Research Assistance

She was standing over the cage. A few mice, small and white, scurried here and there. They were ignorant of, or didn’t care that, she was standing over them.

“Brain cancer,” he said.

She bent down so she was looking through the face of the plastic cage. “So they’re going to die?”

“Well, yes. Everything dies,” he said to the drawer he had opened.

She frowned at the passive existential comment. “How will they die?”

“Well, usually,” his voice trailed off. “Ah, there. I’ve got it we can go.” He slipped a ring on his fourth finger with a screwing motion.

She was still looking in the cage.

“Usually we would euthanize them.” He straightened, “Quick and painless, you know.”

She drew her lips into a little knot at his choice of words.

“But we’re seeing how long they’ll live with this type of tumor.”

“I see.” One of the mice picked at a pellet, carried it a few inches, and dropped it. “How do they die?”

“I just told you.”

“No, I mean, do they just stop moving? Do they die in their sleep, peacefully?” She didn’t intend the pleading note, but it was there.

“I,” he stuttered. “I guess I don’t know. They die, but how?” His brow was knit in a little knot. “I haven’t seen it. Usually I get here in the morning, or I come and check on them, and, well,”

She stood up. The tick of the clock dropped on the metal tables and fell to the floor. “We really should be going.”