He says, “But I’m dying,” like it’s the answer to everything, like he thinks I’ll disagree.
Six months pregnant, and I should have been happy. Six words to fire me, and I should have been angry. Instead, I drifted in a fugue. Spring faded, summer swelled, and our lives were falling apart.
John sweats beneath the wires that entangle his head and transmit images and words directly to his brain. Soft restraints encase each limb, band his torso. Another thick bar around the neck. Only his right hand can move—to touch the adjacent console panel. Four buttons nestle into its metal surface, a series of differently-coloured squares labelled A, B, C, D.
English