“I hope you can see, Mr. Jenkins, that we are very sympathetic to your situation. I can only imagine how difficult it must be to face the world from your current perspective. But, as much as it pains me, we have to be fair.”

Emerson Jenkins did as he was requested: he tried to see. He took a moment to squint at a point somewhere above and to the right of Dr. Frouster in an attempt to sharpen the gaze of his mind’s eye.

“I appreciate your sympathy,” said Emerson stolidly, shifting his eyes back to Dr. Frouster’s face. “But I’m not sure I understand—is there a problem with my MCAT? I was under the impression that the school average was between 30 and 31.”

Dr. Frouster cringed.

“I can promise you that we consider your scores to be quite impressive. Honestly, I can tell you that I have personally interviewed very few applicants with an MCAT score as high as 37 this year. Not to mention, a GPA of 3.8 is quite formidable, especially considering your diverse, and—well—thorough courseload.”

Emerson’s eyes turned downward for but a moment before he set his jaw and forced himself to meet Dr. Frouster’s gaze once again.

“There is, however, no formula for acceptance to the Indiana University School of Medicine,” continued Dr. Frouster. “I am deeply sorry, Mr. Jenkins, but we have always stood behind our statement that there is no set of numbers which guarantees admittance. Scores tell an important part of an applicant’s story, but there is always more to it. We pride ourselves on carefully considering the entire story.

“Yes—I understand that,” replied Emerson. “I think that is great; I’ve often thought there is much more to being a doctor than multiple choice intelligence. Several people that I’ve met along the way have been focused on the scholastic side of things, but I really tried to be different. I guess I don’t understand what you are looking for with the ‘whole story.’ I have travelled to Nicaragua as a member of a mission-oriented team each of the last three summers. I’ve done undergraduate research in biomedical science for almost ten hours per week. I don’t know what else you want; I’ve done everything I can. I tutored middle school children in math and science.”

Dr. Frouster sighed slowly, moving his eyes to the floor. Emerson analyzed the pain on the man’s face and found it to be genuine. Emerson had grown accustomed to feigned empathy in the past few years, and he could tell that this was not it.

“Mr. Jenkins—Emerson… I won’t pretend that your case did not receive special consideration. You are not the kind of candidate we normally reject. Your case is, certainly, atypical. You have demonstrated uncommon scholastic aptitude, but that is merely an adjunct to your oft-evidenced attitude of relentless self-improvement and service to others.”

Dr. James Frouster had been the Associate Dean of Admissions at the Indiana University School of Medicine for fourteen years, but he could scarcely remember so complicated a case as that of Emerson Jenkins. He carefully removed his spectacles before continuing.

“To be sure, we even considered the inspiration that you would probably elicit in your fellow medical classmates during your time here. Yet, when all things are considered, we cannot minimize our responsibility to the Indiana state healthcare system. I recognize that this must appear largely unjust to you, but perhaps you could try to see it from a societal perspective.”

Emerson took in a deep breath through his mouth and held it for a moment before allowing it to gradually escape through his nostrils. He had to select his words carefully. This meeting represented weeks of phone calls and emails through which he had finally negotiated his way to a chance to present his case, or at least obtain an explanation. More than that, it essentially represented the entirety of his life’s efforts thus far.

“How can one thing be both fair and unfair at the same time?” he asked.

“Don’t you already know the answer to that?” replied Dr. Frouster. As he said it, the muscles around his eyes tightened almost imperceptibly.

“Normally I’d say ‘Of course, everyone knows that,’” said Emerson. “But I have been thinking recently, and now I am not sure if anyone does. If anyone can. I guess I’d just like to hear it from you.”

“Alright,” said Dr. Frouster, nodding. “I suppose it is really merely a matter of subjectivity. From your point-of-view, you are being treated unfairly, but the societal point-of-view suggests that justice is in fact being preserved. In truth, it actually isn’t a case of both at once. There is no contradiction. The societal view is the only reality. You’re human, Mr. Jenkins; you can’t help but insert yourself at the center of your world. That remains, however, quite subjective. Often, an individual’s right to fairness must be sacrificed for the sake of the public good. You did not choose to enter into your current situation, but we can’t ignore it when it is our obligation to supply the state of Indiana with a good majority of its physicians.”

