Luna Rising - part one

This is the first of a four-part story. It will have a beginning and an end, and will also tie into what you've already read, shedding more light on the Stone family, and the mysteries they have uncovered.

Alan West

The voice of my business manager is distant. Perhaps it is the medication they put me on. Perhaps it is my intense disconnect with this world I've created and the role I have chosen to play.

Ken's voice intensifies, but it is still not enough to draw my attention.

"Listen to me, Alan. This is important." 

I should pay attention. Families are counting on me. I'm not just the lead. I am also the executive producer for this project. But all I can do is stare at the city lights and crowded sidewalks zipping by just outside the limousine window. 

Ken indicates a landmark. "We're almost at the center. You really need to listen to me."

"I am listening." My voice is dead and distant.

"Then you need to hear me, Alan. I know you're hurting. Look, I get it. Your mind's not on the work. But you need to sign this. You know what's at stake if you don't."

"I know what's at stake."

"Then sign it and let me do my job."

The tinted window behind me slides down, revealing the driver. "I'm sorry to interrupt, Mr. West."

"It's fine. Go ahead."

"We're here. But there are people in front of the medical center. Do you want me to find a parking space out back?"

Excited faces pass by in slow motion, pressing in on the limousine. 

"No. You can let me out in front. It's okay."

Ken sets the contract on my leg, and his face does that thing it does when he means business, as though it has ever had an effect on me. I know good acting when I see it.

I pick up the pen resting on top and feel its weight in my fingers. This is a bad idea. I'm not in my right mind. I haven't read this or taken the time to truly absorb the implications, but what choice do I have? Besides, if things don't go well in the surgery, what does it matter who reaps the benefits of the legacy and wealth I leave behind? I scratch my name at the bottom of the page. There. It's done.

"Thank you, Alan. This is only a backup plan. You know that, right? You're going to get through this. The technology is new, but they've done several of these operations …"

Once again, I am unable to pay attention for I am now acutely aware of the crowd outside, and the performance I am expected to give. That is what it is, after all. My life is a performance, both on and off the set. Alan West is a character I play, and my fans expect him to step out of this vehicle, not a defeated coward, weighed down by the responsibilities of life.

I set my features and let my bodyguard know I'm ready. He climbs past and pushes his large mass out the door. "Step back, please. Step back. Give Mr. West some space."

A voice from the small crowd rises above the others. "Will you tell us what's wrong!"

"Step back, please."

"Will this impact One Starry Night?" Calls another voice.

"Step back."

Ken exits and helps create a path through the paparazzi. "Please, give us some room. Mr. West isn't answering questions today."

I squint at the light for a brief moment and quickly compose myself as I leave the safety of the vehicle and enter the fray. Cameras, microphones, and eager faces push in on all sides. There is even a drone hovering in the air to the left. They've come out in force. How nice.

I smile and wave.

"Are you going in for Surgery, Alan?" A microphone is thrust in my face.

"It's on the table, as I imagine I will soon be," I quip. There is a ripple of chuckles.

Another microphone comes near as I press forward. "Is your condition life-threatening?"

I don't take even the briefest of moments to consider how inappropriate the question is. Alan West wouldn't. And, when the lights come on, he is who I am.

"The doctor has given me grave news. Apparently, I have forty years to live." The line is delivered with sincere surprise, and the crowd eats it up.

In this moment, I am entirely Alan West. There isn't even a whisper of Tommy Barelli, the theater and band nerd from the broken home on the wrong side of Chicago. I am a famous movie actor, producer, and business mogul with charm, confidence, and fathomless strength. When I am Alan West, nothing in this world can touch me. 

"Is there anything you'd like to tell your fans!"

I reach the doors of the medical center, turn toward the hungry cameras, and recite a line from one of my films. It seems apropos. 

Finding a camera lens, I look into it deeply. "I've loved you since before I knew how much a heart could love, and I will always be with you, no matter what." With that, I pass through the entryway of the center with Ken holding the door and the bodyguard holding back the paparazzi.

"We love you too!" is the last thing I hear as the doors seal shut with a thump.

