operated on at this very minute. This morning her co-donor, 85, had undergone the shoulder surgery, which meant Tegan recuperated in there as well.
Her gaze lingered at the third floor, or what should be the third floor. It was difficult to tell because the third floor had no windows. Donors scheduled for major donations were kept there—imprisoned—in the final days before the operation.
She turned her eyes away and contemplated the sky. With a burst of hope, she realized it was the first day of spring.
What would the new season—the season of rebirth—hold in store for her?
Once inside Joan walked over to the stairs. The power lifts were gorgeous and made of carved bronze, but Joan never took power lifts. If she had a chance to exercise, she did. Her destination was the ninth floor. She opened the stairwell door and walked in quickly, crashing into Duncan, who was just stepping up from a lower floor. He caught her in his arms, and her hand instinctively reached around his neck.
“Hey,” he said.
He didn’t let go. Neither did she—delighting in the feel of his neck, savoring the sensation. There was that tingling again, with her heart beating faster.
She broke away, embarrassed, “Sorry.”
They looked at each other and said in unison, “What are you doing here?”
They laughed.
“I’m here visiting,” he paused, “a friend.”
He held flowers.
He continued, “I was just coming up from the parking garage downstairs. The power lifts are too swarmed with photographers. What about you?”
“I have a doctor’s appointment. I usually take the stairs. I can always use the exercise.”
She wondered if he recognized her from the stands yesterday.
Did he realize she was a donor?
If so, she had to take care with what she said and did.
“Well, we can walk them together. I’m going to seven,” he said.
“Nin—” Joan caught herself and uttered instead, “Ten, I’m going to the tenth floor.” Donor auditions took place on the ninth floor.
“What’s the doctor’s appointment for?” he sounded concerned.
“Nothing important,” she replied, surprised at his tone.
She eyed the steps as they walked and talked. With the paint chipping and damaged, the stairs were a stark contrast to the luxury of the rest of the medical center. Citizens rarely took the stairs, so there was no need to make them look nice.
She shifted her sight to the flowers in Duncan’s hand. He saw.
“These are just for a friend.”
Joan pretended not to care. “Tegan Gates, your girlfriend? She’s here, isn’t she? That’s why all the news people and photographers are here.”
“Don’t believe everything you read in the newspapers.”
They rounded the landing to the third-floor door. The door appeared unlike the others, as it was reinforced with steel and bolted. A “No Entry” sign hung ominously. Joan unintentionally paused.
The sign should read “No Leaving,”
she thought. Duncan paused, too, seeming lost in thought while looking at the door. They continued.
“Hey, you know something funny?” he said. “You’ve never told me your name.”
It was true. Throughout the last year of their friendship at the Fitness Center, Joan deftly managed to withhold her name from him. The System forbade donors from using their names with citizens. She didn’t want to get him—or herself—in trouble.
“So, out with it. What’s your name?”
Joan once again scurried around the question, instead offering to him, “Race?”
Before he could reply, she rushed up the next two flights, two steps at a time. At the top of the landing, she stopped, and he bounded after her.
“Oh, you lost,” she joked, “a big strong man like you…”
“Losing to you is not an insult,” he said, not breathing hard. “Besides, I let you win.”
“Yeah, right.”
They both chuckled and walked the next few flights.
Abruptly, Duncan blurted out, “I’m going to be leaving soon. I turned eighteen two months ago, so I have to
Her gaze lingered at the third floor, or what should be the third floor. It was difficult to tell because the third floor had no windows. Donors scheduled for major donations were kept there—imprisoned—in the final days before the operation.
She turned her eyes away and contemplated the sky. With a burst of hope, she realized it was the first day of spring.
What would the new season—the season of rebirth—hold in store for her?
Once inside Joan walked over to the stairs. The power lifts were gorgeous and made of carved bronze, but Joan never took power lifts. If she had a chance to exercise, she did. Her destination was the ninth floor. She opened the stairwell door and walked in quickly, crashing into Duncan, who was just stepping up from a lower floor. He caught her in his arms, and her hand instinctively reached around his neck.
“Hey,” he said.
He didn’t let go. Neither did she—delighting in the feel of his neck, savoring the sensation. There was that tingling again, with her heart beating faster.
She broke away, embarrassed, “Sorry.”
They looked at each other and said in unison, “What are you doing here?”
They laughed.
“I’m here visiting,” he paused, “a friend.”
He held flowers.
He continued, “I was just coming up from the parking garage downstairs. The power lifts are too swarmed with photographers. What about you?”
“I have a doctor’s appointment. I usually take the stairs. I can always use the exercise.”
She wondered if he recognized her from the stands yesterday.
Did he realize she was a donor?
If so, she had to take care with what she said and did.
“Well, we can walk them together. I’m going to seven,” he said.
“Nin—” Joan caught herself and uttered instead, “Ten, I’m going to the tenth floor.” Donor auditions took place on the ninth floor.
“What’s the doctor’s appointment for?” he sounded concerned.
“Nothing important,” she replied, surprised at his tone.
She eyed the steps as they walked and talked. With the paint chipping and damaged, the stairs were a stark contrast to the luxury of the rest of the medical center. Citizens rarely took the stairs, so there was no need to make them look nice.
She shifted her sight to the flowers in Duncan’s hand. He saw.
“These are just for a friend.”
Joan pretended not to care. “Tegan Gates, your girlfriend? She’s here, isn’t she? That’s why all the news people and photographers are here.”
“Don’t believe everything you read in the newspapers.”
They rounded the landing to the third-floor door. The door appeared unlike the others, as it was reinforced with steel and bolted. A “No Entry” sign hung ominously. Joan unintentionally paused.
The sign should read “No Leaving,”
she thought. Duncan paused, too, seeming lost in thought while looking at the door. They continued.
“Hey, you know something funny?” he said. “You’ve never told me your name.”
It was true. Throughout the last year of their friendship at the Fitness Center, Joan deftly managed to withhold her name from him. The System forbade donors from using their names with citizens. She didn’t want to get him—or herself—in trouble.
“So, out with it. What’s your name?”
Joan once again scurried around the question, instead offering to him, “Race?”
Before he could reply, she rushed up the next two flights, two steps at a time. At the top of the landing, she stopped, and he bounded after her.
“Oh, you lost,” she joked, “a big strong man like you…”
“Losing to you is not an insult,” he said, not breathing hard. “Besides, I let you win.”
“Yeah, right.”
They both chuckled and walked the next few flights.
Abruptly, Duncan blurted out, “I’m going to be leaving soon. I turned eighteen two months ago, so I have to
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