkways that linked to the top edges of the outdoor tanks. Something fishy was going on — and it wasn't just the return to the pungently close aquatic atmosphere outside.

"So, what was it that killed Brandari?" I asked as we wended around and around tank after tank of poorly porpoises, sick seals, turgid turtles, woebegone whales, et cetera. "What did you find in the autopsy, Doctor?"

You know, there's a time and a place for subtleties — but I've never found it.

Her footing stuttered, but Skirth didn't; she was smart enough to stop herself saying 'What autopsy?' — but she still had an ounce of panic in her glance, even as she simply stated, "We aren't done with the post-mortem examination."'

Sounded like a line. I tried a hook to sink her, "You know, some advance details might be very helpful to the public, for them to understand that—"

"The intestines of an orca, unraveled, Mr. Brock, would stretch half the length of a football field — or the entire height of Niagara Falls." She looked at me expectantly.

"Oh. Well, you know — you can call me 'Eddie'." I itched my nose and sniffed. "So, are we talking 'American football' — or 'soccer'?"

Skirth drew in an exceptional breath and let it out in a growl of a sigh. "I'm on my third full day of an investigation of the alimentary canal in and of itself." She explained, in a way to suggest that she was fully done with my shit.

I stopped to lean against the closest tank. "You drew the short straw, huh?"

"It's my job." She answered with a proud defiance. "Not as glamorous as it seems on TV."

Ooh, doctor. I think that incision was aimed at me.

I dipped my fingers in the water behind me, and soon felt an unusual surge in the surface tension. I glanced down. "What's wrong with this one?"

But it was a voice from the depths, which answered me:

"The POOL Foundation discovered that individual off of the Carolina coast, where it was expressing erratic behavior." Carlton Drake announced, appearing below us. The ground-floor outside access door to the Rehab laboratory was still swinging shut in his wake.

" 'Erratic'?" I clicked the ballpoint pen in my pocket a couple times, for good measure.

"Aggressive." Doctor Skirth expounded quietly, with a quick wary glance down at Drake.

Drake stared, unblinking, up at me. "Even when it arrived here, it was determined to… get to the other whales."

I shook my head. "Like, to be with his friends…?"

"No." Drake assured me. I pulled my hand out and flicked the brine off my fingers, as a shadow rose from deep in the tank.

Drake's cell phone went off; he didn't hesitate even a microsecond before answering it. "What similarities with the specimen?" He sneered at the caller, then he jerked his head once to summon Skirth down to his level.

"Don't go anywhere," she warned as she took her leave, "And don't touch anything."

I put my hands up in the universal display of innocence — then winked just as she turned, one of the universal signals for mischief-making. ('Cause sometimes it just ain't practical to cross your fingers behind your back.) Just a little something to keep Miss Doctor Dora on her toes. There wasn't really much to get into, trouble-wise, short of a long walk off a steel suspension track.

Or so I thought.

The sudden expulsion of stale air from an orcastral blowhole behind me drew my attention.

"Yeah, 'hello' to you, too." I looked at the temporary tank placard. Some intern had decided to name it "Týndur" to fit in with the rest of O.O.P.'s Icelandic naming scheme. It apparently meant "lost" or "missing". Yeah, right.

"Either way," I admitted to the curious creature as it watched me back, "I ain't gonna swipe right." I shook my head.

And then it parroted the movement.

I thought back to the half-dozen hand signals the Head Orca Trainer lady had taught us on our 'Ultimate Orca Experience' tour. I glanced around to make sure no one was watching, then tried them out, explaining what they were supposed to mean. Týndur just stared at me like the idiot that I was.

I shrugged and leant down on the edge of the tank. I figured he'd leave to go check out a more-interesting corner of his round tank — but he stayed.

"Just lonely, huh, buddy."

And I coulda sworn that orca started to nod its massive head.

"Either that's a coincidence — or you're a very quick learner." I stuck my fingertips in the water and made a small splash. "Hey. You wanna come here?"

I know the Internet says I'm some kinda 'legit snack' and all, but the evidence was clear in the speed that Týndur came for my shrimp-sized fish fingers. I jumped back a foot to avoid the small wave of tidal momentum.

I waited. He waited.

I cracked first.

He just sat there by the edge of the tank. Still no sign of Drake or Dora returning… So I broke the second rule of Skirth Club. I reached my hand out and swiped my fingers right along Týndur's back.

It was smooth and rubbery — until it wasn't. The black skin started to lift up, sticking to my fingers like tar.

"I don't think… is this normal?" I asked no one, as I pulled my hand away — and the wet, velvety tar pulled back.

I scrambled for my phone in my pocket with my free hand — my left hand — all the while I could only watch as an inky black tendril wormed its way up from the orca's skin and then wrapped itself tightly around my right wrist, like it just belonged with the bracelets there.

"Oh, fuck, they weren't joking about you being messed up…" I whined as the grip tightened on one hand and, on the other, I scrolled frantically through my phone apps. "What do I — What do I google? — 'Whale cancer'? 'Is it contagious'?" I sank down onto one knee, and stared at the orca through the thick aquarium glass, helpless, "Are you sick — are you — you're gonna get me sick…"

Týndur's beady eye went milky white, and my eyes closed reflexively, too much adrenaline pumping through my system, "Oh god… 'm gonna blow chunks… you sick, blubbery…"

NOT SICK.