Ken examines me. "Are you okay?"

"Aces, Ken," I say, with a voice no longer monotone.

"I'm sorry about that. We tried to keep this a secret, but the vultures have their resources."

"I know. No worries. This is how it works. We should be thankful that they showed up. They only do this when the star is bright."

"Good morning, Mr. West." I turn to face a lovely red-headed woman in a casual, white business suit. "I'm here to bring you straight in for your scan."

I feel the emotions of Alan West. He doesn't hide his smoldering attraction and pushes the world away to make this woman his entire focus.

She lifts her delicate fingers to her cheek and moves a lock of hair over her ear in response to my attentive stare. It is a typical response and a reminder that not every aspect of my life is out of control.

"Good morning," I say, leaning in to read the badge on the waist pocket of her blazer. "Candice, is it?" As I pull back, our eyes lock. 

She looks as though she doesn't know what to do with herself. "Um, yes. Candice. I'm here to bring you to the lab for your scan."

"Yes, you said that."

"Yes. I did. Right then."

"It's nice to meet you, Candice."

She swings her hands abruptly. "We have a wheelchair."

"I see that."

"I mean, for you, you know, if you need it."

"I'm okay to walk if that's alright." 

She wiggles her head. "Yes. Yes, of course."

I lift my brows. "You're adorable. I hope you're going to be with me through this whole thing."

A playful smirk wrinkles her lips, and I see the subtle heat of desire in her eyes. She straightens and pulls back. "This way, Mr. West." 

A deflection. I like it. And here I thought this day would only bring misery.

Candice leads us through digital checkpoints, past visibly armed security, down sanitized corridors, and into a room with three technicians and walls of flashing lights. Beyond thick glass is a large white room with a yellow chair—my chair, I assume.

Ken grips my arm. "We'll be down the hall if you need us. You're in good hands." He smiles at Candice. "Take good care of my friend. He's a famous actor, you know."

She produces a bright, beautiful smile. "Yes. I've heard he's quite big in Japan."

I put my hands to my heart. "You wound me."

She is pleased by my playful response, and it clearly boosts her confidence. "I'm not here to wound you, Mr. West; I'm here to help fix you." Pleased with herself, she presents the woman to her left. "Doctor?"

The doctor is dressed the same as the other two technicians, but her identification badge has a sparkle to it. She is also older—in her forties, maybe. 

She moves toward us. "Hello, Alan. I'm Dr. Kathrine Chang."

"Dr. Chang. I didn't expect to meet you. I thought you'd only be here for the surgery."

"I'll be overseeing the entire process."

"So, what does all of this fancy equipment do?"

"This," she says, with a wave of her hand, "is where we digitize the area of your brain around the tumor."

"So that, if I lose data, you can put it back in, right?"

"Yes. Something like that."

"I'm told this science is advanced."

"Advanced doesn't quite describe what this team has achieved. The science we are going to use to heal you today is lightyears beyond anything that has ever been developed. Trust me when I say your money is well spent."

What an odd statement. I've never known a doctor to bring up the subject of money. They don't like to put a price tag on the services they provide or haggle about what you can or cannot afford. Your treatment costs what it costs, and you need whatever they say you need. You, or your insurance company, can deal with the implications of the bill later. I would think that the practice of avoiding any discussion regarding finances would be even more valid in light of the alarming price tag of this treatment. But, perhaps the fact that it is coming straight out of my pocket with no help from my insurance company creates a unique precedent.

"So what do I get for my five million?" I ask.

"Immortality," she says, examining a nearby monitor.

"Immortality?" I look at Candice, "I would have paid eight."

Candice likes the joke. I'm not so sure about the doctor.

"Some day, this technology will allow people to live forever. It digitizes every memory and stores those memories in its databank, and, who are we but the memories we keep? Today, we will use it to safeguard any memories impacted by your surgery. Those memories will be kept in storage, safeguarded by redundant backup, permanently. Should you need them again, we won't have to repeat the entire process. In a way, you will live on, in a much more substantial way than your movies provide."

"So, should I worry about you selling me on eBay?"

She smiles. "No one would want the data."