“You are telling me,” responded Emerson promptly, as if he had been expecting this statement, “that I do not have a right to a medical education, despite adequate qualifications, because I won’t last long enough to justify the years spent training me?”

“If you are able to discuss it in such terms, then I would have to say yes.”

“I’m a poor investment.”

“It’s not your fault.”

A pause ensued; each of their faces showed the shadow of smirk. Not the forced smiles of awkward interactions, but the subtle enjoyment of mutual respect.

“I’m a person,” said Emerson. “Society is nothing but a collection of persons. How can a society benefit when its fundamental unit loses? If the attitude that has been taken towards me were expanded, everyone would suffer unjustly. Don’t we have to allow each person to pursue his or her own happiness?”

“Unfortunately, not all fundamental units can be treated the same—or, I guess, to say it crudely, not all units can be classified as ‘fundamental.’ When a person’s pursuit of happiness is prohibitory of the well-being of the populace at large, that person’s freedom to pursue his or her own happiness becomes a casualty.

“I am sorry, Emerson, but we do not regret our decision. Your dream is incompatible with our mission. Since we have a limited number of spaces in a given year’s medical class, we can only admit those candidates whom—in our reasonable opinion—are capable of a proficient, long-term career as a healthcare provider.”

“Of course,” said Emerson. “That’s why I picked medicine in the first place. It’s about the patients, always.”

The room remained technically silent for half a minute, but Dr. Frouster could almost hear the shuffling of thoughts behind the young man’s focused eyes. He let him think.

“Life isn’t fair,” said Emerson, eventually. “Everyone has always known that, but I feel it is heroically human to rebel against it. The advancement of medicine, it seems to me, is the greatest example of mankind’s refusal to accept that old, tired, hope-destroying statement.”

“Well put. I think any physician would be proud to say that he or she fights for fairness.”

“Yes—I guess that my frustration lies in the fact that I seem to have discovered that the fight is fought not only by increasing the quantity of fairness in the world, but also by removing from the equation those who have the undesirable distinction of skewing it in the direction of unfairness.”

Dr. Frouster looked at Emerson evenly, seemingly unaffected by the accusation.

“We certainly understand your frustration, Mr. Jenkins, but as you clearly comprehend, the truth can be cruel. Life still isn’t fair. You will not be able to learn the art and science of medicine from this institution, and it is unlikely that another university will feel differently. However, we have arranged interviews with several of our research faculty should you decide to pursue a future in basic science research. You have obviously demonstrated the academic prowess, and several prominent members of the faculty have agreed to wave the traditional requirement that you take the GRE. You could begin graduate coursework next fall and start in the laboratory whenever you are comfortable. You can still be an essential part of the healing process. Biomedical science is the foundation of healthcare; clinical medicine is merely a conduit to get the research findings to the patients.”

“I am familiar with the workings of the system,” said Emerson formally. “I will not take any more of your time. I sincerely appreciate your efforts and your honesty.”

With those words, he promptly stood, shook hands, and left the office.

The two-hour drive back home provided no surprises. The musicians on the radio sang of romance lost and nightclubs conquered while NPR spoke soothingly of hometown heroes and international policy. Emerson had traveled this route from the IU medical campus in downtown Indianapolis northward to the house of his childhood home in the tiny town of Mace numerous times since the diagnosis.

The rural highways had naturally been the setting for many hours of introspection; many of the Hoosieresque landmarks along the way held significance for him. A red barn along US Route 31 brought to mind the moment he realized he would never have to endure a daughter’s endless dance recital, the intersection with the Speedway gas station and Cracker Barrel restaurant prompted memories of his father’s similar struggles. He did not reflect too intensely on the current day’s events—he had not been surprised. The prearranged interviews were unexpected, but he had already extensively analyzed the option of graduate school. An institution could afford to let him pursue a doctorate in science since the research requirements would benefit it during his training.

Emerson arrived at his mother’s home without a plan. The meeting at Indiana University had been his only remaining option, albeit a far-fetched one. The rejections had piled up quickly after he had originally heard from IU, which had been the first school to respond. The other schools, however, had been exceedingly vague in their responses. Dr. Frouster had at least admitted that Emerson represented a very peculiar case. The letters from the other med schools treated him like any other candidate. Much of the frustration arose from the fact that he had done everything right, applying early and often to a wide range of schools—yet he had been admitted to none. Allopathic and osteopathic, prestigious and otherwise, each school had promptly denied his admittance.

