“Definitely,” she said in what she hoped was a breezy tone, as sweat trickled from the nape of her neck down her back. Thankfully, she’d also heeded the article’s advice to take it up a notch, no matter the dress code and worn a suit jacket. Concealing nervous perspiration certainly fell into their rationale of the better you look, the better the first impression.
Maybe Jon had anticipated her nervousness and intentionally decided not to tell her she was the first director of medical monitoring and consulting. But there was nothing she hadn’t told him. Nothing they hadn’t shared with each other. She knew he was weirded out by mice and so always avoided Phase 1 trials. He knew she’d grown up with a succession of stepfathers, that she’d always been shy and bookish, and that she had a tendency to sweat when she felt intimidated, out of water, and faced with meeting new people—all of which were an unavoidable part of her career pivot.
Marco guided her around one of the many labs. After quickly listing mandatory OSHA regulations in a flight attendant monotone (avoid open-toed shoes, flip-flops, tennis shoes, or porous shoes) he spent more time discussing security protocols. No materials were to be removed from the lab without logging and approval (she was the one responsible for approval, which made her sweat a little harder); work performed in the lab was not to be discussed outside the secure, locked area, even with colleagues who were allowed inside the secure, locked area; and, surprisingly, employees were discouraged from naming their employer to anyone except immediate family.
“It’s like working for the CIA, except we don’t assassinate dictators,” Marco said, putting his hand on a sleek gray device. “And the machines we hook people up to save lives.”
“Is that a Revelate?” Jessica asked.
He nodded. “This is actually an older model. Jon is challenging the team to make each generation smaller.”
Roughly the size of a bread box, the plastic case was a pearlescent gray with soft-blue lights and cables leading to a monitor, a keyboard, and a flexible arm cuff.
“If it had a controller, I might think it was a gaming system,” Jessica said.
He laughed. “With a seven-digit retail price.”
She liked him, which helped her relax. A little.
Marco introduced her to a research coordinator named Janet and a lab tech named either Brennan or Brendan. Due to a fortuitously timed meeting, she managed to avoid being introduced to an onslaught of people she’d soon come to know well but whose names and titles she would surely jumble until she did.
“Don’t think you’re getting by without paperwork,” said Marco, finally taking her down to the second floor, which resembled a more conventional office suite. “We don’t have much of an HR department, but Olivia left you a checklist.”
En route, they passed by a glassed-in corner office with a name plaque reading JONATHAN WRIGHT III, MD, PHD but nothing to delineate his dual titles as president and CEO. She admired the modesty of this egalitarian approach.
“You already know our charismatic, largely absent but always fearless leader,” Marco said.
Jessica was glad she was following him and avoiding eye contact. “I’m so grateful to Dr. Wright for this amazing opportunity. Ever since I was a little girl, it’s been my dream to be part of the cure.”
She smiled weakly when he turned and raised an eyebrow, wishing she hadn’t gushed.
Jessica and Jon had agreed to maintain a professional, discreet distance at the office, not only to avoid any hint of favoritism but to keep their relationship utterly secret—at least until Jon had all the details of his divorce ironed out with the volatile “Annie Wilkes.” To that end, he had scheduled a quick business trip to the West Coast for her first day. Jessica knew it made sense for her to get settled on her own, but now that she was here, she wished he were, too.
As Marco led her toward a cluster of cubicles, she looked for her name on one of the gray panels. She almost walked past him when he stopped at a glass-walled office.
There it was: JESSICA MEYERS, MD.
The momentary charge she felt stepping into her own blessedly title-free office—complete with supplies, business cards, a computer troubleshooting guide from IT, security badge and key card, and even a box of Cancura-branded chocolates—was tempered by the single-spaced, bullet-pointed checklist lying on her keyboard.
Test system log-in
Review company policies on intranet dashboard
Choose health insurance and life insurance plans
Complete payroll, 401(k) enrollment, Federal and State W-4 forms
Confirm your Form I-9 has been processed
Fill out direct deposit, Equal Employment Opportunity, and Self-Identification forms
Read, sign, and date nondisclosure agreement and noncompete agreement
“Sorry Olivia isn’t here to walk you through this, but it should be mostly self-explanatory,” Marco said, checking his phone. “Whatever you do, don’t leave without signing the nondisclosure agreement. Jonathan’s been known to fire people who didn’t take care of that.”
Jessica stared at him. “You’re joking.”
“I am,” he said with a smile. “Probably. Good luck. I’m just at the end of the hall if you need anything.”
Thank god it was company policy for employees to wear visible name badges, even if they were first name only. At a cafeteria lunch surrounded by people Marco assured her were “mostly” from her department, the mental gymnastics of following the friendly but nonstop banter of her new colleagues threatened to make Jessica tumble to earth.
“The new-hire paperwork took me all morning,” she told the table during the first lull, hoping to steer the conversation toward something they could all relate to. Everyone hated paperwork, right?
“I came here from pharma, and believe me, this is nothing,” said a red-haired woman named Yulia. “The record was two days and four phone calls to HR. It took one guy a full week, so they fired him.”
“Well, that makes me feel better,” Jessica said, hoping she didn’t have a stem from her spinach-with-strawberry-and-goat-cheese salad in her teeth.
“Best way to avoid that problem is to cut out the middleman and eliminate