"Ouch."

"You know what I mean. It is indecipherable. No one is able to view your memories or use them in any meaningful way. The data is an imprint of your mind, only usable for you alone. But, of course, you already know all of this."

Again, I look at Candice, "She's on to me."

The doctor presents the glassed chamber with an outstretched palm. "If you will proceed to the chair, we can get started. It is time to make you well."

Smiling, Candice moves to the side. "This way, Mr. West."

"Right then. Let's get this done."

I follow her into the giant chamber and approach the yellow seat. It is almost stylishly out of place in the sterile, white laboratory theme.

She steps to the side of the chair. "Please, have a seat, and we'll get started."

I sit down and recline. "How long will this take?"

Her lovely face floats above me. It is like the face of an angel. 

"It won't feel long," she says, as the two technicians work to put some kind of helmet on me. "You'll go from here, straight through to surgery, and wake up in bed. It will feel like taking a nap."

"Will I remember any of it? I'm told I will be awake through it all."

"You will be awake, but you won't remember."

"Will it hurt?"

"No. It is painless, except for the tiny pinch of the needle."

Before I can ask, what needle, one of the technicians gently turns my arm over and preps me for the I.V.

"In a moment, it will feel like you're going to sleep. Just let it happen. Give yourself over to it. Everything is going to be okay. It may help if you count backward from twenty to one." 

Her beautiful face is comforting. I'm sure that is why they hired her. It is easy to melt into her milky white skin, amber hair, and sapphire eyes. I focus on the face of the pretty girl and start to count in my mind. I stare at her as the numbers start to float away. I stare until her features begin to fade into a haze. Soon, there is no longer an image of her, only a feeling, a sweet and peaceful feeling. 

"I'll see you in a few minutes, Mr. West. Sleep tight."

I am unable to respond as I slip away.

Rachel Stone

Was this smart? Shift, scrape. It hardly seems like a good idea. Tug, scrape. I should have stayed with the others. Why do I feel like I have anything to prove to my family? Shift, scrape. Isn't it enough that I ventured down into this miserable cavern? Tug, scrape. Now, I feel the need to break away from the group and explore a crevice that leads to a section not recorded on the map? 

Real smart, Rachel. Real smart.

I slide out of the crevice and tug my backpack out of the tight space by its strap. Through the gap, I can see the lit and spacious cavern I left behind. The approved section. 

It isn't too late to go back. You don't have to do this. But you're going to anyway, aren't you? 

Yes. I am. Something has to change. I can't live with the burden of being a timid bookworm in a family of warriors. I can't keep living in the shadow of my brothers. No. This has to be done.

I swing around and hold my bulb out to get a sense of the small space. There is an incline going down into the darkness. It isn't steep, but there is a layer of powdery dirt on it. Caution is definitely warranted. It would not be good to hurt myself sliding on that rough, rocky ramp.

I heft my pack onto my shoulder, slide my arm through the other strap, and secure the light weight of it on my back. 

Here goes nothing.

I shuffle down the incline, running my hand along the stones on my right. After an excruciating few minutes, the passage turns into a flat, murky hallway that is more than a bit foreboding, and, I'm not sure if it is my imagination, but it seems to be narrowing. Fear floods my chest and face.

Really? You're scared again? How is this different, Rachel? You just crawled through a tight crack, deep in the dark earth.

It is though. Somehow it's different. The crack was short. I knew how far I had to go and what to expect. I was able to calculate the risk. This is definitely not the same. It feels like it is closing in on both sides and goes on into the darkness forever. I don't like it. Not one bit. But, this is what I'm here for, isn't it? Something to overcome? Something to conquer? 

Azan and Gabriel wouldn't think twice about zipping through this tight space with the solid wall crushing in on both sides. To my brothers, it wouldn't be a challenge. But, for me, it is a milestone. I've missed far too many opportunities to push past my fears, like the time my brothers coaxed me to jump off the bridge into the Potomac. I squandered that opportunity. Moreover, I embraced the shame of my cowardice and shrugged off their chiding words as though they didn't hurt. But they hurt. A lot. Perhaps this will help me break the cycle.

