storage—“just in case.” He’d had the same dreamy look as Sascha. They all did, when the subject came up.
“The body ages,” I countered. “They say it’ll only last fifty years.”
“The body ,” Sascha said. “But now you know bodies can be replaced.”
The body would last fifty years. But brain scans could be backed up and stored securely, and bodies could be replaced. And replaced again.
I had died more than a month ago; I could live forever. Exactly like this.
Lucky me.
VISITING DAY
“Kahns don’t lie.”
T hey were late. Only by ten minutes, but that was weird enough. Kahn family policy: never be late. It meant an immediate disadvantage, a forfeit of the moral high ground. Still, at 10:10 a.m., I was alone in the “social lounge,” which, if the building-block architecture, hard-backed benches, and spartan white walls were any indication, was clearly intended to preclude any socializing whatsoever. I didn’t want them to come. Any of them. I hadn’t invited them, hadn’t agreed to see them…hadn’t been given a choice.
10:13 a.m.: Waiting, my back to the door, staring at the wall-length window without seeing anything but my reflection, ghosted into the glass.
10:17 a.m.: Three more ghosts assembled behind me, milky and translucent on the spotted pane. Three, not four.
Not that I’d expected Walker to show up, to pester my parents until he got an invitation to come along, to perch nervously in the backseat, his long legs curled up nearly to his chest, his back turned to Zo as he stared out the window, watching the miles roll by, suffering the Kahn family as a means to an end—to me. If he’d wanted to visit, he wouldn’t have any need to tag along with them.
If he’d wanted to visit, he already would have.
“Lia,” my father said from the doorway.
“Honey,” my mother said, in the tight, shivery voice she used when she was trying not to cry.
Zo said nothing.
I turned around.
They stood stiff and packed together, like a family portrait. One where everyone in the family hated one another but hated the photographer more. The huddle broke as they moved from the doorway, my mother and father a glued unit veering toward me, Zo’s vector angling off to a bench far enough from mine that, if she kept her head in the right position, would keep me out of her sight line altogether.
My mother held out her arms as if to hug me, then dropped them as she got within reach. They rose again a moment later; I stepped backward just in time. My father shook my hand. We sat.
My mother tried to smile. “You look good, Lee Lee.”
“This brain hates that nickname just as much as the last one.”
She flinched. “Sorry. Lia. You look…so much better. Than before.”
“That’s me. Clean, shiny, and in perfect working order.” I raised my arms over my head, clasped them together like a champ. “You’d think I was fresh off the assembly line.” I told myself I was just trying to help them relax. My mother wiped her hand across her nose, quick, like no one would notice the violation of snot-dripping protocol.
“Lia—” My father hesitated. I waited for him to snap. The unspoken rule was, we could—and should—mock our mother for her every flaky, flighty word until he deemed (and you could never tell when the decision would come down) that we had gone too far. “The doctors tell us you’re nearly ready to come home. We’re looking forward to it.”
That was it. His tone was civil. The one he used for strangers.
You did this, I thought, willing him to look at me. Not over me, not through me. And he did, but only in stolen glances that flashed to my face, then, before I could catch him, darted back to the floor, the ceiling, the window. Whatever I am now, you chose it for me.
“Zo, don’t you have something for your sister?” my mother asked.
Zo shifted her weight, then rolled her eyes. “Whatever.” She dug through her bag and pulled out a long, thin rod, tossing
“The body ages,” I countered. “They say it’ll only last fifty years.”
“The body ,” Sascha said. “But now you know bodies can be replaced.”
The body would last fifty years. But brain scans could be backed up and stored securely, and bodies could be replaced. And replaced again.
I had died more than a month ago; I could live forever. Exactly like this.
Lucky me.
VISITING DAY
“Kahns don’t lie.”
T hey were late. Only by ten minutes, but that was weird enough. Kahn family policy: never be late. It meant an immediate disadvantage, a forfeit of the moral high ground. Still, at 10:10 a.m., I was alone in the “social lounge,” which, if the building-block architecture, hard-backed benches, and spartan white walls were any indication, was clearly intended to preclude any socializing whatsoever. I didn’t want them to come. Any of them. I hadn’t invited them, hadn’t agreed to see them…hadn’t been given a choice.
10:13 a.m.: Waiting, my back to the door, staring at the wall-length window without seeing anything but my reflection, ghosted into the glass.
10:17 a.m.: Three more ghosts assembled behind me, milky and translucent on the spotted pane. Three, not four.
Not that I’d expected Walker to show up, to pester my parents until he got an invitation to come along, to perch nervously in the backseat, his long legs curled up nearly to his chest, his back turned to Zo as he stared out the window, watching the miles roll by, suffering the Kahn family as a means to an end—to me. If he’d wanted to visit, he wouldn’t have any need to tag along with them.
If he’d wanted to visit, he already would have.
“Lia,” my father said from the doorway.
“Honey,” my mother said, in the tight, shivery voice she used when she was trying not to cry.
Zo said nothing.
I turned around.
They stood stiff and packed together, like a family portrait. One where everyone in the family hated one another but hated the photographer more. The huddle broke as they moved from the doorway, my mother and father a glued unit veering toward me, Zo’s vector angling off to a bench far enough from mine that, if she kept her head in the right position, would keep me out of her sight line altogether.
My mother held out her arms as if to hug me, then dropped them as she got within reach. They rose again a moment later; I stepped backward just in time. My father shook my hand. We sat.
My mother tried to smile. “You look good, Lee Lee.”
“This brain hates that nickname just as much as the last one.”
She flinched. “Sorry. Lia. You look…so much better. Than before.”
“That’s me. Clean, shiny, and in perfect working order.” I raised my arms over my head, clasped them together like a champ. “You’d think I was fresh off the assembly line.” I told myself I was just trying to help them relax. My mother wiped her hand across her nose, quick, like no one would notice the violation of snot-dripping protocol.
“Lia—” My father hesitated. I waited for him to snap. The unspoken rule was, we could—and should—mock our mother for her every flaky, flighty word until he deemed (and you could never tell when the decision would come down) that we had gone too far. “The doctors tell us you’re nearly ready to come home. We’re looking forward to it.”
That was it. His tone was civil. The one he used for strangers.
You did this, I thought, willing him to look at me. Not over me, not through me. And he did, but only in stolen glances that flashed to my face, then, before I could catch him, darted back to the floor, the ceiling, the window. Whatever I am now, you chose it for me.
“Zo, don’t you have something for your sister?” my mother asked.
Zo shifted her weight, then rolled her eyes. “Whatever.” She dug through her bag and pulled out a long, thin rod, tossing
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