Signing the contract with Prism was not a same-day event, much to my chagrin. Evangeline said it had to be written, checked by lawyers, rewritten, and rechecked. I stopped listening for a bit until she said she’d see me in a week or so. That didn’t stop me from checking my holo every hour for the past two days. The legal stuff was annoying, but needed for the parts Evangeline and I were playing to break her free.

  I check my holo for a message, and the movement makes me shift on the medical table. The paper coating it rustles in answer.

  Prism’s legal wasn’t the only thing I was waiting on.

  The doctor was late.

  Az stands still in the corner. He entered power save mode a while ago, leaving me alone with my thoughts. His cyan lights fade in and out in mock snores. I check my holo again, but there are no messages. No notifications. No one trying to reach me. A year ago, my social life was star bright. Parties, dates, and screaming through concerts with Mel took up my time. And, like a supernova, it exploded and faded into nothing. The star’s death captured everything I once enjoyed and burned it to dust. Things blended into a gray smear, accented by the buzzing numbness of meds. No more parties, dates, or concerts. For a while, walking without losing my breath was out of the question. My kidneys were dying, and I along with them.

  There should have been an immediate answer. At the time, I was under the impression that’s how all this worked. Instead, all I got was my head refusing to commit each day to memory until they all blended together in a long, drawn-out wail of grief.

  Life, as I had lived it, ended.

  Doctor visits became bright spots of burning hope. But each kicked me while I was down, offering no answers and more meds. Round pills to bring down my blood pressure. Long pills to take away excess water.

  And small pills for the depression.

  Then, answers.

  It ended up being a one-two punch. First, the fibromuscular dysplasia tried to kill my kidneys. It triggered the autoimmune disease, and while the fibro dysp is in remission due to surgery, the autoimmune disease requires constant meds and doctor appointments.

  No miracle cure. No science is catching up to the needs of patients like me. No pill to bring me back to my old normal. Back to not worrying about how a party was going to leave me the next morning. Back to a date not judging me due to the use of a cane. Back to a concert not hitting me too hard that it would send off a chain reaction of pounding pain scorching through my joints.

  I heave out a sigh and catalog any twinges to get an accurate level of my pain. Not that I’ll tell the doctor, because there’s the whole issue. Evangeline hit the target when she said my diseases were enough to keep me from the stars. Downplaying my pain and symptoms is a way to get off the pills. I need to figure out a way to hide the diagnosis so that a company will let me board a spaceship to the stars.

  A quick knock on the door precedes Doctor Pratcher. Az comes alive and stands to his full height. His shoulder guards pull tight in defense. I wave him down.

  Doctor Pratcher struts in with a half jog, confidence slicing across his face in sharp teeth that blend in with his skin. He’s kept his dark hair, though silver laces it like stardust, and the brightness in his clear blue eyes promises compassion. However, he’s not bright with the deep gray slacks and white shirt under his white coat. One thing points towards current fashion. A splash of color drips from his neck, forming a magenta tie with a full Windsor knot. He pulls out the stool, sits on it, and spins a few times before pulling himself into the desk.

  “Jaqs! How’s the pain today?” Doctor Pratcher’s voice is cheerful. A huge departure from the murmured tones of the nurses.

  “About a three,” I lie. More like a seven. The ten is locked in a box for safekeeping. I’ve gotten close, but I figured if all my limbs are still attached, I’m not there yet.

  “Still handling the pain with NSAIDS?”

  “Yup, all good.” Another lie. But everyone takes over-the-counter pain pills. I can always lie if someone asks how often I take them. They won’t keep me from space.

  “That true?” Doctor Pratcher asks Az.

  Az beams pink at having been noticed. “Very true.”

  Good bot.

  Az shouldn’t be able to lie. It goes against his protocols. But due to some careful logic exercises, he can.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  The first law of bots requires a bot to not harm a human. It was easy enough to convince Az that if the full truth was out there, he would be harming me. The pearl-clutchers of the sixties who demanded the bot laws came in handy, this time.

  Doctor Pratcher opens the holo on the desk, pulling and pinching screens until he finds the pieces of my chart he wants. His eyes narrow. “Let’s see here. Still taking the plaquenil? Having any issues?”

  “Yep and no.”

  He hums, tapping his foot while he reads. “We haven’t run labs in a bit. Your last ones were high on a few things. Those values could be worse, but we should check them again.”

  “Do we need to run labs?”

  He fixes me with a stern look. “Why do you not want to?”

  I grimace. “I don’t want to waste resources. We’ve run them in the past and things have been fine.”

  “Fine isn’t good, Jaqs.” He chides.

  “Fine is a neighbor to good.” I meet his eyes and shrug.

  “Fine is a synonym!” Az supplies. His eye sockets glow yellow, pleased with himself.

  “Thanks, bud. That was the joke,” I say. Az blinks, storing the response.