I push forward, heart in my throat, slowly, methodically, loathing every scuffling sound of my feet. It is all in my head. I know it. But I can't help but feel the incalculable tonnage of rock all around me. With each step, the fear grows, and my desire to stop grows with it.

Don't give up. Don't you dare give up.

It is so easy for me to give in to the fear. Why do I do that? Because I'm smart; that's why. I actually have the brains to know how stupid this is, unlike my meathead brothers. But intellect is not a quality valued in my family. Get up, be strong, work hard. If there is a challenge, conquer it with brute force—no brain needed. And, oh yeah, don't ever give up.

My fingers run along the cold, hard stone, and my mind imagines the hallway pressing in. A singular thought begins to take over. I imagine my fear growing to a fevered pitch with no way to stop it. In response, panic flares, and I pause in the jittering light of the bulb in my shaking hand.   

I can almost hear my brother Azan's voice in my head, "What good is being smart if you give up halfway through every challenge?"

I feel my face harden into a material stronger than the cavern walls, and I push forward again, forcing each step. I'm not doing this to prove myself to Azan, or to my father and mother—or even Great Grandpa Ben. This is for me.

Isn't it?

The hallway slowly widens, and the left rock wall moves so far away that it is obscured in darkness. My shoulder and backpack scrape against the rock wall to my right. It is sad, really. I can only imagine how tragic I look, creeping and sliding along the rocks, eyeing the cavernous darkness with terror in my eyes.

I turn and hold my bulb out at the darkness in defiance. In response, the light goes out. I snap it back to my chest, and it slowly comes to life again.

Okay...What on earth what that?

I squeeze my backpack against the rock wall behind me, unable to move, shallow breaths rapidly escaping my lips. 

Oh no, I am not getting stuck in this cavern without a light! That is not happening! 

I remain frozen for an eternity, barely able to breathe, eyes wide—surrounded by deafening silence only disturbed by a light drip from a distant water source. Slowly, as though waking from a deep sleep, my brain starts to process my situation. 

 It's okay. You have other bulbs. You're not in danger. Get a grip, girl!

When my courage returns, I push the bulb out in front of me again. It dims and is extinguished by the dark.

How is this possible? Isn't electricity like water? Aren't we submerged in it? How is it absent here?

I pull the bulb back, and the light comes on. Something in front of me prevents the electricity from getting to it, but I don't feel anything. Excitement replaces fear. Almost.

Now, this is worth risking my life. I can only imagine what the others will think when they hear about what I've found. Me, of all people. They're not going to believe it. The irony is stupendous!

I push the bulb outward and pull it back to my chest. Off and then on. My heart glows giddy with delight.

I creep forward and allow the bulb to go out and explore the darkness with my senses. Nothing touches my skin or hair or impedes my ability to breathe. There is no discernible difference. Why does the light go out?

As I stand in the darkness, absorbing every sensation, my eyes slowly bring into focus a tiny pinpoint of light, far off in the distance—assuming it exists at all. The mind can play tricks in the belly of the earth.

The phantom dot holds me captive, consuming all of my attention. I stare at it intently, until I am convinced that there is indeed a light.

It isn't a bright light. If it were bright, I'd see the rock surfaces around it. 

What could it be? It doesn't have any trouble staying lit in this dead zone. Is it beyond? Can I get to it? I don't like that idea one bit, no matter how curious I am. Besides, I have nothing to build a torch. My pack has climbing equipment, food, water, and other essential supplies for a short spelunk.

I crouch and feel the bumpy rock floor, continuing to stare at the faint speck of light deep in the suffocating dark. How far is it? There is no way to tell without knowing the size of the light source. Oh, and here's a horrible thought: If I push forward and that light goes out, what then?

Enough, Rachel! You need this. You can't live in the shadow of your brothers forever. Imagine their faces when they hear what their little sister did.

I back up and allow my bulb to glow again. I'll use its light to find my way back and attach a rope between the rock wall behind me and my harness, just in case something unexpected happens. That is more than enough precaution.

