Bo Bueno

You receive a notice in the mail.

You know the kind.

The official looking ones.

They're a little heavy, and the return address at the top indicates the notice originates from a high level bureaucratic agency.

There's a long barcode along the bottom, and a serial number for tracking purposes. 

This is a notice of import and significance, and you weren't expecting it.

You're a little worried to open it.

But you do. The fear of the consequences of ignoring a notice of this gravity outweighs the consequences of knowing what it contains.

When you open it, it does not disappoint.

You withdraw a series of folded pages, documents, and a return envelope, addressed to the same bureaucratic agency that sent it.

You aren't sure where to begin.

But one of the pages catches your eye.

"NOTICE OF COMPULSORY TERMINAL DEPARTURE."

Below that ominous-looking heading is a diatribe of jargon and legalese.

The typeface gets smaller and smaller the further down the page it goes. The reverse side has impossibly small typeface in colored ink barely a shade darker than the complexion of the page its written on, rendering it nearly impossible to read without arduous scrutiny.

"What is this?" You find yourself saying out loud, in a fog of confusion as you scour pages in an attempt for any clear definition of what this seems to be about.

You identify what appears to be a cover letter, addressed to you but signed by a numbered government clerk without a name. 

Mr. Z Eighmn, 

This notice is to inform you of your selection for immediate compulsory terminal departure, as mandated by Proposition 207, Article 9, Item iii, Statute J: 

Prop 207 >

Article 9 >

Item iii >

Statute J >

Therefore, by involuntary draft, determined by random draw among candidates deemed to be of nominal wealth, nominal health, nominal age, nominal liability, nominal criminal history, nominal economic outlook and with a debt exceeding 9% of their reasonably projected future earnings, candidates will be required under penalty of law to appear before a representative belonging to the Department of Resource Control (DRC) for formal compliance with the national mandate to relieve undue economic and environmental pressure by depleting unnecessary populations.

Your DRC appointment is scheduled for:

MONDAY, JANUARY 26, 2026 - 13:30 MST 
DEPARTMENT OF RESOURCE CONTROL STATE OFFICE
BAY-07

Failure to appear before a representative belonging to the DRC will result in a warrant for your detainment, effective immediately. 

Please bring the following material(s) with you to your DRC appearance:

• State issue photo identification (or) U.S. Passport
• Birth certificate
• Completed DRC Return Form (enclosed)
• Two most-recent tax returns
• Two documents confirming place of residence
• Two most-recent bank statements
• Two most-recent paystubs from place of employment (if applicable)
• Two most-recent life insurance policy statements (if applicable)
• Two most-recent statements from any long-term investment accounts (if applicable)
• All pending, non-paid bills, fines and other nonpaid debts
• Vehicle license and registration (if applicable)
• All deeds and proof of personal property ownership in excess of >$999.99
• Last Will and Testament with notary signature (if applicable)

If you are the primary caregiver for any person(s) residing with you, or tend any animal(s) or crop(s), we urge you to make arrangements to transfer their care and maintenance immediately.

HAVE QUESTIONS?

Consult our FAQ first.

If you still have questions, contact our online resource management tool available on our website.

U.S. Department of Resource Control
Agent B-0916a12

Sealed: 01/02/2026

Inside the envelope you discover the referenced DRC Return Form: a twelve-page document with the kinds of questions you might encounter when registering with a new doctor's office. Name, birthdate, birthplace, race, mother's maiden name, illness history, work history—everything you could reasonably be expected to answer about yourself. 

You also see a conspicuous tri-fold pamphlet that reminds you of the free-to-take material on display inside mortuaries and nursing homes:

SAYING GOODBYE

You open the pamphlet and inside are photos of nondescript individuals, like yourself, their face turned away from the camera—looking off into the sunset. Serene. Comforting. Final.

"If you don't know how to say goodbye, start by saying that. This will help you, and your loved ones, open up." 

"Preparing for your departure may not be easy, so take time to reflect on memories and moments that give you peace."

"Life is a journey, and no one knows when they are called to bring it to a close."

"Whether unexpected, or planned, the end can be a relief in the proper view."

"What the fuck is this?" you find yourself saying as you sift through the material that's been provided. 

