“A934.”
Johnny steps from the line-up onto the conveyer belt; the Supervisor makes her way over. She examines Johnny thoroughly.
“Reintegration,” she says.
I see the relief in Johnny’s face as he’s wheeled to the left.
“A935.”
My joints are frozen. Sweat drips off my nose.
“A935.”
Johnny got reintegration. I’ll get it, too.
I step up. My legs buckle.
The Supervisor pinches the skin around my belly. She measures the length of my arms.
She flips through her chart and writes something down. She doesn’t look me in the eyes.
“Spare parts,” she says.
Author’s Note: Another take on society’s obsession with appearance.