"It sticks out like a sore thumb," Joseph said, shielding his eyes from the sun and peering at the top of the LE superstructure.

Hannah resented Aimee for pointing out her father's penchant for old clichés... but he was right, the tower was actually shaped like a swollen thumb. The slender base allowed it to fit comfortably beside the surrounding buildings, while the top half bulged out to fit more offices and a bigger roof.

"You know how I can tell they're forward thinkers?" Joe asked.

"How?"

"The top floor is a parking garage." He raised his eyebrows at Hannah.

"Cool," she muttered.

Hannah remembered watching a glass blower when she was a child. For a full hour she and her mother became enamored with the way the artist formed hot liquid into semitransparent, lopsided bubbles. The lobby of Living Enterprises looked as if it was forged from the same process with curved translucent walls and natural sunlight piped in from outside. The entire structure was supported by two rows of gargantuan glass columns. A dozen elliptical gardens hung from the fifty-foot ceiling.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Lasker and Miss Lasker!" The voice belonged to a lankly, asexual android in a blue jumpsuit. With a bald head, overly-thick skin, and teeth like a rim of polished ivory, the bot looked like a physical manifestation of a character from The Polar Express. Its eyes were as detailed as her father's occs, but the lids blinked at inhuman intervals that placed it squarely in the uncanny valley.

"Good afternoon," Joseph replied, completely oblivious. "We're here to see Doctor Zylestra in the—"

Hannah grabbed his wrist. "It's not real, Joe. Talk to the receptionist."

Joseph squinted at the android as Hannah pulled him away.

A desk made from brushed blue steel spanned the gap between the first two pillars. Joe—still a bit bewildered—asked the human receptionist for directions.

Hannah pressed her nose against the glass column and fixated on the crowd of people moving behind its smooth surface. Bodies materialize on the edge in a series of lines like barcodes in an old Lasker's store. As the lines slid along the rounded surface, they grew into bloated, misshapen humanoids.

Joseph tapped her on the shoulder. "We're on the seventy-eighth floor. The elevators are up ahead."

* * *

"I'm just... tired," Joseph said.

The doctor—Doctor Zem-something who looked fifteen years old (was this bring-your-kid-to-work-day?) with pasty, almost see-through skin, yellow hair, a particularly veiny forehead, and dressed more casually than a doctor should dress in such an overly opulent office—spoke with a child's voice that would never drop. "Unfortunately, Mr. Lasker, this feeling is becoming more and more common with late receivers."

"Late receivers?" Hannah asked.

"People who received T4 after their fiftieth birthday. They describe their symptoms as a general feeling of exhaustion. Some have used the word 'overwhelming.'"

Some would use the word "overwhelming" to describe your office, she wanted to say. The kid's desk was only for show, an obsolete rectangle sporting a top with no computer and drawers with no paper, dropped in the middle of the oversized suite with the sole purpose of making old people feel at home in the "elder wing" of the 78th floor. A window spanned the entire wall behind him and provided a panoramic view of the city and lake.

Doctor Z looked to Joe. "Your contacts are probably telling you it's depression."

Joseph, having successfully removed the fleck, was now playing with the button on his cuff. "They do."

"Well, that's not entirely the case—"

"I don't understand," Hannah interrupted. "Is his brain getting older?"

"The simple answer is no. The brain doesn't age after it receives T4, nor does it deteriorate. It can, however, reach its capacity. We call this the 'overflow point.'"

"What does that mean?" Joe asked.

"The connections in your brain have become rigid after years of conditioning, and this makes it very difficult to accept new thoughts. Younger generations grew up in a time with more experiences. They were bombarded with rapid-fire changes throughout their developmental stages. Because of this, they learned how to 'delete' obsolete information, which literally makes room for new thoughts. Your brain—on the other hand—is not accustomed to change. You were conditioned to hold on to your memories, which can, ironically, make them more difficult to retain."

"He's not even that old," Hannah said.

"The age varies from person to person, but the average seems to be around one-hundred-and-ten years."

"What can you do about it?"

"The first thing to do is sign these documents." The kid pushed a note-screen between them. "It's a standard form that gives Living Enterprises permission to perform a brain scan. It's free and highly recommended... and it's actually mandatory for our residents."

