Free The In-Betweener (Between Life and Death) (S) by Ann Christy

look almost just like cops. No military cops, though. I’m guessing that wouldn’t look good on the news. The guards all have the same wary looks, the same slightly angry stances. They do let us into the main hospital lot, which stretches like a discount store lot for forever, and I wonder how people who are physically restricted in some way manage to get to the doors. The front has patient drop-off, which is clearly not an option.
    It’s hot out and I’m sweating by the time we reach the doors. There are hospital security guards there as well, this time in military uniforms, and we’re not even allowed inside the lobby until my mom shows her ID and my appointment is confirmed. Ironically, we’re early.
    We grab cold drinks from the machine in the lobby and then give each other a look that needs no explanation. We both want to know what’s going on. Of course we do.
    Near the front of the hospital the mood is tense, but through the glass I can see the crowds covering the front parking lot and spilling out into the street. Signs pepper the crowd with slogans like, “ Dead is Dead ” and “ Taxes Shouldn’t Pay for Eternal Vegetables ” and even less flattering things. My favorite is the one that says, “ Keep Your Nanite Cooties to Yourself! ”
    “Ah,” my mother says at almost the same time I do.
    This is the only nanite-certified hospital in a hundred miles, so it’s the obvious focus for an anti-nanite demonstration, but I thought there were laws against interfering with access to places like this. And this is a military hospital right next to a military base, which should mean that this place is doubly protected from protests like this. Maybe the back lobby is considered access enough and maybe just being off the base itself is sufficient to make it open season for protests.
    My mother worries at her lip again, then reaches absently for me, pulling me to her with an arm around my shoulder. Her hand brushes at my hair, perhaps unconsciously messing with my scar the same way I do.
    “No one is going to stop giving nanites. If it has come back, I’ll get my cure,” I say quietly and lean my head on her shoulder.
    She nuzzles my head and I can feel her cheek rise in a smile. “I know, baby. I know.”
    There’s a delay with my appointment, but it’s only a few minutes. The harried nurse escorts me into the changing area and gets me ready to go so that they can regain a few minutes of their screwed-up schedule. As a result, I’m stuck standing in the antechamber with an attendant and my IV hanging out of my arm. It’s awkward, but it’s also an ideal time for me to pump him for some information.
    “What do you think is going to happen? Because of what’s going on outside, I mean.”
    He shrugs. “Something’s got to give. Every nursing home in fifty miles is full and people who shouldn’t be sent home have to go home to families who can’t properly take care of them,” he says. His attitude is sort of uninterested, his voice a bit dismissive as if this were all old news. Maybe it is.
    I’ll readily admit that for the first year after my procedure, I was fascinated with everything nanite. I owe the nanites my life, the vision in my eye—however imperfect that might be—and every single experience I’ve had since the doctors put those little buggers into my head.
    For another year after that, I was still interested, but no longer obsessed. The discoveries came too quickly for excitement to build and maintain itself. After another year of following the news only in the most casual way, I didn't just lose interest, I began to avoid the topic completely. I no longer wanted to be the girl whose brain was nearly eaten by cancer but was saved by nanites. My mom seemed to recognize that and it quietly became a topic we avoided, one that made us change the channel on TV.
    So, I basically had no idea what he was talking about.
    “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
    The attendant turns to me, arms