The Choice at the End of the Rope

I wake to the smell of hay and disinfectant, cheek pressed against a concrete floor. My wrists are bound in front of me with soft medical restraints — the kind that don't bruise, which somehow frightens me more than rope would. The barn around me is clean, lit by warm lamps, divided into stalls that are not stalls. One wall is a window into a white-tiled lab. Someone has taken my boots, my jacket, my phone. Someone has been considerate about it.

A man in a spotless coat comes through the door with a clipboard and a cup of coffee, as if we've arranged a meeting.

"Good morning, David," he says, reading my name off the page like he's known it for years. "I'm Dr. Strand. I'll be honest with you, because I find honesty makes the transition smoother. You saw things you weren't meant to see, and my employers have two policies for that. I'm here to help you choose between them."

He sets the clipboard on the hay and turns it toward me. One line is labeled TERMINATION. The other reads HERD PROGRAM — INDEFINITE RESIDENCE. Below it, a diagram of a body that starts human and doesn't finish that way.

"Take your time," he says, sipping his coffee. "The others always did."