Harbinger: A Journal of Art & Literature | 2018-2019

He tapped the side of his head with his right pointer finger.
Left finger.
He did the same with his left.
They aren’t the same. No. Right finger.
He tapped his right again. Then his left.
They both obey. They are both mine.
The weight started to lift, the pressure around his chest lightened, and he opened his
eyes. Spots swam in his vision, dancing across the wall, across the frosty screens of the silent
monitors left to sleep in this room, without disturbing him. Slowly the spots cleared
up, and he lowered his hands, studying the cabinet under the monitors. There were
socks there, and shoes. He knew it would be too much though, to drag socks across his
two different feet, to feel the difference in them, the sensitivity of the nanoskin, perfectly
warm under his fingers, and the cool, clammy feel of his natural skin.
Travis walked across the room, ignoring the beam of morning sunlight that had spread
almost to the door, letting it play across the fabric of his pants, pushing the fantasy of
bursting into flames back in his mind. The door slid open when he reached for it, letting
him step into the quiet hall outside. The Research Technology Center’s private rehab
facility was used exclusively for upper-level military, government officials, and upper level
members of the Church. The cozy atmosphere allowed privacy, though he knew that
every moment of every day was monitored. Everything he did, or did not do, was documented
and analyzed. Dr. Larson was very upfront with him about that. A nurse greeted
him at the end of the hall, looking up from her tablet and smiling.
“Good morning, Mr. Morgan.”
“Hello, Nancy. Am I too late for breakfast?”
“No, they just put out the buffet, dear.”
“Wonderful.” He smiled at her. It was his smile, his mouth, his face. It just was not his
foot that pressed into the short Berber carpet or his fingers that trailed across the door as
he pushed through. Larson told him he should not focus so much on the differences, but
more on the similarities.
“Good morning, Travis,” Dr. James Larson was sitting in his usual place, a cup of
coffee by his hand, and his tablet on the table top. “How are you this morning?”
“I am chaotic, as always.”
The room was otherwise empty, though that was normal. There were few patients
here, and several of them were not well enough to leave their rooms.
“As always. Come sit, let us talk a while.”
Travis nodded as he stopped at the coffee bar, pushing an empty cup to the automated