Urgently, you access the FAQ. Your concerns about what this notice is conveying is slowly, and reluctantly, confirmed in your mind. You have been selected for compulsory termination by the state for resource and economic control.

For the first time since opening the notice—what now feels like hours ago—you look up, your gaze distant.

"This can't be real," you insist to yourself, incredulous. "This can't be real..." you say again, less certain.

This becomes something like a mantra you return to in the days ahead. As you assemble more of the required materials you've been summoned to present—your birth certificate, tax returns, bank statements, pay stubs—each time you repeat to yourself the same aghast remark:

"This can't really be happening," 

You say this even as you show the notice to your boss at work. You bring it up to the counter worker at the coffee shop you go to every morning. You read it out loud to your parrot, Bo Bueno, just to hear him repeat it back to you in his uncannily human-sounding bird mimicry:

"SQUAWK! DEPLETING UNECESSARY POPULATION! SQUAWK!"

The reality truly begins to set in when your supervisor arranges for you to meet with the company's HR department to begin termination of your employment. That's the meeting where you finally have a breakdown and, absolutely beyond your ability to control or restrain, you weep like a child in the little chair across from the Assistant General HR Research Partner, Debbie Oatman, who bites her lip and slowly inches the tissue box on her desk closer to you.

You find yourself crying for a long time. So long that Debbie can't think of anything else to do but to get up and leave her own office.

"Why don't I let you have the room," she says, as sympathetically as she can. "Please. Take your time." 

You don't even look up at her. Your eyes are red and swollen. Your nose is dripping. Your sobs are so loud that they echo off the close, manufactured walls and ceiling all around you and reverberate in your ears, but you can't stop.

You don't know how long this goes on for, but when you're done, you feel a little better. You use about six of Debbie's tissues from the box on her desk, catch your breath, and...

You say goodbye on your way out.

You go to your office and you pack your things, your face and jaw tired from crying. The foot-traffic walking back and forth in front of your office door, usually bustling, has slowed today. You hear soft whispering and hushed words in the break room, an ear-shot away from your door—but you can't make it out. They could be talking about dividends, and shortfalls, and earnings for all you know.

But you know.

Surprisingly, you take very little out from your office. Your supervisor is there, and you give him your office key. There's a handshake, and you leave. 

You go home to see your landlord is there, having let himself in, with a clipboard—noting holes in the walls, dents in the doorframes, scratches on the linoleum, wall damage next to Bo Bueno's birdcage, who squawks at him curiously.

You pay him with a check for a partial month's rent and utilities. At the door, before he leaves, he looks off and says something like:

"My brother passed away five months ago," he said. "Yeah," he said, as if responding to some condolences he had practiced for but that you didn't offer. "It's alright. But you know. You never know? I could go home and get into a car wreck right now, and that'd be it for me, too," he said. Then. Looking at me briefly, he said. "Good luck to you."

You go inside that evening and make yourself a frozen dinner but don't eat it. You drink a beer that's been sitting on its side in the back of your fridge for months, but there's no joy in it. You look through your phone and you spot an old number of a girl you came close to dating once. You find yourself calling her. 

She doesn't answer. That's fine. But the message beeps and you start to leave a message, making it up as you go...

"Hi, it's Z. Hey, um, so, anyway..." You pause. You think about hanging up. But you continue. "Anyway I uh, just wanted to call and say that-- something's come up. I need to... I need to give Bo away. I just thought... he liked you, so, maybe you might want to keep him? I can give you all his stuff, and enough food for him for a while. He's kind of a jerk but he's funny sometimes." A pause. "Anyway. Hope you're doing okay." And you hang up.

You give Bo a cookie before you go to bed and lie on your mattress for a long time. You look at the digital clock next to your bed and see imagined faces in the digital numbers that appear there. 

To you, the semicolon in the middle look like eyes, and the 1 above them looks like eyebrows. The 3, to you, looks like a smile through cleft palate, and the 7 looks like he's flipping someone off.

You watch as the minute changes. The eyes and eyebrow and cleft palate smile remain the same—but now the clock man has a pair of prominent pectoral muscles. 

Now the clock man looks like he's flexing his arm, to you, as you watch throughout the night, seeing how the clock man's expression slowly changes, minute-by-minute, until the morning comes.

