Everything is always the same. It doesn't matter when I wake up, or what day of the week it is, or where the sun is positioned outside my window—nothing changes. The same old faces come in and out of the room, my vitals get checked, the place gets tidied up, equipment is adjusted... The only thing I really have to mark time by are the slightest shifts in my own body. How hard is it to move my fingers? How hard is it to force my face into a smile? Can I still move my toes? How long has it been since I last stood on my own two feet? I can hardly remember—

The door bursts open, Mrs. Thomas shouting her customary greeting in my direction. Her smile is bright as always, but I detect something darker in her eyes this morning. Her eyebrows are curving slightly downwards, her movements more abrupt. When she takes the glasses off my face to dust them for me, she hurts my ears. I give her an inquisitive look, asking her where her gentle attention to detail went.

"Oho, so you noticed," she says curtly, replacing the glasses on my face. "But I shouldn't be surprised—you always were very attentive of yourself, weren't you young lady?"

What's that supposed to mean?

My face slowly works itself into a scowl of confusion, and I try in vain to move my head out of her range when she takes out a brush. I grumble when she scrapes my scalp a little too hard and wince every time she hits a knot.

"Aaah!" I exclaim, scowling at her. "Staaaaaa!"

"Oh, sorry. I guess I'm just a little insensitive this morning," she huffs scathingly, tossing the brush back onto her cart.

What's your problem?! I ask her silently, fuming. The way she's behaving is extremely unprofessional.

"I'd offer you a piece of chocolate, but I'm afraid it has someone else's name on it today," she continues airily, slowly unwrapping a white chocolate bar. She clears some space on the bedside table and takes a seat on it, crossing her legs and pointedly looking away. She breaks a piece of it off and pops it in her mouth, watching me from the corner of her eye as she does so. "Only people sweet enough to match this chocolate get to savor it."

I continue to scowl at her as she continues eating the chocolate bar, breaking off yet another piece and humming with satisfaction the moment it hits her tongue.

Alright, alright, I get it. But what did I do wrong?

She must be very good at reading expressions, because she eventually pauses and turns her head to look at me, that curly mop of hers tumbling around her shoulders. Her face is stern but somehow still kind, her mouth pursed but her eyes still soft despite it.

"So, you wanna know what I heard Cindy talking about this morning?" she asks, raising her eyebrows. She continues without an answer. "Your dad apparently called you yesterday—first time in over a week. Is that right?"

Was that really just yesterday?

It already feels as if an eternity has passed. I bite my lip though, some inkling of what this might be about finally getting to me. I nod meekly, staring at the ceiling stain just over Mrs. Thomas' head. Anywhere but those quietly accusing eyes.

"Mmm, that's what I thought. Now, lemme get this straight... you guys argued, yeah?" she asks, tossing the chocolate bar on the cart and leaning back against the wall.

I nod again. She hums thoughtfully and crosses her arms, staring down at me with an unreadable expression.

"And this argument had to do with your coming home. During which you told him he was a fool for thinking you might live. Do I have the gist of that right?"

...

That's not quite how I remember it... but it's not as if I can explain myself in this state. So instead, I just continue to nod. Anything to placate her—I have to see her every day.

"I don't think that was a very genuine nod," she says with a huff. I start—how in the world could she tell? Is she psychic? Whatever the case, she continues on with a sigh. "I'm not one to lecture; you know that. But the way you treated your dad yesterday? Young lady, that's inexcusable. Do you have any idea how much money he's spending just to keep you here?"

I look away. I can't look at her. I can't.

Please don't make this about that...

"Look, I understand how you're feeling. I've seen a lotta people on the brink of death, Laurel. It's rare that anyone is happy about it. It's not like the movies—people get bitter, they feel cheated, they have too many regrets, too many things left undone... and they lash out at the people they care about most," she tells me, her face darkening. "I've seen some families argue right up until the patient drew their last breath. But under no circumstances should you tear your father's heart out for offering hope. What right do you have to take that away from him?