  Doctor Pratcher sighs. “I don’t want you to end up in the hospital again.”

  “That makes two of us,” I say, trying not to jiggle my leg. I wish I’d canceled the appointment, but the plaquenil is what’s keeping the disease semi at bay, and I need a refill. I take a deep breath. “I’ll tell you if things get worse and I need something.”

  He turns and rolls the chair close. His bright eyes find my tired ones. “I’ll let you get away this time because the disease isn’t that bad.”

  Doctor Pratcher may mean it to be placating, but his words are a painful barb that snatch my insecurities and shreds the bag holding them open to spill into my mind, bleeding into my thoughts. I don’t belong in the land of the healthy or the seriously ill. I’m trapped in a wretched purgatory plagued by the echo of his ridicule and my own confusion.

  “Hands!” He all but shouts.

  I submit my hands to his probing. No swollen joints, but I clench my teeth through the pain he causes by squeezing.

  “How’s the hair loss? Any lesions in the mouth or nose?”

  “Hair loss keeps happening. No lesions.”

  He examines inside my nose and mouth to double-check. I heave a sigh when he’s done.

  “Any difficulties walking?”

  “Minimal,” I lie.

  Onto the knees, ankles, and feet. All normal. The process is humiliating. My body has failed from the inside out and refuses to showcase any of it to make the disease easier to treat.

  “Breathing problems?”

  “None.” Another lie. No need to tell him about my ribs causing pain.

  He pulls off his stethoscope. “Thinking or memory issues?”

  “Off and on. I lose words sometimes.”

  The cold metal goes against my chest. “Breathe.”

  I do.

  “Still smoking?”

  “Three times a day.”

  The stethoscope gets pulled away. “Not great, Jaqs. As a reminder, 3D printed lungs still aren’t as good as your own, so try to not need them. Next appointment in six months.”

  “Six months?” My mouth falls. My last appointment was a year ago. I should have been in the clear to keep that cadence.

  He frowns and shakes his head. Non-negotiable. “Do you need a refill?”

  “Yup.” I need to get out of here. Away from the beige sterile walls closing in like a trap, pressing my lies closer, threatening to break me.

  “All right, Jaqs.” Doctor Pratcher sighs. I get it. I’m exhausted by myself too. “Make an appointment on the kiosk on the way out. Don’t make the nurse have to hound you.”

  Five minutes later, I’m back out on the street with an appointment made and my shoulders lowering from my ears. I melt around a corner and into a graffiti covered alley. Splashes of opalescent letters cover the lavender brick. Someone’s tag, though it’s a mess of lines to me.

  The cig is a comfort between my fingers while a red stylized skull glares down above the tag. Passing judgment on my poor choices. Smoke curls into my mouth and steals the rest of the concern to disperse it in the cooling air. Az stands across from me, waiting.

  “We did OK, huh, bud?” I ask him.

  A drizzle starts, coating Az and me in a sheen of diamonds. They melt into my hair and clothes, demanding the heat from my body in offering to winter. A wicked beast marking the end of the year. It crawls closer, devouring the crunch of leaves and chasing the warm days into hiding. And as it creeps, it brings hard, hurtful memories of last year when the shivers wouldn’t stop. Of Mel struggling to lift me, and her rushing to get Az’s larger form from outside. Of Az scooping me up. And the snow falling onto my upturned face while the ambulance sirens rushed closer.

  “We’re doing fine,” Az replies.

  “They mean the same thing,” I groan, still lost in the memory. His dictionary may need an update.

  “That was the joke.”

  God dammit. I walked right into that one. I stub out the cig and put it back in the case to finish later. “Let’s go home, Az. Go out into the street and transform to moto mode, please.”

  Az breaks through the crowd, and I follow in his wake. Between two mod trees, one turquoise, the other fuchsia, Az transforms. The smooth transition stretches his height horizontally. The people around us pay little mind. Most move on with their days in demanding paces. Except for one.

  Leaning against a tree across the way, next to a scrolling ad searing into the sky, is a person. They’re femme presenting in a bad magenta costume wig and all pink to match. Their eyes are hidden by rose shades, but there’s no mistake. They’re staring at me.

  It’s not Robert, I’m almost completely sure of that. The build seems bigger, and there’s an air of confidence about them that Robert lacked. A chill tiptoes down my spine. I don’t need someone else watching me.

  I return their gaze and swing my leg over Az. Even through the pain, it’s easy. The movement is driven by desperation to find solace at home. To get away from the mounting chill of the day and the shadow of doubt racing towards me. Away from the person who still stares. Something is unsettling about them that reaches into my core to dig up childhood fears of devils in the night. They’re trying to fit in with their hair and clothes, but it’s not natural to them.

  They’re a not bright person in a society they don’t belong in.

  A cold shiver ricochets down my spine. But the person has no right to my fear. I salute them and ease Az into traffic.