I keep picking at a small hole in the green vinyl seat cushion. My finger worms its way through the thick exterior fabric and into the soft foam, the way I imagine the anesthesia and nanobots entering through my veins in a few hours.

Or whenever they get around to calling my name.

Glancing up, I check the analog clock above the nurse's station, and I swear the red second hand moves in slow motion. It can't be right that I've only been here for fifteen minutes.

I look back down at the worn seams of my chair and wonder how many people have sat in this seat before me on their Choosing Days. Did they do what most people do and choose beauty or charisma? Or did they have a plan for something different, like I do?

The plan only Marcy knows about.

I've heard stories about people requesting outlandish things on their Choosing Days. In last year's class, there was a guy who swore he was going to choose to have flames for hair. He told anyone who would listen.

But did he go through with it?

No. Of course not. They don't let you make choices you will regret when you're forty. That's why you speak with a counselor before you meet a surgeon.

Last I heard, that guy is training to be in finance. He wears a well-tailored suit every day and always keeps his hair trimmed, combed, and parted on the left side.

I'm not like him. My plan won't make me an abomination. It'll cure me of being one.

There are about a dozen of us in this waiting room–happy twentieth birthday to us!–but it's so quiet that if I closed my eyes, I would swear that I was alone in my dorm. The loudest sound is the buzz of the overhead fluorescent lights, which prickles my ear like a mosquito.

A few people look familiar to me. There's a guy with auburn hair squeezing a ball in his hand that was in my ninth year history class, and the girl with wire-rimmed glasses and tightly curled hair lives in my building.

No one is talking, which is weird. You'd think some people here would be friends. Or at least chatty acquaintances. We all grew up in this city, went to school here when we were kids, and now live in the same few blocks of dorms.

I guess everyone is lost in thought, wondering what it will feel like to change. To be made perfect. Will it hurt?

I don't care if there is pain, and I'm not seeking perfection. I just want to feel complete.

My mother described the procedure as tingling a little. A vibration that flows down your limbs and out the tips of your fingers. But this morning, when I pressed her for more, she admitted she couldn't recall. They keep the memory shrouded in fog because they don't want us trying to experiment on ourselves.

They say they don't want the world to descend back into chaos.

As I sit here, picking at the seat cushion, the vinyl tears and fabric loosens around my finger. I freeze. If the nurse sees what I'm doing, she could write me up for property destruction.

The last thing I need is another mark on my record.

I try to focus on something else. My eyes are drawn to the sharp light bouncing off the chrome armrests and the polished linoleum floors. The lighting reveals every imperfection–fitting for the day when they will all be erased.

I slip my finger out of the tear I've created and fold my hands in my lap. They are pale and delicate and hairless. I try to imagine what my hands will look like after I make my choice. After I am fixed.

Suddenly, a rubber sole squeaks on the slick floor and my head jerks up. There's an orderly wearing sage-green scrubs and a matching surgical mask holding a clipboard. He runs a gloved finger down the list in front of him until he comes to the next name.

I hold my breath.

Wait.

"Brandon?" he calls out in a bored voice.

I exhale my disappointment.

A few rows away, a young man who I don't recognize stands up. He is tall and broad-shouldered; his dark shaggy hair is dyed with orange and red streaks. As he saunters by me, I notice the edge of a tattoo peeking out from under his shirt sleeve and a silver hoop pierced through his lower lip.

If Marcy was here, she'd roll her eyes and whisper in my ear that he has been busy trying on different personas—punk today, jock yesterday, and business bro tomorrow. And I would probably agree.

But I'm sure that in a few hours, Brandon will look as clean-cut and traditionally handsome as most of the men here in Dimstad.

The thought of Marcy squeezes my chest.

She wished me luck this morning as I left our dorm room, placing her hand on my forearm, filling my stomach with carbonation. The bubbles danced in my chest and burned my throat as I swallowed them down.

Will she recognize me after my procedure is done?

As the buzz fills my ears, a pit forms in my stomach. The tension that I've carried with me for as long as I can remember is the knowledge that I'm wrong inside, and that today is my opportunity to make everything right.

I can't tell if I'm excited or nervous. I just hope I don't throw up.

Finally, footsteps approach again. Another squeak on the linoleum. I look up and see the same orderly running his finger down his clipboard.

"Charlotte?" he calls.

I stand.

"It's Charlie," I mutter, even though I know he isn't listening.

