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By Root 1088 0

of a tinier but more horrific bug: HIV, the virus that does its damage to the immune system by hijacking helper T cells and forcing them to churn out as many copies of itself as possible, a process that kills the cells. I remember the odd sense of relief I felt upon first seeing the micrograph of HIV on the cover of Time magazine, dated August 12, 1985, one month after I’d moved from Seattle to San Francisco’s Castro district, ground zero of the epidemic. It showed the virus, magnified 135,000 times, attacking a T cell, according to the caption, although the grayish clump looked more like something pulled from a vacuum cleaner bag. There’s the culprit, I thought, staring at the black-and-white photo. Now we just need to annihilate it.

I’ve since seen many similar images, some taken at magnifications three times as powerful. Like the dazzling shots of far-off galaxies taken by the Hubble Space Telescope, the original black-and-white micrographs are often colorized to highlight specific features of the virus. Three-dimensional computer graphics provide even finer details of HIV’s internal and external architecture. I know that these images have been invaluable to scientists in their growing understanding of HIV and in crafting new models for fighting it, but, to me, the greater the complexity of the virus, the bleaker the chances seem of surviving it. The discovery of a cure feels farther off in my lifetime and unlikely in Steve’s.

During rough patches, Steve admits that his life seems to creep forward in three-month intervals, alluding not to the turn of seasons but to the stretches between his getting blood work, the panoply of tests that measure the virus’s activity and how well his immune system and organs are holding up. The findings provide an assessment of his current drug regimen and help determine the course for the next twelve weeks. Seeing his doctor for the results is always anxiety producing.

Thinking back fourteen years, I don’t remember Steve ever having a slim patient file, although at some distant point in our shared past that must’ve been the case. Now it’s a thick sheaf that’s plopped onto the desktop at the start of each appointment. Once the pleasantries are over, Dr. Hassler opens the file and the three of us huddle over the latest labs, a three-page printout of more than fifty separate tests. The results run down the center of each page in one of two columns: WITHIN RANGE, under which most of Steve’s liver and kidney function results, for example, are listed; and OUTSIDE OF RANGE, where the grimmer numbers, T helper percentages, white cell counts, and the like, are clustered. To make the bad numbers easy to spot, this column is shaded a pale red, a stripe top to bottom. The most recent pages are bound to a thick pile of Steve’s past results, and a quick fanning of the stack creates a crude animation of a red ribbon, many years long.

Across the Bay Bridge and thirty miles from my home, I step from my car and approach IDL, Immunodiagnostic Laboratories. The broad one-story building, here on the outskirts of San Leandro, is situated in a secluded industrial complex. The building proper is faced entirely in black reflective glass, making it impossible for me to glimpse any activity within. What’s more, while a sign confirms that I am definitely at the correct address, I can’t find a front entrance or even the appearance of a door. How apropos, I think; the lab where Steve’s blood is tested is testing me. Stumped about how to get inside, I stare at the building. All I see is myself, looking back.

I walk around to what appears to be the rear of the building and, at last, locate a doorbell.

A head shoots through a cracked-open door: “You got a delivery?”

“No, an appointment,” I reply.

“Well, this is shipping.” Nevertheless, the young man agrees to take me through the building to the front office, where I’m left to wait in a blah-colored reception area that is conspicuously missing a receptionist. The phone rings over and over. I know she exists because I spoke with her yesterday.

“IDL,” the woman