With an eyebolt in place and a rope attached, I set a bulb down and creep in the direction of where I saw the distant light. After several feet, the darkness grows, and the tiny light reveals itself again. I lock onto it and move forward with fierce determination, fully ignoring the occasional shivers quaking my body, despite my jacket.

I select each step carefully and inch my way forward, step by careful step. As I approach, it slowly takes shape. It looks like a sparkling jewel. Is it a jewel? What kind of jewel sparkles by its own power? It has to be technology of some kind.

As I intensify my focus on the tiny jewel, it disappears. Panic flares. Where did it go? Did it go out? I look over my shoulder to check on the light from my bulb. It is still there, and the cave walls are lit around it, like a lighthouse offering safe passage home. 

Calm down, Rachel. You're not going to get lost. Everything is going to be fine.

I face forward again and consider the darkness. There is no way of knowing what is in front of me. Perhaps there is something in the way. I crouch and immediately find the light again. Oh, good. It is still lit. There is just something blocking it. I move forward in a stooped position, hands outstretched. The jewel grows more defined, as does the opening through which I can see it, and, as I grope, my fingers come in contact with rocks. The jewel is on the other side, and the opening the light is passing through is created by two large and immovable boulders. There's no way I'm getting through without a pickaxe. 

Is there another way? Let's see. Nothing to the right. The rocks seem to make contact on that side from bottom to top, and I don't detect any of the dim light leaking through. What about the left? At the bottom, I feel many small stones under one of the large boulders. Can I create an opening large enough to slide through? More importantly, do I want to?

If Gabriel were here, he'd tell me to brush the dust off and get busy digging. Of my two brothers, he sees me as an equal. Azan is too much of a musclehead to recognize that women are strong. He makes me feel as though my skin might crack like eggshells when he hugs me. It is more than a bit annoying. If I go all the way, as far as I can go, it may change how he sees me.

Fine!

I drop to my knees, remove my backpack, and start digging. Handful after handful, I claw and dig the stones out. Time passes, and in the darkness and misery of the chore, I gradually lose all sense of direction. Despite staying in the same position, my mind begins to deceive me. I can't tell whether I'm digging into the wall or clawing at the stones I've already removed. No, I'm still facing the same direction.

Focus, Rachel!

It is getting harder to breathe. Is it anxiety? Partly. But I'm probably creating dust as I move the stones. I'm also raising the level of carbon dioxide with my labored breathing. If I'm in a small space, that could have consequences. What if I pass out?

Don't think about that.

The rocks are rough on my fingers as I continue to claw. There is no doubt my digits will be bloody after this. Gabriel would say, "It's nothing the tea won't cure." He is rarely fazed by hard work or the pain involved. I've only ever seen him defeated once. The loss of his wife still weighs on him. He thinks he hides it, but we can all see that his heart and his smile no longer touch.

A dim light creeps out of the rock pile, motivating me to ferocity. As I pull a larger stone free, there is a small collapse, and through the plumb of dust, more dim light pours out. I dig and dig, bearing the pain of the abrasive rocks. 

When I'm sure the hole is more than large enough to receive my small body, I stand and give the pile a strong kick to make sure it won't settle and crush me as I slide through. A few rocks fall, but that's it.

The fear of climbing into the tight space is overwhelming, but the joy of telling Gabriel fuels my determination. I can almost see the smile on his face, not as it has been recently, but how it was when we were young. Who knows, maybe the story of his timid sister braving the scary caverns and uncovering a secret mystery will bring him out of his sadness, if only for a moment. I remove the rope from my harness, get down on my belly, and start crawling. 

This is for you, brother—well, also for me—but mostly for you. 

The distance is short. I won't be under the rock pile for long. For that, I thank the Living God. Inch by inch, I wiggle through. The tightness in spots causes spikes of adrenaline. How much anxiety will I endure before I give up and start pushing my way out in panic? I'm well past anything I would have ever done. I may just see this through. 

Suddenly, I realize, I'm not alone. All of the other thoughts flee. Something is crawling on my hand. Something furry. Is it a rodent? No. It's a spider. That makes sense. There are a variety of spiders in these caverns.