Fortunately for Emerson, however, someone did have a plan. After the uneventful drive, he pulled to a stop behind an unfamiliar car in his driveway. He didn’t have the automotive wherewithal to recognize it as an Aston Martin, but he did realize that it was impressive without being flashy. It was sophisticated and old-fashioned, probably British.

Upon opening the door, he found his mother in the living room, seated across from a most remarkable stranger. They both stood as he entered. Despite his need for a mother’s comfort, his eyes were first drawn to the loudly dressed man who undoubtedly arrived in the luxurious car outside. His shirt was orange—more citrus than wildflower—and he had very dark, well-groomed hair that reached to his shoulders.

“Emerson, I’m so sorry to hear about IU,” said his mother as she rushed over to offer a condolence-laden hug, “but there’s someone here that wants to meet you. I’m sorry to spring it on you, but he insisted that it be a surprise.”

“Mr. Jenkins, I am most enthused to make your acquaintance. My name is Amos Culliford.” He put particular emphasis on the word name as he said this, and afterwards left a brief pause in the air as if to allow the gravity of his short speech to permeate his listeners.

Emerson looked over the guest with reservation. He had not expected to have to maintain his strictest social graces once he had returned home. The string of rejections had had the cumulative effect of dulling his inhibitions, given that they had failed to produce any success when they were fully operational.

“What’s this about?”

“Ah, it pained me to hear of your latest tribulation. Your mother informed of me of the false hope administered by the state university by granting a special palaver.”

Emerson shot him a quizzical glance.

“I only use such a word because I have such confidence that you know what it means. You do, yes?”

“Sure, it means a chat.”

“Indeed. Emerson, from what I have seen, you seem to be one who grasps the richness of our world, be it in relation to language, or science, or art, or what have you. I must say that I do not know why these medical institutions have prohibited your matriculation, but I am not upset that they have done so. It is quite advantageous for myself, for it frees you to consider my offer more thoroughly. I represent a different type of institution than those with which you are familiar. The focus of our aims are still biological, of course, but we approach these aims in a manner quite distinct.”

While Culliford spoke, Emerson took a seat on the couch opposite the chairs occupied by Culliford and his mother. His mother listened in, watching Emerson somewhat nervously. He gathered from her posture that Culliford had already told her what he had to say, and that she had thought it worthwhile. This silent observation held considerable weight. Emerson was certainly not a mother’s boy of the traditional sort, but he nonetheless respected her opinion highly. She had always been highly intelligent, more so than most of her acquaintances realized. What’s more, the intense anguish brought on by her husband’s passing had not been able to shake her deep-seated personal calm. She was not easily swayed by shiny new ideas or lofty promises. Even so, he wanted to hear for himself what was being offered by this strange man, who now sat back in the chair with his right foot on his left knee, his elbow resting lightly on the arm of the chair.

“Is this about research?” Emerson asked. “I’ve had plenty of offers for research.”

“As well you should have, with your excellent resume. And yes, this is about research, but not in the form with which you are accustomed. I offer individuality, true exploration. I ask you, why is it that you desire so strongly to be a physician?”

“Honestly, I’ve answered this question a hundred times, and something different usually comes out each time. It’s hard to really explain my true motivation… I’d probably say that it’s because I get to help people. And when I say ‘I,’ it’s truly me. It’s my personality, my knowledge, my kindness. I know that I’d be equipped for it by a medical school training hundreds of others and only offering the cures that other people invented, but there is something exciting about being the one who puts it together and delivers the final product. It sounds pretty self-centered when I hear it out loud.”

“I don’t think so,” said Culliford with a subtle grin as he brought a glass to his lips that contained, as Emerson suddenly noted, a few ounces of amber liquid surrounding a few ice cubes. Emerson glanced briefly at his mother with a look of amused surprise, and she only shrugged. “Emerson, if I so may call you,” continued Culliford, “your explanation is uniquely perfect. Yes, you would be helping others, but you would be doing so for yourself. You have the opportunity to provide something from yourself, and there is an inherent reward in that. Emerson, I know that you would prefer to be a doctor, but allow me to offer you a strong second option, one where you will be able to make discoveries that will never occur if you do not come, a chance for you to truly create, to express your talents and visions. I tell you, this is the spirit of the Quedah Institute. I founded it that on the hope that it might facilitate the development of scientists of your ilk.”

