What’s the Last Thing You Remember?

I’m seven years old.

“She’s waking up.”

I’m lying on a bed. There’s two women in the room. I don’t see my mommy. “Where’s my mommy?”

“Hi, you’re in a hospital. Can you tell me the last thing you remember?” one woman asks. She’s wearing all white and seems nice.

“I was laying down in a machine to scan my brain,” I say.

“Good, good. Can you tell me how old you are?” She has a pretty smile.

“I’m seven. My birthday party was last week. We went skating.” It was a lot of fun.

“Good, first layer seems to have integrated. We should get her memories up to adult range as soon as possible.” The other woman is also dressed in white and she has a computer tablet. She doesn’t smile.

“Can you sit up?”

She helps me to sit up. Something feels weird. I look down and I have boobies. “I have boobies,” I say.

“Yes, you do. Can you look at the light?” She shines a light in my eyes and snaps her fingers near my head.

“Reaction time seems fine,” the other woman says.

“Ok, lay back down and put your head here.” She points to a hole in big metal donut at the head of the bed.

I don’t want to lay down. I’m scared. I want my mommy. “I want my mommy.”

“I know but first you have to lay down and then you can see your mommy, ok.”

“Promise?” I ask.

“Promise,” she says and crosses her heart. I lay down and put my head in the donut, “Ok, spin it up.”

“Preparing upload,” the woman with the tablet says.

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