Harvey McConnell was smiling. He had no idea why and attempts to stop the smile were proving fruitless.
Harvey McConnell was kinda’ freaked out.
This sort of thing had happened before. One April afternoon during his senior year his right leg did “the hustle.” His art teacher had to tell him the name of the dance, as Harvey was well outside the age range that would have muscle memory of disco dance moves. One morning his sophomore year of college his left hand rested atop his head for three hours before plummeting down to his side. Both incidents worried him, but doctors found nothing wrong and sent him on his way.
Now, so many years after the last incident, he was wiser, more knowledgeable, and had ready access to WebMD. After a quick glance at the site’s mobile site, Harvey was certain he would be dead within the hour.
Like any good son facing his demise, he called his mother.
“Mom, it is happening again,” he told her in a jolly tone that betrayed the seriousness of his concern.
“Oh,” his mother said with a nervous laugh, “I’m sure it will pass.”
“You know, last time this happened you just laughed it off too. You and dad are supposed to be scientists, the curious learners pushing humanity forward. Aren’t you at least a little interested to figure out what’s up?” Harvey asked.
“Nope. Not this time, sweet heart. You just go about your day and drink plenty of orange juice. This will pass. It always does,” his mother reassured.
“Alright, mom. I’ll try it out,” Harvey said.
The conversation ended and Harvey went to find orange juice.
Unbeknownst to Harvey, his mother was doing the same thing. Though for her “orange juice” was a code word for the project she and Harvey’s father began long ago. Through orange juice, Harvey was given a prototype nano-bot that could control his every move by hitting a few buttons. Mr. and Mrs. McConnell were very good at making new weapons, but less good at surviving ethics committee reviews, so they experimented in secret.
“Bob!” Mrs. McConnell shouted to Harvey’s father. “Go slap Orange Juice, Harvey’s face is going hay wire this time. The machine needs a good ol’ fashion whack; should fix it right up.”
Mr. McConnell chuckled, “hey, remember that time we made him disco in school? Good times.” Bob walked to the basement with a push broom and fixed the problem.
Standing in his kitchen, Harvey finished his glass of orange juice and felt his face lose the permanent smile at long last. “Jeepers,” Harvey said, rubbing a hand over his face, “Mom knows everything.”
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