“What do you know of my ilk?” Emerson asked. He was unable to prevent himself from absorbing a touch of the enthusiasm. “I mean, do you have any information on my grades or scores or things like that?”

“That I do, but I know it to be only the beginning of your narrative. While my institution is unlike the others, it does not preclude me from speaking to leaders of them; indeed, I did my due diligence. They told me nothing so specific as to be outside the bounds of legality, but I was able to gather enough praise and anecdotes to be convinced.”

“Alright,” said Emerson, “so I’ve been picked. Why should I pick you?”

“The correct question indeed! Why us—the Quedah? Allow me to be solicitous for but a moment. Our institute does not allow itself to be burdened by the outdated traditions of mainstream academia. You would not have to wait for the beginning of the fall semester to join us; you would not have to wait at all! You will have the opportunity, should you choose it, to begin at once, diving into any biological topic you choose with the full support of the rest of the research staff at your disposal, including myself. And I would be remiss if I did not mention our tangibles, about which I am sure you both have been curious. Compensation of graduate researches is unrivaled at the Quedah when compared to other research institutions, and our benefits are most ample. This, I know you will appreciate given the tragic circumstances which have befallen you—and remember, my dear Emerson, we will never hold against you what you did not choose, that terrible curse that chose you and your father.

And, of course, we take pride in the fact that our researchers never feel stifled by a lack technological means, as we maintain a continual search for the latest instruments useful in cell and molecular biology, microscopy, and radiobiology.”

***

Upon his arrival at the institute, Emerson at once began to feel that the mysterious private organization which was pursuing him was more than an obscure second-class research facility. It had the air of a paradisiacal compound, with not only academic facilities but also areas that possessed a luxuriously residential quality. They reached what appeared to be the main administrative office rather quickly; while the Quedah Institution was not expansive, the architecture had a sharp and vibrant feel. Cool blue glass and dull steel blurred the line between gawdiness and simplicity. It seemed that the sun must always shine a little brighter here than in the rest of Virginia as it glinted off the corners of the buildings. Emerson was only semi-surprised to see the garishly dressed man with long, straight, black hair already standing in wait for him as he stepped out of the limousine.

Amos Culliford’s hands rested on his hips in the same manner as his prominent cheek bones seemed to rest upon the sides of wide, confident grin. A silken shirt, red as fresh blood, flapped around his torso in a gentle breeze.

“Emerson! Welcome to the Quedah. I implore you once again—please do not regard this as our interview of you. You are our guest; we are selling our institution to you. Have your travels tired you?”

“No, I’m feeling ok. I slept on the way. This place seems remarkable!”

“Excellent! And thank you! Ah, now won’t you join me for some espresso on the northern wing? Don’t worry, Luigi will attend to your things.”

Before long, Emerson stood upon a large balcony, the Northern Wing, which extended over the Atlantic Ocean. To reach the balcony, they traveled through one of several research buildings on the campus of the Quedah. Emerson understood just enough about modern molecular biology to know that the laboratory was quite advanced technologically. He was slightly winded from the walk, he had gotten the sense that Culliford usually walked fast wherever he went. The coffee in his hand was pungent despite the breeze.

“I’ll not lie to you Emerson, this institution is unlike any you may be familiar with, as I am certain you’ve realized. We spend little time writing and polishing grants for the NIH the way most other scientists do. I don’t need to, on account of my good fortune. We pursue interests of our own design—whatever we desire to know more about. We—I—are unusual. What do you wish to know about us? Pose me a question.”

“Alright,” said Emerson, pausing for a moment. “On the website for the Quedah institution, the first word you choose for describing yourself is ‘ethicist.’ Why not scientist? Why not professor? Why not espresso enthusiast?”

“Ah! An excellent inquiry. Forgive me for answering your question with a question, which I will do now: what do you think of when you hear the word ‘ethics?’”