I stay still and allow it to creep on my skin. All of my attention is on the animal as it makes its slow journey up my arm. I'm not thinking about the confined space anymore. I'm not thinking about how hard it is to breathe. All of my attention is on the spider, and I find it comforting. While this little spider can't help me if I get stuck or run out of air, at least I won't be alone when I die. It is nice to have company. Isn't that silly? It is strange how my brain works. 

He crawls all the way up to my neck and stops. It is as if he knows exactly where to position himself on my body to avoid getting crushed. Animals are so smart.

With the spider in a safe place, I continue forward, sliding on my belly until I emerge into the pocket of space beyond the rock barrier. It is tight, so I have to wiggle to position myself and stand. As I rise, I find the glowing jewel. It is socketed in a rectangular panel with an array of holes. 

I rub the spider on my neck. It pushes against my hand in response to my touch.

"What do you make of this, my furry, little friend?"

Immediately, a female voice fills the hollow space. "Hello? Is someone there?"

The Recovery Room

I have never felt so cold. It's deep and radiating from my bones. My eyes flick open. Beneath me is a bed—though it feels more like a slab in a morgue.

Is the operation over? Why am I so cold? 

I look down at my arms resting on the blankets that cover my chest. 

And why am I damp? Is that sweat?

The cold is excruciating. My body shutters as I grope the covers and pull them in.  

Where is the medical staff? There are no shapes moving about in the blurry room, and no sounds of activity, save for my grunting. There is also no call button dangling nearby or resting on the bed. What kind of medical center is this?

I call out, toward the closed door. "Hello? N-nurse?" 

A female voice speaks through an intercom. "Oh, good. You're awake."

"I'm fre-freezing. Can you bring me more blankets?"

"Don't worry, Alan. You'll warm up in a moment. We had some trouble with the environmental unit for your room."

"I'm not just cold. I think I have c-c-cold sweats."

"No. Those are actual sweats. I'm sorry. It was hot for a while before it got cold. It is fixed now. You should warm up in a moment."

This is a surprising level of incompetence for a facility on the cutting edge of medical technology. A patient shouldn't have to battle frigid cold when recovering from major surgery. In response to the thought, I pull my hand out from under the covers and feel my head. My fingers run through my thick hair and probe for bandages. There are none. No bandages? And a full head of hair? How? Did they do the surgery? They must have. Along with the absence of bandages, there is an absence of pain and the enveloping numbness I've lived in for months. 

I let a shiver ripple through me before I speak again. "What's going on?"

"I don't understand the question."

"Where are the bandages? This doesn't make any sense."

"No bandages were needed."

"How do you do brain surgery without cutting into my head?"

"We used nanites to remove your tumor. There was no need to cut skin or bone. The nanites entered your body through your nose and ears, and their interior routes were cauterized."

"No kidding; when you said you had advanced technology, you were serious."

"The technology of this facility is considerably advanced. We were able to remove all of the tumor, and you should recover quickly."

"What about my memories?"

"Fully restored."

"Amazing."

It worked. They did it. I'm healed—and they didn't even have to drill through my skull. The thought warms me. Wait. Not the thought. I'm actually warm. In fact, in the short time we've been talking, the temperature in the room has made the pile of covers uncomfortably hot. I push them off.

"I'm warm now. You can turn the temperature back down; I hope."

"I'm tracking your vital signs, Alan. The temperature is already decreasing to match your biological needs."

"Great," I say, rising to perch on the side of the bed. "So, how long are you going to hold me for observation? And when will my eyes start to focus again? Is this blurriness expected?"

"Your brain and eyes are working to communicate. Blurry vision is expected. It won't last long. As for when you can go, that is a difficult question to answer."

"Can you give me an estimate?"

"I cannot. But, I'll let you know as soon as I have more information. For the time being, I just need you to rest and recuperate. Your body has been through a lot."

The thought of relaxing is a comfort, particularly now that the temperature levels have evened out. It has been a long time since I have felt comfortable. But how much can I relax? I'm better. The pain and fog are gone. It's time to talk to Ken and let the studio know we're back on track. 

"Excuse me."

