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Lena

T he waiting room looks like a hotel lobby. A diffuser puffs something that smells like eucalyptus and bleach. It’s the kind of sterile calm that makes you want to panic quietly. The receptionist smiles too much. Her teeth are perfect. She tells me someone will be with me shortly and hands me a tablet already loaded with intake forms.

I sit.

The chair cushions barely give. Designed for posture, not comfort. My name is printed on the screen in bold serif type, like this was all prearranged—like the form’s just a formality. The questions are vague but extensive. Do you bleed easily? Do you respond poorly to anesthesia? Are you experiencing memory loss?

I pause. Tap no.

A man sits across from me, fidgeting. He clears his throat loudly. Once. Twice. Three times . I glance up. He’s frowning at his tablet. At some point, he clears his throat again and when I look up, he gestures with his pen.

“Sorry,” he says, handing me the tablet. “Do you know what any of this means?”

I glance at the screen.

You consent to all recommended interventions, including those deemed necessary during intraoperative review.

I hand the tablet back. “It means they can do whatever they want once you’re under.”

He laughs, like I’m kidding.

He fumbles around, sighing loudly, until eventually, I help him flip back to the previous page. He drops his ID; I hand it back. He asks if he’s in the right place. Like I should know. He tells me he left his reading glasses at home, they said he wouldn’t need them.

Asks if I can help with the tablet. He says his vision is bad and his hands shake when he’s nervous.

It’s not a waiver so much as an obituary for his agency—three pages of legal disclaimers dressed up in soft language. I skim it. Words like anesthesia , removal , harvesting, biological material pop up in different fonts, as if their presentation matters more than their meaning.

I start to explain what I’ve read, but a nurse calls my name.

I follow her down a hallway that smells like lemon disinfectant and synthetic lavender, but it’s the photos that feel off. Along the walls, stock photos of grinning people in white coats try to sell optimism. I pause briefly next to a poster that says: Confidence starts with a healthy smile.

The nurse opens a door and gestures for me to step inside.

The room is smaller than I expected. Windowless. Cold. There’s a chair in the center—with actual restraints. Next to it, a metal tray draped with gauze. I can see the outline of tools beneath it—sharp, glinting, too many.

“Have you had local anesthesia before?” the nurse asks.

“Yes.”

“Allergic to latex?”

“No.”

She smiles. “You’d be surprised how many people don’t know.”

I think of Ellis. His voice. His mouth. The way he said no complications—and then sent me back to HQ like I was one.

I shouldn’t be here.

She gestures to the chair.

I sit. I shouldn’t. But I do.

“We’ll get started soon,” she says, too bright. “The doctor will be in shortly.”