“I guess I would say that ethics is the difference between right and wrong. But it seems like any conversation about ethics is one where everyone is right or wrong at once. Like the kinds of things everybody fights about these days, all the hot-button topics.”

“Such as?”

“Political issues, like abortion and gun ownership, or what kind of healthcare system we have.”

“Healthcare—the role of the state in the prolongation of life! An impeccable example of how the field of ethics is portrayed in everyday society. Look at the essence of this issue on healthcare—Debates over what sorts of tax breaks people should receive for the insurance plans they choose and what percentage of the cost of prescribed cannabis should be covered by the government. Do you see how the question is neutered, Emerson, by examining it in the light of policy? Ethics, for me, is the very bottom line, below all other lines. As I see it, an expert in ethics is an expert in the nature of reality.”

“That sounds a little more exciting,” replied Emerson. “As it is, I’ve never really paid much attention to politics.”

“The question of abortion, however, is a curious one,” Culliford continued, seemingly undeterred. “It does pertain to a bottom line. Are we to decide whether other people can decide to kill that which may or may not yet be alive?”

“It’s tough to say.”

“It is.”

“I feel like it should be up to them.”

“Your feeling comes from a good place, but I posit that your thinking may have a critical error. You should certainly have the power to decide, but you are not an average person. You do not represent the populace. Humans are not equal, Emerson, in terms of their capacity for greatness. It is an unpopular idea, but I think it is impossible to deny.”

Emerson eyed him. He wasn’t sure he could disagree.

“I must allow myself to be arrogant for but a moment when I tell you that I consider myself to be somewhat like you—a person of the mind, one who can perhaps think a bit more purely than most. Thus it is my duty as a quality organism to make more of me, to propagate my genes by reproducing as often as possible. Whenever I find a suitable and—of course—willing mate, I impregnate her so that we might offer a meager boost to the gene pool. Currently, five women from around the globe are swollen with my future offspring.”

Emerson could not suppress his guffaw at this latest assertion. Culliford noticed and appreciated his alarm.

“My boy, hold back no comments—Ask me anything you wish.”

“Are you trying to be offensive? Or just outlandish?”

“Neither, I try to be nothing but right. It is not the job of any man to provoke for the sake of provocation, but it is equally unfitting to avoid controversy merely to prevent the ruffling of feathers. The propagation of optimal genes is ethically sound, and, thus, I will not abstain from it simply because the flawed logic of the lessers deems it to be an unscrupulous practice.”

“It sounds like a publicity stunt.”

“And do you see the public around you? The cameras, the advertisements, the uproar? No, it is largely my goal to dodge the public’s eye.”

“Probably a good idea—you’d get crushed.”

“So I would—their judgment is quick and final, without consideration for the unconventional.”

“Isn’t it selfish—more babies born for the sake of—I’m not sure what—while the population is already exploding? It seems like an unnecessary strain on the resources.”

“And you’re right, Emerson, the world has not the resources. But I do. It is in fact unforgivably selfish to demand the world save your spawn that you bore without the means. The women who will bear my children receive the finest healthcare treatment available, and the children will be quite blessed.”

Emerson then noticed the approach of a young woman, no older than twenty-five. Her hair was dark and smooth, pulled back tight but for a few strands that slashed across her face to rest lightly on her strong right cheekbone. Her lips were pursed but smiling, and she wore a longsleeve shirt made for exercise that emphasized her toned torso. Her skin had color, as much red as tan. The effect was confidence, both fierce and playful.

“Elaine!” exclaimed Culliford as he turned towards the woman. “Excellent timing. It is time you meet the highly anticipated Emerson. He has turned out to be more engaging than I could have guessed.”

Emerson self-consciously shook her hand, paying attention to the tightness of his grip and the speed of his shake.

“Elaine is one of my graduate students; she does marvelous work. Her project has my approval and signature, of course, but a personality that is distinctly hers. This is the case for all students at the Quedah, including you if you are successfully wooed. We have reached the time when Elaine will show you the proverbial ‘ins and outs’ of the institution, as I myself must attend to some of my more boring duties as administrator.”

