As Zachary Flemming expected, university students packed Scott’s Brewhouse from wall to wall. The restaurant’s numerous TVs broadcast the school football team as they took on a hapless opponent. The diners chattered and cheered over drinks as they watched the Wolves game. Though he too was a student, Zach’s mood differed from the general levity, and he pushed his way to the bar with a frown on his face.

“Hey Zach, good to see you.” Harold Jones, the classmate who requested Zach’s presence, raised a half-finished glass.

“Make it quick, Harold.” Zach climbed onto the stool Harold occupied for him and opened the drink menu. “What’s so important that you’d call me over here at this time?”

“Well, you know how I've been testing those Huntington's disease drug candidates, right?” Harold asked. “I just finished the first trials on our rat models, and we got some really interesting results.”

“Harold, you know I've got a deadline. My thesis is due in two weeks and I’m behind on writing,” Zach grumbled. The document was to be the culmination of his four years’ graduate studies. But even though his existing manuscript work exceeded all reasonable requirements for a doctorate, his advisor insisted on further additions. He looked Harold in the eye. “Even if one of the leads worked, it's still not something to drag me away from the desk.”

“Yeah, well…” Harold turned to the nearest screen. “If the results were positive, I'd have just sent you and your boss a summary.”

Zach put down the menu and ordered a beer from the bartender. Cheers erupted from the crowd around them; the Wolves scored again.

“So the results are negative?” Zach asked. “That's even less of a reason to call me out at this time.”

“Well, yes, they were negative.” Harold gave a sheepish grin. “But the reason I called you here is because they were strange, and I mean out-of-this-world strange, with that JCA-152 compound. We need another ten grams to follow up.”

“Really?” Zach groaned. JCA-152 was among the most promising of anti-Huntington compounds Zach had designed for his doctoral studies. However, it’s preparation involved numerous synthetic steps and a ten-gram batch would consume over a week of time in the lab. “Talk to my boss. She’ll have one of the others make it.”

“I have. Dr. Mitchell said no one else is familiar enough with your protocols to prepare ten grams anytime soon, and that if I wanted it, I had to get it from you.”

“I’m still writing my thesis. I’ve got no time for lab work.”

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Boos poured out from the bar crowd. Zach checked the screen and found an official announcing a penalty against them.

“I know, I know,” Harold said. “But you gotta hear what these results were. If you do this for me, I’ll do anything I can to help you with that thesis, even if it means delivering all your meals.”

“Alright,” Zach leaned against the counter. “I’m listening.”

“Great. Well, I first thought something was weird when I reached for the first rat in the cage,” Harold said. “For some reason, its hair was standing on end. But crazy thing is, I got a huge electric shock once I touched it.”

“So you forgot that static electricity exists,” Zach took a sip of his beer. “It has been dry lately.”

“That’s what I thought too, but it gets weirder,” Harold continued. “After I tested that first rat and returned it to its cage, I found that the next rat was soaking wet.”

“Let me guess,” Zach rolled his eyes, “its water bottle leaked?”

“No. In fact, the bottle was still filled to the brim. Normally they’d about half-full at that point.”

“So where’d the water come from?” Zach asked. “Did one of your undergrad assistants spray it with a squirt bottle?”

“I don’t know. Since I couldn’t weigh a soaking rat, I just cursed at the lost data point and moved on.” Harold chugged the last of his beer and sighed. “Now, that’s when things got really strange.”

“Okay?”

“I tried to bring the next rat out of it’s cage, but I couldn’t get it out.” Harold held out his emptied glass sideways between them, with the last traces of the drink dripping off the rim. “Like, I had my fingers around it like this, but still couldn’t pick it up.”

“What? It’s a lab rat!” Zach’s eyes widened. “They weigh, like, half a kilo at most.”

“Yeah, was like its feet were glued to the cage. I was afraid I’d rip its legs off – was sure someone sabotaged my trial at that point.”

“Sounds more like an elaborate prank. Are you sure your undergrad assistants didn’t sneak into the lab to mess with you?”

“I didn’t even have time to think about it.” Harold set down the glass. “Once I let go, that rat started walking around like normal. After that, I checked all of the other rats, and there was something wrong with each of them. One rat had a really high body temperature. Another one shrank to the size of a mouse. One of them disappeared completely. I thought I was going crazy, but Dr. Kay came in and he saw the same things I was seeing. We even called in Candace because it was all too ridiculous.”

“Alright, so you got bad batch of lab rats and need to repeat the experiment,” Zach sighed. “That can wait a few weeks, can’t it?”

“Whoa, it wasn’t the rats.” Harold waved his in denial. “The untreated control rats from the same shipment were perfectly normal, aside from the expected Huntington's symptoms of course.”

“So you’re saying that…”

“What I’m saying,” Harold leaned to Zach’s ear, “I’m saying that all those observations are related. And I’m sure JCA-152 is the key to it all.”