Story code: ST-001054
Part 4: The Clear Boundary
“Go ahead,” I said.
Evan’s hand remained suspended above the keyboard. The hum of the lab’s ventilation fan seemed to grow louder in the sudden silence. He didn’t press the key.
“Did you hear me?” Evan said, his voice rising in pitch. “I will delete the entire directory. Six months of tracking. Gone.”
“I heard you,” I said. “And I’m telling you to do it.”
Aunt Marisol gasped, stepping between us. “Evan, no, don’t do that! Nina, please, just sign the paper. We need to know if the markers are stabilizing. You know what the doctor said about our family history.”
“If Evan actually cared about our family history, Aunt Marisol, he would want me to have my data whether I worked his Saturday shifts or not,” I said. I looked at Evan, who was still staring at the screen, his finger trembling slightly. “But he doesn’t care about that. He wants the leverage.”
The truth was entirely visible now. The test vial in his pocket wasn’t a gift of health; it was a leash. If he deleted the data, he lost his hold over me. If he kept it, he had to admit that he wanted me in this garage under his control, not because he was a martyr, but because he liked having the final say over my time.
“Delete it, Evan,” I said, taking a step toward him. “If my presence here is such a sacrifice for you, free yourself. Clear the drive.”
He didn’t move. He slowly let his hand drop from the keyboard. His shoulders slumped, and he looked away from the terminal. The silence in the room was heavy. Derek Hall turned his back to us, suddenly very interested in the calibration logs on his clipboard.
“I thought you wanted to help the family,” Evan muttered, his voice flat and defeated.
“I do,” I said. “But I don’t help people who use their help as a weapon.”
I walked up to him. I didn’t raise my hands, and I didn’t shout. I simply reached out and pulled the capped test vial out of his lab coat pocket. He didn’t try to stop me this time. His grip on the tablet was loose, his posture completely drained of the theatrical authority he had used just minutes before.
I turned toward the garage door. “I’m leaving,” I said.
“Nina,” Aunt Marisol called out, her voice pleading. “We have to finish the inventory.”
“Derek and Evan can finish it,” I said. I stopped at the threshold of the garage, looking back at my cousin. “I am locking my database account from my end tonight. Do not contact me about lab schedules, inventory, or testing. If you want to talk to me as my cousin, we can do that at Thanksgiving. But my time, my labor, and my data are mine. You don’t own them, and you never did.”
I stepped out of the garage. The cool air of the driveway was clean, a sharp contrast to the chemical smell of the incubators. I walked to my car, my keys heavy in my hand. I placed the test vial in the center console, started the engine, and backed out into the street.
Looking in the rearview mirror, I saw the warm light of the garage lab fading in the distance. The relief that settled over me was cold and hard-edged, but for the first time in six months, I was the one driving.