Hannah scoffed. "That's not creepy."

["Watch the sarcasm, little lady,"] Joe said privately.

The kid ran his thumb along his bulging forehead vein. "The scan is private and encrypted, and we don't share your information with anyone outside Living Enterprises."

Joseph pressed his thumb at the bottom of the document.

The doctor slid the screen to Hannah.

"My brain's fine," she said.

"If you have any abnormalities outside T4's capabilities, you'll want to know sooner rather than later."

Hannah stuck out her thumb and touched the screen.

"Excellent." Doctor Z zoned out behind his contacts, and emitted a long, "Hmmm..."

["What's he doing?"] Joseph asked.

She shrugged.

"Huh," said the kid. "It looks like we do have a slight abnormality—"

"Wait," Hannah said, "you already have our scans?"

"Our cameras scanned and analyzed your body the second you stepped in the lobby, but we require written permission before a human can study the results."

Hannah grit her teeth and leaned forward, but Joseph cut her off before she could complain. "You said there's a problem?"

"Not a problem, just an interesting anomaly. It appears you have a slight enlargement of the temporal lobe and caudate nucleus." His eyes cleared. "Both areas are tied to memory, and their enlargement can make it easier to recall life events. Or, more specifically, it can make them harder to forget."

"That doesn't make sense," Hannah said. "He forgets things all the time—"

"These are your scans, Mrs. Lasker."

Hannah inhaled sharply. "I don't—"

"If the caudate nucleus was any bigger, we'd diagnose you with Hyperthymesia. The condition is usually tied to photographic memory, but it looks like you're right on the line."

"Great."

"Do you ever feel a compulsion to—"

"Aren't we here to talk about Joe?"

Joseph touched her arm but kept his focus on the doc. "Aside from the enlarged... whatever... does she have any other issues?"

She rolled her eyes. "Really, Joe?"

"No," the kid said. "There's no indication of chemical imbalances or psychosomatic issues in Hannah's chart. Everything seems to be working fine. Actually, everything should be working better than fine."

"What about the real reason we're here?" she asked.

"Joseph's scan suggest his problems are more personal than neurological. Like I said, this is becoming a common problem around his age. Luckily, there are a couple possibilities. The first is to wait it out. Neurological nanotechnology is one of LE's prime areas of research. In the next decade, we hope to expand the mind's capacity by merging brain cells with millions of nanobots."

"That sounds great," Hannah said, "but what do we do in the meantime?"

"Joseph can find ways to distract himself. New mind-altering medications are developed every day, and there are plenty of exciting advancements in the world of entertainment."

"Fantastic." Hannah shook her head and could feel Joe watching with that blank, disheartened stare. "What's the second option?"

"If ten years is too long, we can sign him up immediately for a brain transplant exclusive to Living Enterprises."

"That sounds horrible."

"It involves brief surgery where we remove half of Joseph's brain and replace it with a brain grown specifically for him. Both halves begin communicating as soon as he wakes up, and within weeks he'll be able to recall the majority of his life's events. There's still a pretty steep learning curve, but this will be solved in the next few years as we perfect our Integrated Data Processors."

"What else?" Hannah asked.

"Those are the only official solutions offered by LE. There are other unorthodox methods, but—"

"Tell us."

Doctor Z thumbed his forehead vein. "Some of the more radical facilities offer a therapy called re-indoctrination... which is the polite word for 'brainwashing.' The treatment involves a series of tests performed when the patient is in an altered state of mind, usually triggered by hunger, lack of sleep, and an intense combination of breathers and pills. This makes the brain more malleable—"

"Are we in a goddamn mortie compound?"

"No, Mrs. Lasker. And if it's any consolation, this is not a solution I'm permitted to recommend."

"Are those his only options? A brain transplant, brainwashing, or 'wait it out?'" Her leg began to bounce again and Joe was still watching her. She could practically feel his scrutiny burning her skin.

"I'm sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Lasker. The only other solution is to stop the mind completely. We have indefinite hibernation chambers on site. It's a one-time fee and—"

"Indefinite hibernation? Isn't that 'death?'"

"We don't like to use—"

"This is absurd. Can't you just make him younger?"

"Of course. Physical alterations can go a long way in making a patient feel more confident—"

"You think a facelift will fix this?"

