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her desk. Somewhere out of sight but within earshot, a minder tapped away at a computer keyboard. A moment later, the printer on my side of the red line began to hum, its cartridge jerking to life below the plastic cover.
    “This was recently brought to my attention, Cal. Now that you’ve dealt with Sarah, I thought you might want to see it.”
    I stood and went to the printer and lifted with trembling fingers the warm piece of paper that slid into its tray. It was a scanned handbill, like they pass out on the street sometimes:
     
    Dick’s Bar Is Back in Business!
    —Seven Days a Week—
    The Health Department Couldn’t Keep Us Down!
    *The One and Only Home of the Bahamalama-Dingdong*
     
    Dr. Prolix watched me read it, steepling her fingers again.
    “Feeling thirsty?” she asked.
     

Chapter 4
TOXOPLASMA
    F lip a coin. Tails? Relax.
    Heads? You’ve got parasites in your brain.
    That’s right. Half of us carry the
Toxoplasma gondii
parasite. But don’t reach for the power drill just yet.
    Toxoplasma is microscopic. Human immune systems usually kick its ass, so if you’ve got it, you’ll probably never even know. In fact, toxoplasma doesn’t even
want
to be in your head. Trapped inside your thick skull, under assault by your immune defenses, it can’t lay eggs, which is a big evolutionary Game Over.
    Toxoplasma would much rather live in your cat’s digestive system, eating cat food and laying eggs. Then, when kitty takes a crap, these eggs wind up on the ground, waiting for other scurrying creatures. Like, say, rats.
    A quick word about rats: They’re basically parasite subway trains, carrying them from place to place. In my job, we call this being a
vector
. Rats go everywhere in the world, and they breed like crazy. Catching a ride on the Rat Express is a major way that diseases have evolved to spread themselves.
    When toxoplasma gets into a rat, the parasite starts to make changes to its host’s brain. If a normal rat bumps into something that smells like a cat, it freaks out and runs away. But toxoplasma-infected rats actually
like
the smell of cats. Kitty pee makes them curious. They’ll explore for hours trying to find the source.
    Which is a cat. Which eats them.
    And that makes toxoplasma happy, because toxoplasma really, really wants to live in the stomach of a cat.
     
    Parasite geeks have a phrase for what cats are to toxoplasma: the “final host.”
    A final host is the place where a parasite can live happily ever after, getting free food, having lots of babies. Most parasites live in more than one kind of animal, but they’re all trying to reach their final host, the ultimate vector … parasite heaven.
    Toxoplasma uses mind control to get to its heaven. It makes the rat
want
to go looking for cats and get eaten. Spooky, huh?
    But nothing like that would work on us humans, right?
     
    Well, maybe. No one’s really sure what toxoplasma does to human beings. But when researchers collected a bunch of people with and without toxoplasma, gave them personality tests, observed their habits, and interviewed their friends, this is what they learned:
    Men infected with toxoplasma don’t shave every day, don’t wear ties too much, and don’t like following social rules. Women infected with toxoplasma like to spend money on clothes, and they tend to have lots of friends. The rest of us think they’re more attractive than non-infected women. In general, the researchers found that infected people are more interesting to be around.
    On the other hand, people
without
toxoplasma in their brains
like
following the rules. If you lend them money, they’re more likely to pay you back. They show up for work on time. The men get into fewer fights. The women have fewer boyfriends.
    Could this be toxoplasma mind control?
    But that’s just
too
weird, isn’t it? There has to be another explanation.
    Maybe some people
always
hated getting to work on time, and they like having felines around because cats