"Yes, Alan?"

"Can I have visitors while I wait?"

"No. I'm sorry. That isn't possible."

"Why?"

"We need to monitor you."

"But I have work."

"I'm very sorry. Your work will have to wait. Please, relax."

Okay. No work. What then? I've never done well at being idle. When I'm idle, the darkness starts to surround me. The only relief I've ever found is continual interactions with others. When I'm Alan West, or preparing to be him, I'm too busy to marinate in the depression that always seems to wait for me. But where is that depression now? I don't feel the familiar fear and discontentment. Is that gone as well? It seems to be. Were those feelings some kind of malfunction in my head? Whatever the reason, I don't care. I'll take the win.

I lay in contentment, like a child experiencing life for the first time. I lay contently until my eyes start to become clear. I lay until, like a child, I'm bored and want someone to talk to.

"Hello? Excuse me again."

"Yes, Alan?"   

"How about Candice? Can I see her?"

"I'm sorry. I don't know anyone by that name."

"Candice. The woman who met me at the center."

"Oh. Candice. She's not here."

"Not here? Did she go home?"

After a short pause, she says, "Yes. She went home."

"How long was I in surgery?"

"You should rest."

Rest. She's probably right. While my brain is racing, my body is fatigued. I lay back down. The bed is comfortable now. It is no longer hard and cold like a morgue table. It is soft, and the temperature is comfortable with one cover on. 

Time passes as I lay, eyes wide open, taking in my surroundings. There is a living room and an opaque glass wall that hides a bathroom beyond. No nurses come or go, and there are no detectable noises of staff outside of the room. Above, a ventilation fan hums. I zone out on the sound and drift away into my thoughts, strategizing a plan to get my team in Italy together, and firing up production to full speed again. It will be good to— 

"Alan?"

My heart jumps in my chest. 

"Yes? What?"

"I have a few post-surgery questions for you."

"Okay."

"There are only a few, but I'll need complete answers."

"And you want to do this over the intercom?"

"Yes, please."

"Right. Of course you do."

"First question. Do you remember growing up?"

"Yes. What part about growing up?"

"In general. For example, do you remember your mother and father?"

I delve into my mind and search. My parents are there. I don't see them as much as sense the information about them. My mom is Mediterranean with dark eyelashes and dark skin. My father is tall with a chiseled jaw and thick lips. Is this how memory works? Am I not able to see what I have experienced? Have my memories always been like this—just data? No. The memories are more than data stored in my mind. I'm overthinking this. 

"Do you remember going to school?"

"Yes. I went to a few different schools, but I don't remember the details. Is this to find out if I have any memory loss because it isn't a fair test?"

"It is standard procedure."

"Okay. I remember going to school. What more do you want? Do you need specifics? Do you want to know about the bully on the bus who used to sit behind me and flick my ear or my fifth-grade teacher who was also my baseball coach?"

"Good. Very good. Here's another. Did you ever go to church growing up?"

"Yes. On and off."

"Do you believe in God?"

"That's a weird question."

"Some of the questions will seem strange. Please answer to the best of your ability."

"Yes. I believe in God, I guess."

"Do you believe he is fair?"

"Are you trying to determine whether or not my moral compass is off?"

"This will go a lot faster if you just answer the questions. I assure you that this evaluation is critical for your healing. Do you believe God is fair?"

"I've never really thought about God."

"Even with all you went through after your diagnosis, you didn't think about God."

"Well, I thought about it, you know, what comes next, but not so much about the big guy in the sky. My mother raised me to just trust that he's taking care of things. So, I just let him do his thing and I do mine."

"Thinking about him now, what do you think? Do you think he is fair?"

"I don't know. I guess if pressured, I'd say no. If he made life fair, there wouldn't be starving children in Africa—or on the streets of San Francisco, for that matter."

"So, you believe human suffering is evidence that God is not fair?"

"Yes. But why does it matter?"

"Do you think he is cruel?" 

Is she being serious? I don't have any opinion on the topic. Life is just hard. God doesn't enter into the equation. How is this going to help me heal?