"He wants nothing more than his baby girl to come home to him; to see the face of his child smile at him when he comes home for the day. I admit that your prognosis looks grim at best. But do you think he's stupid, girl? He knows that too, better than anyone. One of the most precious things in his life is slowly being taken from him, and all he can do is work his ass off trying to get his head above the debt he's chosen to take on. Because even that is better than watching the life drain out of your eyes. Do you understand, Laurel? Last night was uncalled for."

What, so what I did was selfish? How is sparing him from even more pain selfish?! If I went home, he would only get a front row seat to my death. What good is there in that? He would spend hours taking care of me, hours more working to keep me on life support, and for what? To watch me decay in front of his eyes? You tell me I'm being selfish, that I'm not respecting his sacrifice—but what good would giving him false hope do? Answer me that, Mrs. Thomas.

I watch a bird fly across the sky, flitting just for a moment by my hospital window.

I wonder... if I jumped out of that window, would I fly, too?

A pity I can't even try anymore.

"I guess I have nothing else to say," Mrs. Thomas sighs, getting up off of the table. "Except that I have two little ones at home, and if either one of them were in your place... well."

She crosses the room and stands next to the window so that I'm forced to look at her. Her eyes are burning with a passion that I've never known.

"I would give anything to keep them close for as long as I can," she says firmly. "God help you if you're forced into your father's situation one day, Laurel. Despite all the odds."

And with that... she leaves. Despite myself, I stare at the door after it clicks shut. Silhouetted by the window like that, I could have sworn that she had wings sprouting from her back.

***

Hours go by. As always, nothing of significance happens. A nurse came in earlier to turn on the TV for me—I've been watching cartoons ever since. Sort of, anyway. It's more like I'm staring at the screen while my mind fades somewhere into the background. The usual moral is being pushed yet again; friendship over all else. Two characters magically fuse together to take on a greater evil, fighting away an orange woman with a pink rose-patterned sword.

Suddenly, the narrative is drowned out by a loud thumping. I turn my attention to the hallway, listening to heavy boot-steps sounding off at a quick, likely running pace. They get progressively louder, shouts resounding through the hallway as several other pairs of footsteps join the first.

"Hey, stop! You can't be in here!"

"Ha ha! You can't catch me, suckers~"

The answering voice sounds as if it's right outside my door, and the tone of it stirs just the barest trace of recognition from my psyche. It fades quickly though, and I'm left to wonder after the situation as the procession passes my room. I listen intently as the footsteps fade back into the quiet that usually governs the hospital, the sounds of the cartoon coming back into focus.

"If every porkchop were perfect, we wouldn't—"

The door to the room unexpectedly opens, surprising me enough to make me flinch. I look over at the door, expected a nurse or Mrs. Thomas—someone who can tell me what was going on out there. But instead, an unfamiliar man in a white lab coat closes the door behind him, sighing in relief. He turns to face me, baby blue eyes gleaming mischievously behind square, partially rimless glasses.

He appears to be on the older side, this man—his hair and goatee both have strangely uniform greying streaks in them, giving him the pattern of a skunk. His hair looks like it's been carefully combed into a faux hawk kind of style, but it's somewhat unkempt, as though it had recently been ruffled. I look for the nametag that should be fastened to his coat somewhere, but find nothing.

The man raises a finger to his lips and leans back towards the door, pressing his ear against it. After a few moments, he appears to decide that the hallway is quiet enough for his tastes, and turns back to me with a grin on his face.

"That was a close one," he says cheerfully. "Hospitals generally don't like uninvited guests."

At this point, I'm trying to decide what the hell I should be doing. I mean... I'm pretty much defenseless, but maybe I can scream if I try hard enough—

"No no, none of that," he tells me, apparently having read my face. "I'm not here to hurt you. Just the opposite, actually."

He holds out his hand, his smile widening at my look of confusion. I stare at the offered hand, wondering what he expects me to do with it. It's not like I can shake it—but I guess he doesn't know that. After an awkward silence, he glances down at it and then seems to come to a realization.

