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  The clock on the wall strikes two in the afternoon, and I watch the students take their seats in the large classroom.

  It is much larger than where Andrew taught the day before, can easily welcome one hundred people, and gets almost completely filled up.

  While I take out my papers from my briefcase and start turning toward the whiteboard behind me, the door opens, revealing one more person who joins the lecture.

  Andrew.

  He curtly nods in my direction, even waves at some of the students who recognize him, and carelessly chooses a chair in the front row, right in front of the desk. He’s impeccably noticeable. Still wearing his black glasses.

  He’s resting on his elbows, waiting. Interested. His eyes are dark, even darker than usual.

  The corners of my papers shake just enough to make me panic a little. I had a whole internal debate about engaging in more exchanges with the kids, but I did not expect the precursor of that idea to come visit so quickly after I proposed.

  I take a deep breath, wait for the room to quiet, and start my lesson.

  “Can someone give me the definition of,” pencil in hand, I write the word on the board. “the immune system?”

  Andrew raises his hand. “Someone under the age of thirty, please,” I specify.

  Laughter bubbles inside the room. Even my nemesis gives me a smile that reaches his eyes. It might be the first one he gives to me. And I’m not going to acknowledge my reaction to it during a lesson.

  “The immune system is our body’s defense mechanism. It protects us from viruses, bacteria, fungi, and diseases.” A girl answers. I think her name is Victoria.

  “Always?”

  “No. Immunodeficiency can happen when the system fails due to internal or external factors. It leads to higher risks of infections and even cancers.” She continues.

  My eyes purposefully avoid Andrew’s spot, but even in my peripheral vision, his movements are evident, suffocating.

  He can probably see how stressful this is for me. Maybe he smells my fear through my sweat. Maybe he’s not just watching clues, he’s also a damn alien. Or a sniffing dog.

  As I grab my papers and sit on the edge of my desk, I decide he doesn’t exist. I focus on the students in front of me, on the course I want to share, and on the subject that is obviously very important to me. “Thank you. There are two types of Immunodeficiency disorders: primary and secondary.”

  “Primary Immunodeficiency Disorders, or Primary Immunodeficiency, also called PIs, concern children under the age of one, for the majority, and depend on a genetic disorder, which means it was not caused by other diseases, drug treatment, or environmental exposure. Contrary to, you’ve guessed it, the Secondary Immunodeficiency Disorders, such as AIDS, which is a virus dismantling the immune system by targeting CD4+ T cells.”

  They all start writing, but Andrew is still focused on me. “What I wanted to talk to you about today is: Immunotherapy.”

  I know it’s a little bit off program, but that’s my domain of expertise. The latter has really been groundbreaking in the development of a cure for cancer.

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  “It has an interdisciplinary nature, as it combines immunology, genetics, molecular biology, and biotechnology to treat complex diseases. It works by enhancing the immune system’s ability to recognize and eliminate cancer cells. Does one of you know some of the techniques employed?”

  I almost expect Andrew to raise his hand again, but he seems completely absorbed by the lesson. He blinks a few times, like he has gone off way too far in his head, and turns toward the students, as we both wait for an answer. Victoria speaks again. “I’ve heard of CAR-T cells?”

  I’m impressed with her answers. She must have done research on her own time.

  “Do you know what CAR stands for?” I query, but she shakes her head. “Chimeric Antigen Receptor.” My hand moves fast on the board. “This strategy is truly revolutionary, especially for treating certain leukemia affecting children mostly. The idea is to sample T lymphocytes of the patient’s body and implement the genetic modification of the CAR gene. When enough lymphocytes have been multiplied with the modified gene, it is reimplanted inside the patient’s system. The goal is to reactivate the immune system in doing what it’s supposed to do in the first place.”

  “But wouldn’t the system still be defensive against any other cells?” a student adds.

  “Before the transplant, the patient has to go through chemotherapy to weaken the system. The duration varies regarding the patient and the required need.”

  “And is it always successful?” Andrew intervenes. One of his hands holds his chin, but not in a way that would translate his boredom. More as a truly invested and committed gesture.

  “It definitely lowers the risk of rejection, yes.”

  I see mischief dancing in his eyes, and I wonder where this is going. “So, it’s a gamble really. It hasn’t been completely approved, right?”

  “In the matter of approval, this technique has shown great numbers since it has started to be tested. The patients are aware of the side effects before undergoing such procedures.”

  He barely lets me finish. “Would you say that the new cells are manipulating the immune system into thinking they are the good guys?”

  Now, I see where this is going.

  Students laugh, and we are again doing that stupid back and forth. Before I can speak, he continues. “Would you say that this discipline relies on understanding the underlying silent biochemical language of the immune system?”

  “I would say that it has been checked and developed enough to actually see the results we need. Considering the number of patients with positive outcomes from said therapy, it surely proves its effectiveness.”

  He nods with his fingers on his mouth, but finally quiets. His whole face displays amusement. His feet are perfectly arranged under the table, his hair effortlessly combed. His gaze courses through and in me.

  My ears are burning. I hate that I’m blushing in such public. “Its success does require much work, as it is mandatory to detect the subtle biological markers and patterns, such as mutations, tumor antigens, or immune system dysfunction after a transplant. The treatment needs to be tailored for the patient. And the latter’s response has to be thoroughly monitored, his reactions cautiously surveilled.”

  Andrew’s voice rises again. “You mean watching the patient for any clues on how well he’s accepting the transplant is absolutely necessary?”

  “Yes.” I groan. “Except, we, in medicine, have created machines that could evaluate aspects we couldn’t, as humans.”

  “What about symptoms that cannot be numbered?”

  He’s asking the question without really hoping for an answer. He’s just throwing them out there, in the wild, to make me realize what I’ve been missing through his lecture last time.

  This won’t suffice to change my mind. Medicine is a science, and synergology isn’t. “Doctors care about patients enough to check data and facts just as much as their movements, their pain, and what they complain about. If someone is having a stroke, I would recognize it. If someone is about to faint, I’ll be able to prevent it. If I’m witnessing a heart attack, I can react the proper way.”

  “And what do you do to recognize which is which? What do you search for? What do you watch? Where do you think all of this is coming from?”

  The students have stopped writing. The flickering light is the only sound we hear for multiple seconds, and also, probably, my heavy breathing. Andrew is still smiling. Although his expression is very different. He’s sad that he had to display such humiliation for me to see his field through divergent lenses. Since I refused to listen to him while it was just the two of us inside the room, he had to make a better statement.

  Not that it worked. Besides ruining my fucking lesson, he only made me even more furious. I’m torn between slapping him in the face and pinning him to the wall right next to him.

  Instead, I drop my papers and dismiss my class. “That’ll be all.”