The Anarchists by Brian Thompson

sandwich into her mouth. “This baby’s been kicking my butt. Half the day, I’m nauseous, the other half, I’m ravenous. Don’t worry, I still have your money.”
    “Don’t worry about it. Try the cous cous. It’s amazing.”
    She scooped the salmon-colored concoction onto a cracker and wolfed it down. “Seldom wrong and right again,” she said with a full mouth. “It's fantastic.”
    “The managing partners and I talked. Take as much time as you need. Don’t worry about your sick days. A bunch of the others kicked in, so you’ve got time. I reallocated your patients.”
    “Thank you for everything.”
    “Listen.” “Jackie” reached out and patted Harper’s thigh. “There's no right time to say this, but you should consider talking to someone. Go see Dr. Nandor Adharma. He’s a psychiatrist and fantastic at what he does. He might be able to help the kids cope. Understanding death poses a difficult challenge for people at any age.”
    Harper considered the offer a good omen. “I know the psychiatry spiel, thanks.” She gave a slight smile to her superior. “I think I’ll take a week or two.”
    “Take three. You’ll need it. Arranging your life after something like this takes longer than you think and you never know how long until you’re knee deep in it.”
    Her superior’s kindness overwhelmed Harper. For reasons unknown to Harper, all of her coworkers referred to their superior as a conniving, silver-tongued serpent. “I don’t know what to say. I think I’ll call him.”  
    “Good. Call him any time. Tell him Kareza Noor sent you.”
     

 
    CHAPTER EIGHT
     
    January 13, 2050
     
    “My name is Andre. I’m an alcoholic, but I’m beginning again.”
    Piano music swelled and broke into a dramatic, sweeping decrescendo. Quick choral chords built as each different person introduced themselves.
    “My name is Kelly. I’m a sniff addict, but I’m beginning again.”
    “My name is Tamara. . .”
    “My name is Jennifer. . .”
    “Terran. . .”
    “Sophie. . .”
    “John. . .”
    “Devon. . .”
    “. . .I’m a thief. . .”
    “. . .white collar criminal. . .”
    “. . .gang member. . .”
    “. . .quadriplegic. . .”
    “. . .wife beater. . .”
    “. . .I’m terminally ill. . .”
    “. . .and we’re beginning again.”
    The commercial ended with the Genesis Institute logo and a phone number, 1-888-BEGINAGAIN. Madison redialed every few seconds she spent alone, while Damario rehabbed his new synthetic arm and eye. Adharma’s advice proved true. The miracle drug stimulated healthy growth of the severed nerves to bond with the artificial ones wired to his new appendages.
    When he slept, she assumed the dreams were vivid, as her husband’s moaning indicated pleasure. He’d awaken and stayed mum on what he had seen. The object of his enjoyment was his college sweetheart, Robinne Glasse. They broke up prior to Damario accepting his internship at G.R. Cooper and attending business school at Stern. Robinne lived in Philadelphia.  
    With the busy signal operator in view from Madison’s holophone, Damario entered the room. He employed the use of a crutch and wore sunglasses to hide his eye, which looked like an antique LED. Soon, it would be fitted with synthetic skin to make it appear normal. “Still busy?”
    She snapped the display shut. “How’s therapy?”
    “If I didn’t know any better,” he said, limping towards the bed, “I’d think you were hiding something.”
    “Have me investigated then.” She snapped her fingers. “Sorry. You already did that.”
    “Ouch,” he winced with sarcasm. “Those lines are going to be jammed up forever. Everybody in America wants to know what ‘beginning again’ really means. The advertising is a little deceptive, but brilliant.”
    “I think you wouldn’t be half as high on life, if they stopped giving you that drug.”
    “I’m healing.” Damario sat at the edge of the bed and swung his good leg into it for leverage,