Story code: ST-001054
Part 2: The Price of Access
Evan stood firmly between me and the exit of the garage lab, his posture defensive. He reached out, picked up the test vial I had just set down, and slipped it into the breast pocket of his lab coat.
“The data from that vial belongs to the project database,” Evan said, his tone shifting from self-sacrificing to proprietary. “And the database runs on my terms. If you want to pull your samples, you’ll have to forfeit the longitudinal tracking we’ve done over the last six months. It stays here.”
“That’s my personal screening data, Evan,” I said. “You told us this was a shared family resource.”
“It is a family resource, which means we all have to play by the rules,” he said. He tapped a finger against the pocket containing the vial. “If you walk out on your shifts, you’re compromising the integrity of the whole run. I can’t have someone using my equipment who isn’t fully committed to the collective goal.”
Aunt Marisol walked over, putting a hand on my arm. Her touch was gentle, but her grip was firm. “Nina, sweetheart, don’t be stubborn. Evan has spent years setting this up in the garage. Think of how much money we’ve saved because of his research. If he needs you here on Saturday, just do it. We all have to make concessions for the family.”
Beside the storage shelves, Derek Hall picked up another box of pipettes and set them on the bench, keeping his eyes fixed on the inventory sheet. “The Saturday run needs two people anyway,” Derek muttered. “Otherwise, the samples go cold.”
“See?” Evan said, leaning against the workbench. “Derek gets it. Even a non-family helper understands the stakes. I’ve carried this entire operation on my back. I’ve spent my weekends cleaning drains, calibration sensors, and running diagnostics while you all just reap the benefits. The very least you can do is show some respect by showing up.”
I looked at the vial hidden in his pocket, then at Aunt Marisol’s pleading expression. Every time I had thanked Evan in the past, he had logged it like a ledger entry. Now, he was using those past thanks as a license to dictate my weekends, my labor, and my access to my own biological data.
“If I do the Saturday shift,” I asked, “does that square us for the month?”
Evan pulled a tablet from the desk and tapped the screen. He didn’t look up as he spoke. “It covers this weekend. But I’ve already scheduled you for the Tuesday night inventory audit and the Friday delivery logs. I need you to sign the new usage agreement before you leave tonight, or I’ll have to lock your access code to the lab database.”
I stared at him, realizing that the boundary was already shifting before I could even agree to the first demand. If I signed, I would be signing away my right to say no to anything he claimed was a “sacrifice.”