As I walk down the aisle of chairs and over to the hallway, I can feel the weight of everyone's eyes on me. Their silent judgment of my limp ponytail and baggy clothes. The awkward way I carry myself, slumping to keep my chest from being obvious.

My hands ball into fists in my pockets. This will be the last time strangers look at me and see a girl. A young woman.

After twenty excruciating years, I'll finally have the man's body that matches my mind.

The orderly glances at me and then turns on his heels without a word, leading me down the hallway. After a few steps, we turn right down a longer corridor lined with unmarked doors. Plain. White. Sterile. Each one closed.

Our steps cut through the silence as we turn again and again. Then suddenly, the hallway opens up, like streams converging with a river. The orderly points to a carpeted alcove with one upholstered chair.

I sit down as he walks away.

There's a door to my left and a potted rubber tree to my right. On the adjacent wall, a large portrait hangs of the Great Olek, who restored order to Dimstad many generations ago by reining in the chaos of unchecked technological advances. It is because of him that we still live in peace and prosperity.

The orderly's shoes still echo in the distance when the door next to me opens. Brandon comes walking out wearing only a blue hospital gown and socks. He's accompanied by a young woman wearing a slate uniform.

He looks at me, smiles, and gives me a thumbs up.

Will I have to be naked for the procedure? No one warned me about that.

Despite my unease, I smile back at him. Then I turn to see a counselor standing by the doorframe. He's an older man, clean shaven and bespeckled, wearing a cream wool sweater and slacks.

Steepling his fingers, the counselor smiles at me. "Charlotte, are you ready?"

"It's Charlie," I say as I step past him and into the room. "And, yes, I am ready."

It's a windowless office with minimal decorations. There is one large wooden desk in the middle of the room, and a wheeled workstation in the corner where an assistant is standing, ready to take notes. The counselor points to the cushioned chair facing the desk and then he steps around and sits in the high-backed office chair.

He picks up a pen, clicks it, and opens a manilla folder that is already placed on the desk. He looks at me from over his glasses and smiles. "Before we get started, I just want to say, Happy Birthday."

"Thank you." I shift in my seat, glancing from him to the woman in the corner. She wears the same scrubs and mask as the man who walked me here. Her eyes are fixed on a screen as her fingers dance over a keyboard.

"You have a big choice in front of you today," the counselor says.

"Yes, sir. I know."

"Hmm." He looks down at the folder, and I watch his eyes skim over the notes in front of him. "You've been studying to become an electrician?"

"Yes, sir."

"Interesting choice for a young lady."

The word choice takes on extra significance today, and I swallow hard. But this isn't the first time I've heard this. My usual response is a joke about how I am fascinated by power. Sometimes I just shrug and tell the truth; I like the puzzle of how the wires connect into circuitry.

But this time, I admit a different truth. A deeper truth.

"I am not a young lady. I'm a man. In here." I place my stubbornly delicate hand over my chest, suddenly aware of how ridiculous I must seem to him.

My lip trembles as I speak. This is the first time I've said it out loud to anyone except Marcy.

The orderly in the corner doesn't visibly react, but there is a skip in the rhythm of her typing.

The counselor purses his lips and nods. "I see." Then, after a beat, he smiles and looks up. "I see," he repeats.

Under his gaze, my shoulders relax. I recite the words I've been practicing in my head for years. "My choice today is to have a male body."

"I see," the counselor says a third time, his smile unwavering. Then he stands. "For this sort of request, I just need to grab an additional form. Please excuse me for one moment."

"Oh, yeah, sure," I mutter as he disappears through a side door I hadn't noticed before.

As soon as the door shuts and we're left alone, the orderly lowers her mask, revealing lavender lipstick. "That request... Something like that... It won't be honored. He just triggered an override. And that means trouble."

She turns her screen towards me and my stomach drops. Big red letters appear next to my ID picture: MENTAL DEFECT.

"You are in danger. Run," she mouths. "Now."

I push myself up, but I don't understand.

"What?" I ask, the blood draining from my face.

"There is no time to explain," she whispers, stepping around from her station and slipping me a small plastic card. "Take the stairs. Go to the basement. Don't look back."

I look down at the card in my hands and then back up. The door knob on the side door turns. The orderly lifts her mask back up. Her eyebrows are insistent.

I turn. I push through the door. I run.

There is a shout behind me. An alarm blares.

I do not look back.