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

crossed up high as if he’s cold, and asks, “Really?”
    I shake my head and try hard to look apologetic for my ignorance. But that appears to be unnecessary. It almost seems to excite him, like I’m a fresh new canvas he can paint bad news onto.
    “All the deadheads. How are we supposed to take care of so many vegetables for ten, twenty…hell, fifty years? Think about it. We give nanites to these people whose hearts have stopped for whatever reason and it restarts their pumps most of the time, but what is really left? You can’t just tell someone that it’s been too long and you’re not going to administer the nanites to their loved one. It’s standard procedure for the EMTs.” He pauses, taps his head with a finger, and says, “No oxygen to the brain. Vegetables. If we’re lucky they’re brain dead and the family agrees to shut them down. Most of the time we’re not that lucky.”
    “Ah,” I say because I can’t think of anything else to say. I get a picture in my mind of endless rows of perfectly healthy people who will never wake up again. I mean, half the people in this hospital probably have half a dozen different types of nanites running around inside their bodies. Who knows what that will do in the long run? You can buy some communist country’s cheap-o versions on the internet now if you don’t mind the possibility of getting caught by the postal inspector.
    Before I can think of anything intelligent to say, he goes on. “I mean, look at it this way. Everyone dies. That’s the price of living. We should play the hand we’re dealt.” He shoots a knowing look my way from under his lowered brow and adds, “We’ll pay for screwing around like this. One way or another.”
    His last words hit me like a punch in the gut. He has no way of knowing that I’m one of those people who didn’t play the hand she was dealt. There’s no way he can know that he’s telling me that I should have let myself die, that my mother should have let her only child die.
    While my instinct is to say something mean, to cut him with some clever bit of sarcasm I can’t think of just yet, I decide that I should just forget it instead. I decide to forgive him for his inadvertent wish for my death. But I clamp my lips together to keep from saying something nasty in case my high-minded ideals leave me.
    There’s no need, though, because the door opens and another woman shuffles past, her hands pulling her robe tightly to her body and her eyes downcast. Hospital etiquette. I know these rules and I keep my eyes away from her as well. Preserving dignity is big in the chronic patient culture.
    Now, it’s my turn in the machine.
     

Today - Choices, Choices
    I’ve never been this close to an in-betweener that I haven’t filled full of bolts or arrows first. I don’t have handcuffs or anything like that, but I do have zip ties. I keep a few in the front pocket of my backpack along with other necessities. They’re handy for hanging larger things off my pack, like the handles of the jumbo bottles of stuff they have in that warehouse. It leaves more room in my pack. I’m an expert at reusing zip ties. I doubt very much anyone is making new ones, so I really hate wasting them.
    I use the newest zip ties I have in my pack, the ones I figure probably still have the tightest lock on their little teeth. Sam loses it when he first sees me, of course, but he actually does manage to get himself under control. He holds his hands out again, palms pressed together like he’s praying, and looks down. It’s a quick procedure and the zzzt of the tie securing his hands makes me feel better.
    I don’t look at him or say anything more. I just turn and walk rapidly away. Running seemed to get him going before, so I’m going for something calmer and less provocative. It’s such a long walk, but when I get behind the first building—an assembly building for perfumed sachets that still fills the air inside with a strong floral scent—I