Chapter 99 – The Cliff Illusion
Bruce had just pulled into a spot on Bedford Street when he saw them.
Phoebe was halfway out the lobby door, one arm around Monica, moving with the careful energy of someone trying to manage a situation that had gotten away from her. Monica was the situation. She was ghostly pale, eyes unfocused, moving with the slow, weightless shuffle of someone navigating terrain only she could see — arms out for balance, head tilted like she was listening to something far below.
"Phoebe — careful! Don't step left! There's a drop — I can hear the wind—" Monica's voice was barely above a whisper, urgent and entirely convinced. "Do you hear that? Those are... are those seagulls? No — wait — those are rotisserie chickens. They're flying, Pheebs. The rotisserie chickens are airborne."
Bruce was out of the car before she finished the sentence. "Monica. Phoebe. What is happening right now?"
Phoebe's expression landed somewhere between terrified and profoundly relieved to see him. "Bruce, thank God. Okay — she's been like this since around two o'clock. She's completely convinced the entire building is sitting on the edge of a cliff. She almost threw herself backward away from the kitchen sink because she said it was a bottomless pit. We need to get her to a hospital right now."
Bruce looked at Monica, who was gripping the doorframe with both hands and peering down at the perfectly flat sidewalk like it ended six inches from her feet.
"Get in the car," he said.
The drive to the ER was genuinely harrowing.
Monica sat in the back with both hands braced against the seat, narrating the road ahead with the conviction of an eyewitness. "Bruce — stop — the bridge is out, I can see it — there's nothing past that intersection—" She grabbed his headrest. "And that cloud. That cloud looks exactly like an overcooked Thanksgiving turkey and it is looking at me."
"That's a cloud, Monica."
"It has eyes, Bruce."
Phoebe, buckled in beside her, held Monica's hand and murmured reassurances while shooting Bruce a look in the rearview mirror that communicated, very clearly: please hurry.
In the ER, the attending physician listened to Phoebe and Bruce's account — Monica's timeline, the symptoms, the progression — shone a light in Monica's pupils, and went quiet in a particular way that suggested he was fitting pieces together.
"Has the patient consumed anything unusual today? Any unregulated supplements, experimental food products, anything that might contain unapproved additives?"
Bruce and Phoebe looked at each other.
The realization landed on both of them at almost exactly the same moment. Phoebe got there first.
"Morvite," she said flatly. "She's been testing Morvite recipes all week. Today alone she made — I watched her eat — Morvite cranberry sauce, Morvite gravy, something she was calling Morvite stuffing, and I think there was a Morvite-based dip situation around noon."
The doctor's expression confirmed it. "Most likely acute toxic hallucinations from unapproved chemical compounds in an unregulated food additive. We'll pump her stomach, start an IV, and give her something to help her rest. She'll need observation overnight."
By late evening, the Morvite had been thoroughly evicted from Monica's system. The cliff receded. The flying poultry dissipated. The abyss under the kitchen sink turned back into a kitchen sink. Monica's eyes came back into focus, though she lay on the couch afterward with the specific exhaustion of someone whose body had been through an ordeal it hadn't signed up for.
Bruce and Phoebe sat across from her, equally wrecked, operating on hospital vending machine coffee and adrenaline comedown.
The phone rang.
Monica answered it on speaker, too tired to hold it to her ear. The voice that came through was recognizably sheepish.
"Monica! Hi, it's Richard Rastert, from Magical Food Company. How are you feeling? Listen — completely unrelated question — have you experienced anything... unusual today? Perceptually speaking?"
Monica blinked at the ceiling. "I hallucinated that our entire apartment building was on the edge of a cliff, Mr. Rastert. I thought the kitchen sink was a lava pit. I saw airborne chickens."
A pause. "Right, right. So — here's the thing. Two other members of the team had similar experiences this afternoon. Sandra, who's been working on the Fake Bacon Bits, is currently insisting that her hair is turning into fettuccine. And Dave from the Pain-Free Onion Powder division believes his shower is dispensing warm brie." Another pause. "The FDA has some concerns about the Morvite formulation."
"How many concerns?" Bruce asked.
"A significant number of concerns," Rastert said carefully. "The Morvite project is suspended indefinitely. Lab testing at the next phase produced behavioral results in the subjects that our scientists described as — and I'm reading directly here — 'beyond current scientific framework to categorize.'"
Monica closed her eyes. "Oh."
"We are of course covering all medical expenses. And there's a health and wellness bonus being added to everyone's next check — a thank you for your dedication to the frontier of food science." Rastert's voice brightened. "Which brings me to the exciting part. We're pivoting immediately to our next project, and frankly I think this one has enormous consumer upside. Fish-Flavored Pistachios."
Silence.
"I'm sorry?" Phoebe said.
"Fish-Flavored Pistachios. High-protein, sustainable — we're using a proprietary surimi compound that replicates the exact textural crunch of a pistachio while delivering a rich oceanic flavor profile. First tasting samples arrive tomorrow. Monica, I'd love to have you on the recipe development team — your palate has been invaluable—"
Monica's eyes had opened. Against all odds, against every lesson the day had just taught her, a familiar light was starting to kindle behind them. The particular glow of someone who had found a new frontier to explore.
"Fish-Flavored Pistachios," she repeated, slowly, like she was road-testing the concept. "I mean — if you think about it — the brine profiles could actually be interesting — and with the right herbs—"
"Monica." Bruce sat forward. "Monica, look at me. You spent tonight in the emergency room. You thought our street was a canyon. You saw flying chickens."
"The chickens were very vivid," Phoebe confirmed.
"The company is paying your medical bills," Bruce continued, "which is the least they can do given that their product literally broke your brain today. You are not a lab rat. You should not volunteer to be a lab rat. Even actual lab rats don't fill out the form themselves."
Monica looked at him. Then at the phone. Then at the ceiling.
"...I'm just saying," she said quietly, "the brine profile could be really interesting."
Bruce and Phoebe looked at each other over her head.
There were, it turned out, some forces stronger than reason.
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