"Oh! Of course, sorry about that. I forgot myself for a moment there," he says apologetically. "May I?"

His hand gets closer to my own. Whoever this guy is, he seems dead set on shaking my hand. I stare at him for a few more seconds, still highly suspicious. Then I sigh and mentally shrug, deciding that I don't really care what happens to me that much anyway. I give him the best nod I can muster, allowing him the permission he asked for.

"Thank you," he says, taking my hand in his own. He firmly shakes it twice, and then takes his hand back, retreating a few paces from the bed. To make me feel more comfortable, I assume. "I'm so sorry to walk in on you like this Laurel, but when you didn't show up to your graduation ceremony, I had to improvise."

Graduation? What does that have to do with—wait, how does he know my name?

"My name is Dr. Ferrell," he says smoothly. "And I'm here today to give you... well, an offer of sorts."

An offer?

Something my dad said suddenly comes to mind. He was talking about a 'eccentric guy in a lab coat' offering me a scholarship. One look at Dr. Ferrell tells me he's that guy. There are what look like coffee stains on his lab coat, and he's wearing a loud blue Hawaiian shirt and worn-out slacks underneath it. Noticing my confusion, he takes what looks like a blank business card out of some inner pocket in his lab coat. He holds it out to me in the palm of his hand, a serious film suddenly finding its way across what had previously been frivolous.

"But before we get into that, you likely want to know a bit about me and our circumstances. Why has this stranger burst into your room? Well, as I said, my name is Dr. Ferrell. Though I'm not your average doctor."

As if sensing his intentions, the rim of the card starts to glow, veins of blue appearing within the skin of an electronic organism. The lines scurry their way towards the center of the card, where they gather together and explode upwards, ripples of blue lights materializing into the air. A holographic image forms within the light, rotating slowly enough for me to take it all in. It looks a little bit like a police badge, but there's an acronym unknown to me etched into it: DoHEaTI.

What a strange acronym.

Never mind that I'm seeing my first true hologram, something that I believed to exist only in the realm of science fiction; the acronym is the most important part in this discovery. Clearly.

"Among many, many other things, I'm a neurosurgeon and what I like to call a 'technology generalist.' I'd give you the list of my PhDs, but that would take up too much of the limited time I have here," he says, glasses glinting blue in the light, "so let's get straight to the point. I'm a high-ranking member of the Department of Human Enhancement and Technological Integration—or 'doe-heati' as we like to call it—and I'm here to make you an offer I firmly believe you won't refuse."

You're pretty confident about this, I tell him silently. The man isn't inspiring anything but skepticism.

"Now. How about we make this a two-way conversation?" he asks, reaching for my phone. "If my records are correct, you've been using this antiquated little thing to communicate."

Records?

He opens notepad and places the phone under my fingers for me.

"Now, back to my explanation. DoHEaTI is a government sanctioned organization that deals with theoretical research into the marriage of the human body and psyche with technology. A lot of what we do would likely look like sci-fi to you, but I assure you that what we do is both possible, real, and very, very dangerous," he explains, tucking his business card back into his pocket. "If our projects were to fall into the wrong hands, the world would be a much darker place. However, in a few select cases, we choose to gift individuals with the use of this technology."

'And I guess this 'offer' you're going to give me has something to do with that?'

"It has everything to do with it," he says, grinning. "Tell me, do you remember taking the ASVAB?"

'That military test thing? Yeah, I do,' I tell him, suddenly starting to feel a little more cautious. 'What about it?'

"Well, you did very well on it," he says simply. "And that, coupled with your IQ and SAT scores, made you a blip on the radars of several noteworthy covert agencies. Had you not have ended up handicapped, I have no doubt you would have been recruited not long after entering University."

'Well, sorry to disappoint,' I type, wishing my bitterness could be more easily conveyed through text.

"Hold on there, no need to glare at me," he says, hands raised in a placating gesture. "I'm not finished. It's because of your current situation that you're eligible for our program."