I roll out of bed and look around the room, as though for the first time. This doesn't feel like a hospital room at all. It feels more like luxurious hotel accommodations. If not for the strange questions, I wouldn't have thought anything of it, but the room is equally as strange.

"Can I speak with someone directly?"

"Please answer the question, Alan. Do you think God is cruel for allowing people to suffer—for allowing you to suffer? Your sickness has put you through significant hardships over the last year. You spoke of this during surgery."

"During surgery? So, this is linked to the surgery?" I walk toward the door of the room.

"Yes."

"I guess on some level, I'm a bit angry, but I don't think much about God's role in it. There are challenges in life. That's just how it is. Stuff happens."

"But, would you agree that it is cruel to let people suffer as you have? What did you do to deserve this life-threatening illness? Is it not cruel for God to allow something like cancer of the brain when he could prevent it? It is one thing to suffer for something you've done, but sickness is random."

"How does any of this matter? Do you have a point?"

"Please answer the question."

"What was the question again?"

"Would you agree that God is cruel to let people suffer as you have?"

I reach out and grab the handle on the door to the room. It is fixed shut. "Why is the door locked?" I wiggle it, pull, and push.

"It is only temporary. Please answer the question."

"I'm not answering another question until you open this door." I pull hard on the handle. "Open the door!"

"We'll continue again when you have calmed down."

"Open the door! I want to speak to someone face-to-face, right now!"

There is no answer.

I step back and scan the room for cameras. They have to be watching.

"I don't know what kind of creepy game you're playing, but I have a team of lawyers."

"Stop for a moment, Alan, and take a breath. Consider the facts. Your head and body hurt so bad that you needed medication to stop the torment. How do you feel now?"

"I'm better, and I appreciate that, but you can't hold me here. I want to speak to someone."

"You are."
"Face-to-face!"

"You can, and you will. If you would only relax, answer my questions, and enjoy your private room. Your detention is necessary so that you don't leave before we can outprocess you. We want you to be whole."

"Whole?"

"Yes. Fully cognisant, commanding your mental faculties, not a danger to yourself and others. And, most importantly, not a flight risk."

So, they're checking my brain. It makes sense, I guess. It could pose a threat to me if I were to wake up with a broken brain and go blazing out of the medical center on a rampage.

"But is this isolation really necessary? Just send someone in to speak with me."

"This is standard procedure."

I suck in a breath. Maybe it is for my own good. There are worse prison cells. 

"Fine," I say. "I suppose I can deal with this for now."

"Great. May we continue?"

"Yeah. But how many of these questions are there?"

"Not many."

"Good." 

"So, do you think God was cruel to allow this random disease to wreck your marriage and cause you to lose out on a deal that would have earned you 8 million?"

"How do you know about my wife and my business dealings?"

"You brought them up during the—"

"The surgery. Right. Got it." How bizarre. Did I have some kind of spiritual awakening during surgery? "I don't know," I growl, "I guess. Yes. God is cruel. Is that what you want me to say?"

"That's a good answer."

"Great. Glad we're moving in the right direction. Look, can I get dressed before we continue with this—whatever this is?"

"Yes. Let me know when you're ready."

"How? Oh, right. You're listening in on me. Are there also cameras?"

"You have complete privacy. I'm not listening in on you or watching you. I am connected with you only when you call for me, and only by voice."

"Call for you? When did I call for you?"

"You said, 'hello,' and I answered."

"Is that the keyword or something?"

"I am alerted any time you request to speak with me. There are no keywords."

"Is this the Twilight Zone?"

Her voice warms. "I like that show. I suppose this is all a bit like the Twilight Zone—only there is no scary enemy. You are completely safe."

Safe. Right. I don't feel safe.

"I'll leave you alone to get dressed and ready. Feel free to enjoy the television provided. Perhaps you can watch an episode of The Twilight Zone as you get adjusted. Our library is quite extensive. If you're hungry, you can select from the menu on the data tablet, sitting near the couch. When you're ready to continue with your recovery, just call out to me, okay?"

"Yeah. I'll do that."

"Okay. Bye for now. And, Alan."

"Yes?"

"Try to relax."