“…I inherited the formula and the patents for this liquid. I accepted a job for the government, and they bought the formula from me.” My daughter finishes her glass of Yurum—an antidote—and puts it on the floor. “Then how is it your fault if the government owns the formula?” she asks. I dig shortly through the postcards and find one to help me explain. It shows the skeletal figure of a rabbit. I sigh. “Well, when the government hired me…”