Glitch

into the cubicle, carry ing a tiny box. I was full of
    questions, but managed to keep my mouth shut. He opened
    the small case and pulled out a tiny piece of hardware.
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    Was this the device that would deactivate me? I swal-
    lowed hard, trying to take in every feeling and sensation of
    this moment in case it was my last.
    “Commencing monitor battery replacement with neo-
    alloy battery, part number X89.” His voice sounded lifeless.
    I held my breath as he pulled out the sliver of hardware.
    Just a battery replacement! Relief swept over me. The
    monitor let out a high- pitched squeal, but the doctor was not
    perturbed. He slid in the new battery and the noise stopped.
    “Replacement battery X89 complete.” He must be talk-
    ing to a voice- recording device that kept patient rec ords,
    because he barely seemed to notice I was even there. “Re-
    lease scheduled for six p.m. today.”
    He clicked the top of my heart monitor back closed and
    left without ever looking into my face. The trembling I’d
    been holding back the entire time started in earnest. The
    doctor had treated me like a piece of equipment. If I’d been
    more broken, if there had been more extensive damage than
    just a concussion and easily healable lacerations, he would
    have deactivated me with the same indiff erence.
    He had neglected to cover me again with the blanket.
    With shaking hands, I pulled it up to my chin. It had seemed
    suff ocating before, but now it seemed only a paltry shield
    against a creeping, horrible cold.
    I had the strangest longing for my mother, wishing she
    were here to push the hair back from my face and tell me
    everything would be okay. But of course, she wasn’t. I was
    sure my parents had been alerted to what had happened
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    Heather Anastasiu
    but they had work of their own to do. Why would they
    wait around with me and watch me sleep? It would be un-
    productive, illogical. Instead, I waited alone in the empty
    space, repeating the Community Creed to keep my heart
    monitor quiet, trying to hold my feelings in check, until I
    was released fi ve hours later.
    I had to take the subway home. My heart rate sped up as soon
    as I stepped into the subway car, in spite of how sluggish and
    exhausted I still was. The inside of the train looked just as
    normal and benign as the one I’d stepped into two days ago.
    I blinked and remembered the spattered blood. The crum-
    pled bodies with beeping heart monitors strewn all over the
    ground.
    I forced my eyes back open and worked on breathing
    normally. My whole body still ached. My hand went numb
    from gripping the pole tightly the entire way home.
    When I got into the apartment, I heard the rhythmic noise
    of footfalls on the treadmill in the front room. I paused,
    watching Markan’s arms pump calmly while he ran. He
    didn’t look up or acknowledge me. I stood for another few
    moments, hoping he’d see me, but he just stared blankly at
    the wall. Zoned out to the Link. My parents weren’t home
    either. I don’t know what I’d been expecting, but I guessed
    I’d ridiculously hoped for some kind of welcome. Something
    to let me know that they’d been worried about me or missed
    me, or even that they had noticed my absence.
    I’d expected coming home to my family quarters would
    make me feel better, that I’d feel that sense of safety and be-
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    longing that I sometimes did. But home was just a lie I’d
    made up to make myself feel better. The realization was as
    chilling as the empty hospital cubicle had been.
    I slid the door to my tiny room shut and sank down to the
    fl oor, fi nally crying the exhausted tears that I’d had to hold
    back while I was at the hospital. I took the pills the doctors
    had sent me home with and slept through the next day.
    I woke to someone shaking my shoulder. I blinked slowly.
    “Max!” I sat up quickly and threw my arms around him.
    The movement sent an ache through my side from the still-
    healing lacerations, but I didn’t care.
    “Why are you here?” I fi nally asked, still not letting go of
    my grip.
    “I came as soon as I could,” he said, pulling back. “I tried
    to see you at the hospital, but I couldn’t fi gure out their se-
    curity system in time.”
    “You tried to see me?” I asked in surprise. It was so
    reckless of him, but then I thought of waiting all alone
    in that horrible hospital room. Someone had wanted to
    come, someone cared about me, was thinking about me.