Something of a Kind - By Miranda Wheeler Page 0,48

walkway, the building was fantastical compared to the town’s standard structures. A sign illuminated with lawn lighting read: North American Ape Research Corporation: Ashland, Alaska Satellite Office, labeling the pristine building.

Shouldn’t it say ‘organization’?

It was too pretty for Ashland from the outside in. The floors were covered in tan tiling, swirling gray patterned carpets picking up in the various hallways. Couches surrounded one of three lobby flatscreens. An artsy coffee table covered in brochures displayed like a game of solitaire was placed in the center. Freestanding chairs were lined and stacked along the outer walls, broken up by miniature trash cans or bedside-sized tables stacked with magazines, tissues, and lamps. The high ceilings looked as though they were falling apart, but the place was otherwise immaculate. The curved front desk looked more like the check-in to a hotel than an office lobby to an unknown researcher facility. Despite warm cream walls, it felt like the waiting room to a teaching hospital.

As Aly passed the televisions, the same documentary played in sync, photographs shifted with basic affects, a woman’s voice droning on about Alaska fading in and out.

“ -nearly twothousand and six hundred square miles… home to nine-hundred-ninety miles of shoreline with inestimable palisades, rocky cliffs, promontories, and beaches to explore… One hundred and five miles of it are girding paved roads, making it…”

With a baby face and shaggy blonde hair tucked beneath a beanie, the guy behind the desk didn’t appear much older than Aly. Hunched over a tablet in his lap with a dazed stare, he popped gummy bears into each cheek from a torn bag by a laptop blinking with a bouncing bubbles screen saver. Resisting the urge to clear her throat, Aly rocked on her heels. In spite of her nerves, she was intent on feigning patience.

Upon glancing up, his brow knitted. As he blanched with recognition, she glanced at his name tag reading ‘Franklin Clancy’ before he could stumble over himself to stand. Franklin fished for a clipboard and pulled a wire basket from a bottom drawer, lifting a blank report to clip beneath a pen.

“You’re making a report?” he clarified. As he spoke, an enlarged Adam’s apple bobbed in his skinny neck.

“I am,” Aly agreed, half -smiling to mask a shudder. Her voice felt too pleasant, offering illusions of calmness. As her words met her lips, it sounded almost lyrical.

He offered it wordlessly, glancing through his hair. She felt his stare, feeling vulnerable to its invasive nature, as she backed away.

Taking the nearest seat, Aly blinked at the neon clipboard in her lap. The front page requested a name, contact numbers, and other personal information. The second was filled with paragraphs of empty lines accompanied by a basic questionnaire.

Attempting to squeeze in every scathing detail, she fit the experience around available space, dropping fragments and estimated numbers in a loopy scrawl. It seemed too politically correct – If direct contact was made, what would you define the animal you encountered as (using common names)? Explain. Which classification of encounter do you feel you have according to an A (being sighted upon interaction with evidence recovered), B (interacted, not seen, evidence may be recovered), and C (assumed interaction, no evidence recovered) scale? Explain.

Explain, explain, explain.

By the time she had finished, her knuckles ached, the pen hovering over blank areas as she reconsidered her thoughts. Unable to offer anything more, she stood, nodding to herself. Offering it to Franklin’s sweaty outstretched hand, she stared at her feet. As Aly tried to ignore his expressions – confusion, disbelief – she felt her resolve building. It crumbled when he blurted, “Alyson Glass as in Greg Glass?”

Aly shrugged.

“Um, wow. Oka y, never mind. I need to file this and send it in for evaluation. They’ll be some people here to talk to you…” His voice trailed, distracted by something on her paper.

He flipped the page, revealing nails bitten down to the buds. She couldn’t tell if they were dirtied, blood-blistered, or carrying chipped remnants of black nail polish. Uncomfortable with the observation on a queasy stomach, she turned away.

“That’s really fantastic,” Franklin muttered absently, almost disbelieving. “You know what? There are some people who used to work with NESRA I want to take a look at this. Do you mind if I borrow your cell? I’ll need to upload the files.”

Wordlessly, she pulled it from her pocket. He untangled a cord from a dozen others piled in a milk crate at his feet, hooking it up like a flash drive.