He turns away for a moment, picking up the clipboard attached to the wall. I assume it keeps track of my condition—the nurses write on it every time they come in. He flips through it, nodding thoughtfully every now and again.

"ALS—amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. I'm sure you're aware how it works," he says, looking down at me from the corner of his eye. "The motor neurons controlling voluntary movement die, making it impossible for signals from the brain to travel through the peripheral nervous system. Muscles don't move, and they eventually atrophy beyond repair."

'Yeah, I know—'

"Patients usually die within three years of diagnosis due to complications with breathing or swallowing," he says with finality. His face is unreadable except for his eyes. Before, they'd been warm, sympathetic. They've since cooled to the temperature of ice. He's watching me carefully, gauging my reaction. "And you were diagnosed late. Your prognosis isn't great—you're expected to expire within the year."

'I'm well aware. Thank you for the reminder.'

I glower up at this stranger in a lab coat, hoping a nurse will come in soon and kick him out for me. I prefer to do my sulking by my lonesome.

"You seem to have accepted it," he notes, turning to me more fully. "Not in denial, not angry, not scared... if you're depressed, I can't tell."

'Why thank you.'

"So I suppose you've just given up. Is this the end of the line for you? Are you going to lay here and wait for death to come calling?"

'That's the current plan, yeah.'

"Hmm, well... then I don't know," he sighs. He replaces the clipboard, and then pulls back one of his sleeves to pointedly check his watch. "If you don't want to live, then I suppose I shouldn't waste my time. You're bound to turn down my treatment if you've already quit."

'Hold on,' I type quickly, looking at the man through a different lens. 'What's this about treatment?'

"Oho, so I have your attention now?" he asks, self-satisfaction lacing his newfound smile. "Tell me, Laurel. Would you be as cynical if I told you I could cure you?"

If I could move, I would be recoiling. Something about this doesn't seem right.

'No... you're lying,' I tell him, eyes narrowing. 'There's no way you have something like that. If any cure existed, it would have made international news by now.'

"I see you also have a healthy lack of trust," he notes, coming nearer to the bed than he has thus far. He bends towards me, his eyes obscured by the reflected red of the sunset. "That's good—part of what I look for in my candidates. But I assure you Laurel, I'm not lying."

'Then why haven't I heard of this cure before?' I challenge, staring him straight in the glasses. 'It doesn't add up.'

"I never said this cure was assured. And even if it were, it isn't practical for widespread use," he says, straightening. "Among other difficulties, the operation is still highly experimental—in fact, there's a large chance you'd die from it."

He pauses for a moment, his grin unnervingly constant.

"But that shouldn't bother you, right?"

I don't respond, distracted by the whirlpool of emotions raging through me. A cure? Could he really have one? And if he does, do I want it?

Of course I do. I don't want to be trapped here, a prisoner to my own body. But it all sounds too good to be true—there has to be a catch. A pitfall in the field of flowers. Where is it?

'What does this "offer" entail, exactly?' I ask him hesitantly. I didn't think it would be possible for his smile to get any wider, but I'm proven wrong the moment the words appear onscreen. It's unnerving how many teeth he's showing—his face looks like it may rip in two.

"I'm so glad you asked," he purrs. "This operation, as I said, has many other... complications. If you aren't fazed by the possibility of death, then we would have to consider matters like cost. The operation is so expensive that the average salaried American wouldn't be able to pay it off in their lifetime."

'Oh...'

"However," he says, cutting me off before I can continue, "that's where the offer comes in. Should the operation be a success, you'll become an agent of sorts for DoHEaTI. Think of it like a work-study program; room and board will be covered, and we'll train you to work for us. On top of that, when the time comes for you to leave, you'll have an accredited master's-level degree in some branch of the sciences."

'And just what would I do as a DoHEaTI agent?' I ask.

"Now that is classified," he says. "In fact, agree to my offer, and you'll become classified. I'm not here to deceive you, Laurel. I'm not going to tell you everything will be sunshine and rainbows if you shake my hand. The nature of the operation will make it imperative that you're separated from the majority of society until your debt has been repaid. That's projected to be about four years, without complications."