They traveled the grounds of the compound as Elaine shared insights of her personal experience at the Quedah. While the buildings and rooms did not feel overly compact, Emerson sensed the facility must be incredibly dense. The functional layout seemed not to diminish the beauty of the place—it was an impressive blend of aesthetics and utility. Laboratories melded seamlessly with foyers of leather chairs and abstract art while luscious gardens served as walkways between administrative office buildings.

He had had enough exposure to horticulture in his life to feel confident in his assumption that the gardens were expertly managed. His mother’s interest in plants had never quite erupted into passion, but it provided him with an above-average knowledge that amply complemented the scientific understanding he had obtained in botany class as an undergrad. He could tell that the hedges were meticulously trimmed at regular intervals and that considerable thought had gone into coordinating the color schemes of every flowerbed along the sidewalks. One type of flower in particular continued to catch his eye: it bore three magnificent pink and white blossoms atop a long, slender stem. It was remarkable, and its beauty was enhanced rather than drown out by the glorious setting of the garden, like the star of an opera whose talent was elevated by the presence of a skillful chorus.

They chatted as they walked, and Emerson gathered that Elaine was a champion of small-talk. She spoke of the history of the institution in terms of when this building was constructed and what that one used to be. She asked him specific questions about where he was from. She was bright and eloquent, yet businesslike, able to talk continuously while really saying next to nothing. Eventually, Emerson forced himself to break the comfortable chasm of niceties.

“Why are you here?” he asked, stopping abruptly. She turned back and stared into his eyes questioningly. “I mean, did you apply to this institution? Did you always see yourself doing your research at a place… like this?”

“Like what? A place that isn’t even a university? An unknown operation headed by a man described in polite terms as eccentric?” Her smile indicated that she had in fact addressed this inquiry before, but that she didn’t mind doing so again. “To answer the question you’re not asking, I always expected to be at a major university. In particular, I thought SUNY sounded nice. I knew I wanted to do research. At least, that was what I knew I was supposed to want, if that makes sense. But I really didn’t care what my project was; it was just a means to an end. That was before Amos called. As we spoke, I realized that he has a very different take on research. Honestly, it’s a different take on science. There is much more ‘why’ to the way he does things. When we begin a project, he makes us go through all of the implications it will have to the world. It can be really frustrating; he is always asking us what the ‘point’ of our experiment is. I mean, it’s annoying, but in the end I am really glad that he does it. Now I can honestly say that I am working on things that I believe in.

“It’s like Amos says, ‘Every researcher knows his science, but few ever attempt to understand it.’ Before him, I never thought it absurd to spend the best years of my life proving ideas that were irrelevant to me. Well, not so much irrelevant—I guess ‘insignificant’ might be a better word for it.”

Emerson nodded politely, trying to see it from her perspective. He found himself averse to the research world, but not because it was of no significance to him; rather, he had attempted to turn his back on it because it had found him to be significant. He had already had too much of it. From the moment of his father’s diagnosis, the questions began. And soon after, so did the tests: on his blood, on his mind, on his cerebrospinal fluid—there seemed to be no end to what they wanted from him. It was all under the guise of helping him, that they wanted to fight his disease, but all that talk felt a bit hollow, and not just because he knew that the chances of a cure during his lifetime was infinitesimal. Though he knew he was being unfair, he could not help but feel that the researchers who spoke with him, be they MD’s or PhD’s, were really just looking for some new data that could be typed up in a scientific paper. While the vessel was his disease, the destination was publication in a scholarly journal, a research thesis, or a fresh grant from the NIH. What they really wanted was self-propagation.

Strangely enough, this did not even bother him—he did not blame them for seeking their own interests. The crux of what gnawed at him about the whole system was that they didn’t know they were serving their own interests. Then again, they didn’t think they weren’t either. They didn’t care—they just continued as they always had, never bothering to consider whose interests they were serving. If they were asked for whose interest they so diligently worked, they would undoubtedly say something like “Why, the public’s of course!” but even then they would not mindfully address the question.

Emerson looked up suddenly, his brow still furrowed from the episode of thinking. He realized that he had been lost in thought for some moments, and he saw that Elaine was watching him with a patient, knowing expression on her face.

“I’ve seen that look before,” she said. “Amos brought you here for a reason, and he doesn’t make mistakes. You seem like you will fit in just fine; I think you’ll like it here.”

Emerson agreed.