Free Ashes of Foreverland by Tony Bertauski

uniform with a number stitched over the right breast. It was loose and wrinkled, oddly matching the thin skin that sagged from his cheeks and chin. Even his eyelids were paper-thin, the bulge of irises moving beneath them.
    Gray and withered, only the slow rise of his chest and the fluttering of his lower lip suggested he was alive. Only the rosy flesh around the needle in his forehead was other than gray.
    Drake, the fat guard, wheezed like a long-distance runner finishing a marathon, his lungs wet like a recovered drowning victim. He stepped forward with that rheumy gaze, the long-term effect of a mental hostile takeover, a man with a biomite brain that had been hijacked years ago. The imbecile was dull and trainable, which made it that much easier for Dr. Ballard to take over the fat man’s biomite-laden brain and reprogram his thoughts to do whatever Gramm needed. Still, the oaf couldn’t follow directions.
    He reached for the old man and Gramm yanked him back. You don’t wake him.
    They watched and waited. Gramm raked his scalp. Twelve follicles were lost before the old man’s chest began to swell, a long, deep breath. He smacked his lips.
    His eyes fluttered.
    His fingers began to crawl. The bed whirred, internal rollers kneading the aged body.
    Dr. Ballard’s hand rose like invisible strings lifted it. His hand hovered over his face and stalled like the puppeteer wasn’t sure what to do next. Dr. Ballard focused on his fingers and the lines creasing his palm, then reached for the needle.
    He pulled it out.
    Gramm squeezed his hands together to avoid squirming, to keep from pulling his hair. That lone feeling of the needle plunging in or out of the brain was cold and foreign, tasted like metal, an inch and a half of surgical steel that glistened.
    The old man propped himself up on one elbow and threw his weight to his side. Gramm and the two guards watched him slowly work his way into a sitting position. They didn’t attempt to help. He had made that clear long ago.
    The bed continued to thrum.
    The old man leaned on his knees and contemplated the needle like script was written along the gleaming shaft. Then he broke it off and threw it away. Three deep breaths with his eyes closed, he hummed upon exhalation. When the paper-thin eyelids fluttered open once again, blue eyes with sharp edges aimed directly at Gramm.
    Gramm’s head hummed with a cold touch.
    â€œTell me,” Dr. Ballard said, his words long and drawn, “why she is searching for Foreverland . ”
    Gramm fidgeted. He couldn’t help it. He uncrossed his legs, dropped both feet on the floor but didn’t answer. It wasn’t time to answer.
    â€œWhat rekindled her interest, Gramm? Answer . ”
    â€œI...I don’t, don’t know. No one has sent emails or texts or called. Samuel has been with her the entire time and, and given her everything she wanted.”
    â€œHank’s behavior didn’t seem odd to you?”
    â€œHe was a little feisty, but that’s been his personality, the way she knows him. If he changed, she’d notice.”
    â€œBut we don’t need him goading her back into writing, either. We need her happy, content. We need her to sleep, Gramm. Not motivated.”
    Gramm allowed his hand one pass through his hair.
    Dr. Ballard didn’t ask about the magazine and the photos of the tropical island. He would bring it up later, discuss whether this was another coincidence or a pattern. No need to pile on.
    There’s bigger news.
    He rubbed his face with both hands and stared at the floor. Gramm could feel the old man’s thoughts churning. Give him enough time and he would have a solution. But that was the problem.
    Time.
    The old man didn’t have much. He insisted on letting his body wither like a husk of harvested corn.
    â€œI don’t like this.” He raised his hands.
    Drake and Melfy took them on command and helped him stand, waiting by his side