"It was a day for celebration in the Smith household. Ian’s blindfold had been removed at the ophthalmologist's; his eyes had healed! A trip to McDonald's was deemed appropriate. Off the family drove, across town, eventually pulling in through the golden arches. Half buried under fifteen inches of fresh snow, the floodlit playground was devoid of footprints, its Jungle Gym, swings, and slide outlined poetically in unalloyed white. Inside, business was slack, for some reason. Not on account of wintry weather. Despite the heavy snowfall, streets had been plowed, rock salt liberally scattered. It was a weekday, true, but schools were closed for the holidays, and 5 PM was dinnertime; the place was usually packed. Undaunted, Adam ordered fries, Cokes, and Big Macs all-around from a team of teenage cashiers (chockfull of smiles and pimples) who rang up the bill. Decked out wall to wall with promotional ads, come-ons, and Season’s Greetings, the fast food joint had a festive air—dampened by its dearth of paying customers (like a birthday party called off because the guest of honor died). Returned with bags full of plastic-lidded cups, straws, condiments in foil, cardboard packets, wax-paper-wrapped entrees, and a giant wad of napkins, Adam distributed supper like Santa doling out gifts.

Ann dove in with a vengeance. It seemed like ages since she had eaten her favorite food. Meals at home, of late, had tended to favor vegetables. Yuk! She hated vegetables. Ian did, also—or used to; now, he claimed (just to be obnoxious), they suited him fine. He had taken to sniffing at everything (likewise obnoxious), before he either ate it (noisily), or turned up his nose—the way he was doing at the moment, making a snooty face as he caught a whiff of his double-decker burger. More surprisingly still, he shoved the Big Mac away! Amazed at her good fortune, Ann (without objection) added Ian’s reject to her pile, chowing down with gluttonous gusto, unconcerned about anything save her tummy’s elasticity… until, that is, she realized two more burgers lay disowned, Mom and Dad exhibiting the same distaste as had her twin. Self-conscious, of a sudden, Ann’s globular gob of beef stuck midway in her throat. Sloshing it down with a slug of cola, she tried (in vain) to reinstate her appetite.

"Finished, dear?" her mother asked without a trace of condemnation, making Ann feel guiltier about relishing such ‘gross’ cuisine. (‘Why had everybody ordered the nasty ol’ burgers in the first place, if nobody wanted to eat them,’ she wondered in sulky self-defense? ‘And what were people staring at; blue was a natural color for a human being’s eyes.’)

Determined not to cry, Ann challenged the few amber looks cast in her direction, before noticing Mom’s, Dad’s, and Ian’s had gone catatonically blank. Mortified, she forbore the (recurrent) interlude, waiting for her family to snap from its trance.

"Are we off, then?" Adam rose, breaking the silence, seemingly unaware any lapse had taken place, nonplused by his daughter’s inexplicable rush to stay their departure.

"Don’t leave me, Daddy!" Ann pleaded into the pleats of her father’s pants, hugging his upper thighs for all she was worth.

Exchanging a search-me shrug with his wife, Adam made a stab at quelling their daughter’s sobs.

"Who said anybody’s leaving you behind? We’re a family, Sweetie, aren’t we; all for one, and one for all?"

Words were insufficient; Ann was disinclined to be consoled. So Adam picked her up and carried her out to the parking lot—where the Jungle Gym (heretofore abandoned) was dotted with blue-black crows.

Back at the house, sequestered in the den, whiskers eerily aglow from the computer monitor’s Technicolor radiation, Geezer ransacked the Internet for news of his AWOL tribe—hampered only by the cumbersome (misnamed) mouse (‘moose’ might have been more apt, considering the effort required for a chipmunk-size monkey to maneuver it). Surely someone at the Lab had remained on-line, even if the facility itself had been disMANtled. How else stay apprised of the Antidote’s course? Yet the words "Not Found" kept coming up after each and every entry Geezer made—not surprisingly; a Guinea Pig (his lowly status pre and post inoculation) was seldom privy to access codes at mission control. Being a Curious-George, he had eavesdropped, of course. What else was there to do cooped up in his cubbyhole-cage? Tidbits passed nonstop (much like data on the Information Highway) that Geezer’s mind reached out to sample (discarding most, absorbing all-too-few), this form of psychic filching a reprehensible misuse of Simian gray matter. Still, how could anyone expect cooperation from a subject under-the-influence of some anthropocentric dwarf? Proto was to blame for Geezer’s occasional mischief; moronic midget contamination had been responsible for conduct deemed "untoward."

Adam, aghast his Pontiac’s high-gloss finish had been marred by rock salt, had stayed behind to wax and polish it back to a condition he called "cherry" (auto lovers enamored of sexually charged nomenclature). Purchased before its owner became a husband, a father, an executive at Dupont, Adam’s Trans Am Deluxe had managed to avoid the slightest ding, the tiniest scratch, its purring V-8 engine tuned to the same perfection that kept its metallic finish lustrous, its upholstery spotless, its every accessory fully-functional and showroom-floor pristine. Pride, possessiveness, and plain hard work maintained the indubitable "classic," which Adam would no sooner part with than lop off his testicles.