Trevor was sobbing as he cradled a dead, 3-day-old child in his arms. He knew this because the child’s date of birth was written on its tiny armband. And because the child was not breathing. He was standing in a dimly lit room with enormous ceilings in the basement of a lavish Victorian house on Brighton Beach–one of several properties Neuro had recently acquired.

 

     We are nothing but a culmination of the choices we’ve made. Trevor had chosen to be happy. He’d been following a plan meticulously laid out by Neuro. He thought he knew happy, but Neuro had redefined happiness for him; broken it down to its core elements, destroyed any conventional approach all the way to the rotting foundations of what one thought it was, or could be, and rebuilt it brick-by-brick. It was a lofty goal; an arduous process–rife with the struggles of tearing open old scars. Long-healed wounds were shorn apart, leaving a fresh trail of injuries that if left to heal properly, led one to true happiness.

 

     A lifetime of decisions, neither wrong nor right, had led Trevor to this place. Neuro’s constant mantra of  ‘Say yes to life’ seemed to be hitting a wall right now. Overpowered by his newest incantation, ‘Happiness starts with you.’ Neuro felt it was eloquent and rather clever, because when you say it out loud it stops a person. Makes them think. You always have to make people think, he would say. Make them believe they’re solving a problem. Leave a tiny gap in the circle that they have to close. It empowers them. The first step on the road to happiness.

 

     But what is happiness? Happier people are more resilient to disease. They live longer, more productive lives. There are biological markers, such as hormones and neurotransmitters. And even though low levels of the neurotransmitter serotonin predict depression, high levels do not predict happiness. Mondays are linked to low levels of happiness. Today was a Monday.

 

     “This is not supposed to be happening. Let’s think for a moment and understand what this is trying to tell us.” Neuro said calmly as he checked the monitors, clutching an infant under each arm – neither appearing to be breathing.

     

     The room was lined with several rows of incubators, each containing an infant connected to a monitor and a venous catheter blood draw device. Several of the monitors were emitting high-pitched distress signals, and the noise was chaotic.

 

     12ml of whole blood is required to produce 5ml of plasma. You can draw up to 12ml of blood from a newborn child weighing 6.6lbs over a 30-day period. You should, under no circumstances draw more than 6ml of blood from an infant in a 24-hour period – anemia, tachycardia, renal failure, acute hypovolemic shock, and potentially, death, can result.

 

     “Ha! Look at this. We had the goddamn numbers wrong!” Neuro shouted with a wide-mouthed grin, while pointing to a chart that had been attached to the front of one of the incubators–still clutching both infants in his arms.

 

     The most intelligent people learn from their mistakes. Unreasonably large mistakes allow for enormous-leaps in learning–if you can remove your ego. Neuro had allowed himself to become completely detached from failure. It didn’t exist as far as he was concerned. To him, it was a sign that one was closer to the correct answer. As it turns out, today was a rather large learning day for Neuro.

 

     John Lennon sang “Happiness is a warm gun.” Was the gun in your hand? Or was it pressed up against your temple as your heart raced, your breathing deepened, your mind flashed-back to all of your accomplishments and misgivings–the people and places you’ve loved, everything you would be leaving behind, and your mouth went dry? Paul was quoted as saying, “how poignant it was that John, who was shot in such tragic circumstances, should have written this song.” Was happiness that gun?

 

     Several men with very large guns were currently outside–very quietly, making their way onto the veranda. Neuro was unaware of this as he continued to go over the numbers in his head, muttering equations aloud. Trevor couldn’t imagine a scenario where any of this was connected to happiness. Not his understanding of happiness. Could happiness be quantified? Could it be bottled and sold? Could it be in the guns of the men who were now inside of the house? What is happiness?