My eyes snapped back open as I gulped in breaths of air. "What?"

NOT SICK.

I looked around in every direction; couldn't see anyone. "H-hello?" I called out desperately, "Someone talking to me? Please… please be…"

Týndur slapped his tail on the water's surface.

It took me a long time to blink. "…You?"

The orca's head bobbed up and down. And then the tar slipped gently away from my wrist and my fingertips, and I fell on my ass, clutching my freed hand.

"…So, I'm talking to a whale… Or… or, no… A whale is talking to me…" Which is a very, very important distinction to make when you explain the situation to your psychotherapist.

NOT A WHALE.

I coughed. "Oh, sorry, an orca."

NOT AN ORCA.

"Oh, no?" I pushed myself back up to my feet and loomed over the edge of the tank. "Hey, when it looks like one, smells like one…"

HOST IS AN ORCA.

"Your… host?" I wrung my fingers around the tendril mark on my wrist. A 'host' was a very specific concept for an abstract voice in my head to be making. "So if Týndur here is a real orca boy… Then what are you?"

WE ARE VENOM.

Carlton Drake burst through the door to the upper walkways then and I spun on my heel to face him.

"You don't have much time." He pronounced.

Ah fuck, I was right — I was gonna die of whale cancer — sentient whale cancer — and I'd never even asked Annie to —

Drake tapped his foot. "Do you have questions for me, Mr. Brock?"

Oh. Right.

"Oh, right," I said, with absolutely no chill. "Do — can — can you tell me, uh, tell me more about this one? Tell me about… uh, Týndur?"

WE ARE M.

Drake stared at me.

I swallowed. "Did you… did you, uh, hear that?"

"I'm not an idiot, Mr. Brock." Drake seethed, "I know I don't look like you — but yes, I heard you, and yes, I understand English perfectly well — even such as yours."

"Oh, shit. No, I didn't — I didn't mean — I'm not, like—"

"Sure you're not." Drake smiled coolly — but ain't no smize reached those eyes. "I'm sure I told you enough about that specimen already."

"Well, I… I wanna, uh, do a profile on him." I nodded confidently — confidently bullshitting. "On the rehab process."

"What's your angle with that…" He eyed me over, playing the chess game permutations in his head.

"I think it could put a positive spotlight on all the other work that your organization does. It gives a context for the death…" I shrugged, "You know — 'that's just the nature of things' — sometimes animals die; sometimes they live."

Drake pulled the door open. Showing me out. His eyes tracked down for an instant. Skirth and a security guard were waiting at the entrance.

"No one can guarantee its success," he conceded, "Either in release back to the wild — or even just survival in captivity. If it dies — you'll have no story." That last bit was a warning; a non-negotiable cease and desist.

"I'll take that chance." I met Drake's dark gaze. "Let's just say, I've got this feeling…"

He scoffed at that. I brushed past him, and started my descent towards the Law and Order at the door, trying to act all casual — the same way you do when you're in high school and you're heading downstairs after 'studying' with your 'friend' and you see their parents. Just make small talk, like nothing happened… nothing at all. (I mean, sometimes nothing did.)

I cleared my throat. "So, you could keep him — train him? Týndur, I mean. Hypothetically."

"Only if it showed promise…" Drake's voice was a hiss making the hair on my neck stand on end, "And we were unable to achieve release."

Oop. That was a snicker — slipped right out. You know, a boy can graduate — a couple of times — but does he ever really grow up?

Drake noticed the smirking curl of my lip as we reached the ground. He almost-growled a clarification, "A release into the wild." But he glared at Skirth as he said it — as though the whole thing was somehow her fault.

"Well that sounds like my cue to leave," I offered. I didn't want her to get hurt.

"You can come back tomorrow." Drake stated, eyes still on the Doc. "For your research."

"Oh… you know what, I'd love to — but I blew the last of my pocket money on some sorry excuse for an ice cream that looked like what Doctor Skirth's been pulling outta that whale colon all day…"

Dora's eyes glittered with a slowly acquiescing mirth. "…And I'm sure it tasted only marginally better," she said stoically, at the same time that Carlton Drake coughed, "Get out, Mr. Brock."

He stared at Skirth with something that resembled shock, then fluidly snatched one of her business cards out of her breast pocket and pressed it on me. "Get out," he reiterated.

So, I got.

I got back to my hotel, trying to figure out where to even begin.

There were definitely more than two sides to this story… Probably in dimensions I couldn't begin to imagine. This was more than whales or CEOs (with whale-sized egos), more than science versus avarice, more than protests and animal rights. Much, much more.

I'd told Drake I was gonna do a profile on Týndur's recovery. But that wasn't the real story.

It wasn't the story.

…He wasn't.

They…?

Venom.

The real story here was that I had no idea what the fuck that meant.

But I couldn't stop thinking about it.

I tried.

But I could still feel — actually feel — that black tar tendril around me.

I sent Annie a text that I was alive and… well (enough). Routine. Our routine.

Routines are great — to shut out, shut down, things — thoughts — that… s-shouldn't be. Don't belong. Harm. Cause harm. 'Cause even thoughts, thinking, can cause harm… Sometimes they cause the most.

But I couldn't stop it. Them. Couldn't. No… release.

So I typed: "OOPs I Did It Again"

Then I gave up and slammed my face into an over-stuffed pillow. Watched outta one eye, the cursor blinking over and over again, there across the room.