And still, above him, the band plays. He wants to scream, but here, so close to the Chop Shop, his screams will be drowned out by the band. The counselor signals to the guards. They grab him more firmly just beneath the armpits, forcing him to take those five steps. In a moment he's through the doors, which slide closed behind him, shutting out the world. He can't even hear the band anymore. The Chop Shop is soundproof. Somehow he knew it would be.
60 Harvest
No one knows how it happens. No one knows how it's done. The harvesting of Unwinds is a secret medical ritual that stays within the walls of each harvesting clinic in the nation. In this way it is not unlike death itself, for no one knows what mysteries lie beyond those secret doors, either.
What does it take to unwind the unwanted? It takes twelve surgeons, in teams of two, rotating in and out as their medical specialty is needed. It takes nine surgical assistants and four nurses. It takes three hours.
61 Roland
Roland is fifteen minutes in.
The medical staff that buzz around him wear scrubs the color of a happy-face.
His arms and legs have been secured to the operating table with bonds that are strong but padded so he won't hurt himself if he struggles.
A nurse blots sweat from his forehead. "Relax, I'm here to help you through this."
He feels a sharp pinprick in the right side of his neck, and then in the left side.
"What's that?"
"That," says the nurse, "is the only pain you'll be feeling today."
"This is it, then," Roland says. "You're putting me under?"
Although he can't see her mouth beneath her surgical mask, he can see the smile in her eyes.
"Not at all," she says. "By law, we're required to keep you conscious through the entire procedure." The nurse takes his hand. "You have a right to know everything that's happening to you, every step of the way."
"What if I don't want to?"
"You will," says one of the surgical assistants, wiping Roland's legs down with brown surgical scrub. "Everybody does."
"We've just inserted catheters into your carotid artery and jugular vein," says the nurse. "Right now your blood is being replaced with a synthetic oxygen-rich solution."
"We send the real stuff straight to the blood bank," says the assistant at his feet. "Not a bit gets wasted. You can bet, you'll be saving lives!"
"The oxygen solution also contains an anaesthetic that deadens pain receptors." The nurse pats his hand. "You'll be fully conscious, but you won't feel a thing."
Already Roland feels his limbs starting to go numb. He swallows hard. "I hate this. I hate you. I hate all of you."
"I understand."
* * *
Twenty-eight minutes in.
The first set of surgeons has arrived.
"Don't mind them," says the nurse. "Talk to me."
"What do we talk about?"
"Anything you want."
Someone drops an instrument. It clatters on the table and falls to the floor. Roland flinches. The nurse holds his hand
tighter.
"You may feel a tugging sensation near your ankles," says one of the surgeons at the foot of the table. "It's nothing to worry' about."
* * *
Forty-five minutes in.
So many surgeons, so much activity. Roland couldn't remember ever having so much attention directed at him. He wants to look, but the nurse holds his focus. She's read his file. She knows everything about him. The good and the bad. The things he never talks about. The things he can't stop talking about now.
"I think it's horrible what your stepfather did."
"I was just protecting my mother."
"Scalpel," says a surgeon.
"She should have been grateful."
"She had me unwound."
"I'm sure it wasn't easy for her."
"All right, clamp it off."
* * *
An hour and fifteen.
Surgeons leave, new ones arrive. The new ones take an intense interest in his abdomen. He looks toward his toes but can't see them. Instead he sees a surgical assistant cleaning the lower half of the table.
"I almost killed a kid yesterday."
"That doesn't matter now."
"I wanted to do it, but I got scared. I don't know why, but I got scared."
"Just let it go." The nurse was holding his hand before. She's not anymore.
"Strong abdominal muscles," says a doctor. "Do you work out?"
A clanging of metal. The lower half of the table is unhooked and pulled away. It makes him think of when he was twelve and his mom took him to Las Vegas. She had dropped him off at a magic show while she played the slots. The magician had cut a woman in half. Her toes were still wiggling, her face still smiling. The audience gave him thunderous applause.
Now Roland feels discomfort in his gut. Discomfort, a tickling sensation, but no pain. The surgeons lift things away. He tries not to look, but he can't help it. There's no blood, just the oxygen-rich solution, which is flourescent green, like antifreeze.
"I'm scared," he says.
"I know," says the nurse.
"I want you all to go to Hell."
"That's natural."
One team leaves; another comes in. They take an intense interest in his chest.
* * *
An hour forty-five.
"I'm afraid we need to stop talking now."
"Don't go away."
"I'll be here, but we won't be able to talk anymore."
The fear surrounds him, threatening to take him under. He tries to replace it with anger, but the fear is too strong. He tries to replace it with the satisfaction that Connor will be taken very soon, but not even that makes him feel better,
"You'll feel a tingling in your chest," says a surgeon. "It's nothing to worry about."
* * *
Two hours, five minutes.
"Blink twice if you can hear me."
Blink, blink.
"You're being very brave."
He tries to think of other things, other places, but his mind keeps being drawn back to this place. Everyone's so close around him now. Yellow figures lean all around him like flower petals closing in. Another section of the table is taken away. The petals move in closer. He does not deserve this. He has done many things, not all good, but he does not deserve this.
And he never did get his priest.