'Wait, wait. So you're telling me that if you cure me, I then have to be in solitary confinement for four years? What kind of deal is that? I refuse.'

"No, you misunderstand," he says. "You'd be separated from civilian society. But that doesn't mean you'll be in solitary confinement—quite the contrary. You'll be integrated into a family of people like you. People with brilliant minds who have overcome unimaginable hardships, all working together to simultaneously create the future and protect the present."

...

As much as I hate to admit it, something about that last part appeals to me. A group of people who have been through what I've been through, and see the world as I do? Who wouldn't like the sound of that?

'...What happens if I refuse?' I ask suddenly.

"Well... nothing, I suppose. You stay here and patiently await a visit from the grim reaper, staring out your window and fooling your family into thinking you're tough as nails and unafraid," he says.

'What if I told the world that a government organization is withholding the cure to a devastating disease?'

"Oh, you won't be able to. Believe me, no one will ever hear a word—typed or otherwise," he says, chuckling. "If you knew what we were capable of, you wouldn't be so flippantly trying to threaten me."

'....'

"Think about it, Laurel. You'll be able to do a lot more than just walk again—my treatment will restore complete control of your neural pathways, and even do a bit more," he says. "Don't you want to leave this bed? Your talent is wasting away as it is now."

'Just what does this operation entail?'

"To put it in terms you'll understand it, I'll be replacing your peripheral nervous system with fiber optic wiring and implanting a processor of sorts into your brain. As I said, it's highly experimental."

'So... you're going to turn me into a cyborg? What is this, a science fiction novel?'

"Of sorts, I suppose," he agrees, shrugging. "But if successful, you'll regain complete control of your body."

I'll be cured, all my expenses would be taken care of for roughly four years, and I'll leave with a master's degree...

...

All of which I couldn't have wished for, even on a Harvard scholarship.

What do I have to lose?

'Can I... have some time to decide?' I ask, weakening. Dr. Ferrell glances at his watch, nodding to himself.

"Sure. You have... about five minutes. Wow, time really does fly—"

'Only five minutes?! Wait, I need to talk to my family about this—I can't just decide!'

He looks up at me, a strangely incredulous look in his eyes.

"Talk to your family? Laurel, this is the sort of thing that you can't tell anyone about. Your family can't know where you're going."

'Oh, and you just neglected to tell me that before? Then forget it, I'm not going.'

I can't just leave Chase like that.

"You would be leaving them for Harvard too, wouldn't you? And I didn't say you wouldn't be able to contact them—you'll just have a cover story," he says nonchalantly. "While your communication would be reduced, it would by no means end. We aren't cruel."

'Would I be able to see them?'

"Not until your time in the program is up, no."

'Then I'm not going. I refuse.'

Dr. Ferrell watches me carefully, his eyes moving ever so slightly as he thinks. I meet his gaze with one of steely determination, unwilling to wield. He eventually sighs and reaches into his lab coat with a sense of resignation.

"I knew it would come to this," he says slowly. "Maybe this will change your mind."

A blank check. Out of his pocket comes a blank check, with my father's name printed neatly on the recipient line.

'Pay to the order of Jeff Amaxa. Memo: for medical expenses and other necessities.'

It's already signed. Dr. Ferrell sets it on my bedside table, along with a pen. Then he turns back to me, his face as blank as his check, his smile gone. He understands the weight of what he's just done.

"So... do we have a deal?"

...

'Yes.'

"Excellent!" he exclaims, grinning. "I'm glad that's settled. We should see each other again then, Laurel. With some luck, that is."

Without warning, the world begins to blur. Strange colored shadows like the iridescence in a slick of oil dance throughout the room, slowly consuming the world...

I try to move my fingers, to ask what's happening to me, but a thick fog is clouding my mind. This isn't like my normal blackouts—it's different. Sweeter, somehow.

The world of white and rainbows is shut out as my sand-bag eyelids slide shut.