The Anarchists by Brian Thompson

she lazily responded. “How I do that?”
    “Go ahead. It’s totally sanitary and soundless.”
    “No thanks.”
    “Accelerated hydration means you won’t be holding it long. Other than continent, how are you?”
    I wanna see Tay. “What’s this blue one called?”
    He took her arm and turned the tube in question face up. “The name is long, scientific – it’ll help you regain your bearings. Now, how are you?”
    Teanna remained silent. Why’s he keep askin’ me that?
    “Talk is all you have.” Adharma repositioned his eyeglasses. “You won’t be released without my consent, and I will not consent unless you talk.”
    “Why you wear glasses, Nandor? Get laser surgery. What are you, Indian?”
    “I like my glasses. A quarter-Indian. How are. . .”
    “Pissed off, upset, irritated, sad. . .that what you want me to say?”
    Adharma motioned his fingers over the computer screen projection. “It’s a start. Why sniff?”
    Teanna paused. “My momma traded me for a hit one night. Figured I’d see the appeal.”
    “Make your story more believable next time,” he said without looking up.
    Teanna used the bed’s reclining controls to maneuver it into a more comfortable position. Usually, her lies passed muster.  “Ain’t know my daddy,” she somberly said.
    “Continue.”
    She paused for a moment and shifted. The doctor spoke the truth. She could no longer hold it and relieved her bladder while talking. “One night, Momma say he’s comin’. Put me in my best dress – braided my hair.” Teanna’s reminiscing brightened her eyes. “She’s tellin’ me, ‘Just wait, baby girl. He gonna take you out for ice cream, buy you toys’. . .do this, do that. Couple hours pass. I fall asleep in my dress watchin’ TV. When I wake up, Momma’s face down in sniff.”
    “So, why do you do it?”
    Pestered by the doctor’s interruption, she turned over into her pillow.
    “How long do you want to be in here?”
    “You waitin’ on a big reveal, but there ain’t one. One of Momma’s men came over years later. They’d passed out and I stole some. I like the high. Makes me forget.”
    “Forget what exactly?” he persisted.
    “Stress, bad news. Ain’t much more rhyme or reason.”
    “The dead boyfriend, Theodore Mitchell. Did you want to forget him?”
    “Not really.” She shot him a warning look, but he did not relent.
    “How did you two meet?”
    “Church,” she snapped. “Look, why don’t you just leave? Ain’t you got other patients? Stop botherin' me.”
    “I suppose that's enough for now. Command call if. . .”
    “Yeah, I got it. Not a first-timer here, thanks. Bye-bye.”
    As soon as the door slid closed, Teanna activated the room's HTV. The local news coverage had probably exhausted the murder. Shootings were popular. She selected a comedy to watch. The most watched shows featured Blacks and Latinos. She wondered where all of the white people had gone. 
    After an hour, channel flipping got old. Teanna called for assistance, and a medical droid rolled into her presence. Its technical sophistication contrasted with its crude physicality. “My name is Stan Witmore, of the pilot medical android program. What can I do for you, Miss Kirkwood?”
    “Wanna make a call.” She hated how droids were given names from defunct soap operas to personify them.
    “Outgoing calls are not permitted until your 72-hour surveillance period ends.” While pleasantly toned, Stan’s voice was definitive. “Do you have any family members that you would like for me to contact? The hospital permits visitors.”
    “No.” In truth, more than half of her relatives were dead or locked up. Teanna reclined and reduced the HTV’s volume to a barely audible level. She slowly and deeply breathed and closed her eyes, concentrating to forget the sounds and images to no avail. This time, she’d page Stan and ask for Adharma.
    “What can I do for you, Miss Kirkwood?” Stan’s voice and tone remained the