"I think that positive thinking is a viable—"

"What other 'physical alterations' should he try? Should he get new hair? New clothes? Maybe a new wardrobe will make him feel better!" (Why wasn't Joe stopping her? Why was he just sitting there playing with his tie while she embarrassed him and teetered on a meltdown?)

"Unfortunately—"

"You really like that word, don't you?"

"Please, Mrs. Lasker—"

"It's Miss Lasker. Do I look like his fucking wife?"

"I just assumed—"

"You're a goddamn doctor—one of fifty doctors left on this shit hole planet—and you're making assumptions?" She turned to Joe. "Let's get the hell out of here—" And then she saw it, a smudge on her father's cheek from a wiped-away tear. She stammered. "I'm..."

Joseph smiled.

Hannah shook her head, stood, and pushed away the chair. "I- I need some space. Do whatever the hell you want."

* * *

There were few places to hide in the elder wing of the 78th floor, and Jon felt silly standing behind a decorative pedestal near the elevator doors. A Bonsai tree sat on top of the stand. It smelled nice, though it did little to improve his cover.

A loud thud echoed through the metallic corridor. He peered through the branches to see a woman on fire, back against the wall, hair wrapped in fists; it was her, his ex-fiancée and a host of digital warnings urged him to stay away.

Other patients zigzagged between them, but Jon kept his focus on Hannah. She unclenched her hair, slid down the wall, and hung her head between her knees.

A dormant feeling stirred in the pit of his stomach; a longing to run to her side, to push back her hair, to embrace the broken crumple of precious girl.

To distract himself from the stirring, he pulled up her profile.

"Name: Strawberry"

"CIN: 6481-141-20554"

"Age: 23/58"

"Interested In: Men and Women"

"Compatibility: 0%"

Jon blinked and the "0" flickered. It's a glitch, he told himself, then blinked away the app.

* * *

The hallway door zipped open like the doors on the Death Star and Joseph stepped out. "Hey, Princess."

She pushed herself off the floor but didn't look up. "Hey."

"I talked it over with Doctor Zylestra. We decided to wait."

Hannah pressed the flesh beneath her eyes.

"Is that okay?"

She nodded. "It's fine."

* * *

Without a job to occupy his time, Jon became acutely aware of a sensation that had been dormant for decades. After his brief forays into wife-sanctioned affairs, Pleasure Pods, and impotency pills to stifle his desires, he welcomed the feeling, the burning, the warm prickle of new love.

But how could he hide it from Storm? He briefly considered huffing Lavender to wipe his short-term memory, to forget the broken girl on the 78th floor, and to trick the lie detector in the eyes of his inquisitive wife. But when the front door slid open and Storm stepped in, he decided to tell the truth. "Hannah's in town."

Storm slipped out of her shoes, placed them beside the door, and balled her toes on the rug. "I haven't heard that name in a while."

"Her dad isn't doing well. They were at LE this morning. I saw her."

"That's nice." She wandered to the kitchen and plucked a grape from the centerpiece bowl. "Did you catch up?"

"We didn't talk."

The words were innocuous, but Storm's lenses knew better. "Should I be worried?"

"I don't know."

She swallowed the grape.

"I wish I could say no with confidence... but I can't."

"I knew this day was coming. I just..." She bit her lip and winced. "You caught me off guard."

"It's not that day, hon. Not yet."

She looked up. "You still love her?"

As Storm burrowed into his eyes, he knew he didn't have to respond.

"You do..." Her voice softened. "Do you still love me?"

He tried to speak... he tried to say yes...

Her eyes welled. She blinked and they teared.

In that moment between the blink and the first tear, Jon recalled in vivid color the panther he fell in love with, the dashing receptionist at Theron-Mitchell, the romantic who insisted she didn't like to cuddle but always fell asleep in his arms. His 99%. "Ask me again," he said.

She furrowed her brow.

"Ask me."

She wiped her eyes and said, "Do you still love me?"

He nodded. "Yes, Storm. I do."

For ten solid seconds, those fathomless brown orbs peered into Jon's soul as her godforsaken lenses scanned his face. Then she touched the back of his ear, ran her fingers along his jawline, and nuzzled his chest. "I love you too."