Mindwalker by AJ Steiger Page A

butchers, all of you! You—” His eyes lose focus, and he sways on his feet. The pen drops from his slackening grip as he starts to slump forward.
    The policeman catches him, slides him into the car like so much luggage, and buckles his seat belt. He picks up the pen, then gets behind the wheel and nods to me. The car drives off, leaving me staring after it uneasily.
    The collar senses aggression and acts accordingly, even if the person’s not holding a real weapon. It’s one of the few times I’ve actually seen it in action.
    I start to turn, then notice the flyers still scattered across the pavement. I bend to pick one up. It’s nonsense, a mishmash of incomprehensible sentences filled with exclamation points and capital letters.
Join the resistance,
he said. But of course, thereis no resistance. The Blackcoats are gone—and that, I remind myself, is a good thing. A man who might once have set off a bomb or mowed down innocents with a machine gun is now reduced to waving a pen at a police officer before being carted away for his ethically questionable but ultimately humane and painless treatment.
    I try to ignore the knot in my throat as I get into my car and whisper, “Take me home.”

When I get home, Greta is wiping down the coffee table in the living room. She wasn’t supposed to come in today. Did Dr. Swan send her to check up on me? “Um. Hello.”
    She smiles at me. “Hi, Lain. How was school?”
    â€œFine, thank you.”
    â€œCareful, I just vacuumed.”
    I slide off my shoes. We’ve always been friendly with each other, but it’s superficial. She asks me the right questions and I give the right answers. She’s here to spy on me, and she knows that I know it, so there’s no point in getting too close.
    â€œSo,” she says. “Where’ve you been? Out with a friend?” Her tone is casual, but her eyes are suddenly intent.
    â€œAlone,” I say. “I had tea at the Underwater Café.”
    â€œEaten yet?”
    I shake my head.
    â€œHow about I cook some dinner?”
    â€œNo thank you.” I force a smile. “I think I’ll just fix something for myself tonight.”
    â€œOne of those frozen meals?” She purses her lips with disapproval. “That stuff’s loaded with chemicals. They don’t even use real meat. I saw this documentary where they grow this fake beef in a lab. Blech. I tell you, I’m never going
near
that stuff again.”
    A small, sharp point of pain pulses behind my left eye. “I’ll have a salad.”
Go. Just go. Please.
“Thank you for the offer, though.”
    â€œOkay. Don’t stay up too late.” She gathers her cleaning supplies. I wait until she leaves the house, then I heat up a frozen dinner and flop down on the couch. Steam billows out as I peel back the film from my imitation sirloin with carrots and a brownie, all in their own little compartments. The meal resembles a piece of abstract art, with bright, artificial colors and food molded into shapes too precise to be the work of nature.
    Why did Dr. Swan send her here tonight? Does he suspect I’ve been spending time with Steven?
    I’m too worn out to worry about it now. I turn on the TV and flip automatically to the news channel.
    â€œUp next,” an announcer says, “a woman determined to die. Representative Caroline Mackey, a member of the General Ethics Committee of Aura, has struggled for years with debilitating health problems. Now she’s suing her doctor for refusing to write her a Somnazol prescription. The doctor claims she has not explored all her treatment options, but Mackey says he’s simply imposing his moral judgment on her.”
    The camera cuts to a thin middle-aged woman sitting at a table, hands folded in front of her. Her head is shaved andscarred, a stark contrast to her elegant blue suit. “This is my life and my decision.” She