The girl texts you back and says she's sorry you can't keep Bo Bueno. She can't keep him either, but offers to hold him for a while if you just need something temporary. You say it'll be permanent, but ask if she can hold him until she can figure out who might be able to take him. You can tell she's hesitant, but eventually she reluctantly agrees. 

You meet in the parking lot of a grocery store in town so you can give her your parrot, Bo Bueno. He recognizes her when he sees her, and whistles charmingly, making you both laugh. You don't say much, but you cry again as you say goodbye to Bo, who nibbles your knuckle with his beak, his little dexterous black tongue affectionately tapping the skin of your finger, as his wild white eye and black iris dilate with vague understanding.

She's polite and sympathetic, though she doesn't know why. She takes Bo and buckles his birdcage in the passenger seat. She takes his ball, and his rope, and his favorite stuffed iguana doll, and a bag of food, and some wooden blocks he likes to stack, and puts them in her trunk.

"Are you moving?" she finally asks. 

"No," you admit. "I got this notice," you say, unsure of how to continue. "I've been selected by this government agency for, like, compulsory termination, I guess? For resource management?"

"Resource management? Is it like a job?"

"No," you say. "It's like. I guess it's like assisted suicide?"

"Oh!" she says, and her expression becomes absolutely uninterpretable to you. "Oh my god. You're— you're committing suicide?"

You laugh, but there's no joy in it.

"I mean. It's not my decision."

"What the fuck?" she says.

This has suddenly become something you didn't intend for it to become.

"Yeah," you admit, your body shivering a little. "I don't know. It's like a government thing. It got passed into law last year? I was looking into it and... the crazy part is I actually voted for it! Though I didn't realize it at the time..."

"And... you don't want to?" 

"No!" you assert. "No, I don't..."

"Well, they can't do that," she says.

You sigh. "Well, maybe. I hope not. I have to go tomorrow and... I'll see what I can do, I guess."

"Just don't go," she says. She seems to be getting angry.

"They'll arrest me." 

"So?!" she says, indignantly.

"Yeah," you say, chuckling. "I mean. They'd have to come get me. Or find me, or whatever."

"Are you sure?" she says. "It has to be a mistake." 

"I hope it is!" you say. 

"Do... do you have a lawyer?" she asks.

"A lawyer? No, I don't have a lawyer."

"Ask them for one." 

"Yeah," you say, hesitant. "I figured I might see how it goes and then ask for one if I need to. But, either way, based on what I've read, I'd need to be detained during the litigation anyway so... that's why I needed to find someone for Bo."

She looked back at her car. Bo's silhouette could be seen through the car windows, shifting his weight from one foot to the other on his little perch.

"I'll take care of him," she said. "I just..." she trailed off. "I just think you should ask for a lawyer right away. When you go. Fuck them. This isn't right."

"I know!" I admit again. 

"Seriously," she asserts. "Fuck them. Get a lawyer or just don't go. Even if they catch you, at least you'll have a chance."

You say goodbye, and mark how upset she looks as she drives away.

The next morning you get there early.

You're directed to park your vehicle in a special designated lot. An attendant at the gate registers your vehicle and puts a marker on the front windshield corner. Then, they direct you to a specific spot—and then ask you to verify that the parking space you've parked in matches your paperwork documentation number. You're then required to give them your keys, and your car door is locked, and the key is inserted into a small magnetic-coded receptacle that is attached to the exterior of the driver's door. 

You look around at the other cars you've parked amid and wonder who their owners had been.

You find that the parking lot attendant asks you to wait—and another attendant from inside the facility comes out to escort you inside. The attendant has a vague aesthetic adjacent to a security guard, or prison officer, but with a slightly more blue collar veneer. They wear a dark blue tie without a pattern amid black clothes and heavy exterior armament that could be a bulletproof vest, but it's all been fashioned to look as much like an overcoat as possible. 

"Mr. Z Eighmn?" 

"Yes, that's me," you say, a little nervous.

"Sign here please," he produces an electronic iPad. You look at the screen and see the end of a long document full of the same sort of language that had been mailed to you a few weeks ago, with a white box signature field waiting for your fingertip. You scribble with your index finger, your fingernail tapping slightly on the surface of the screen as you drag it across.

"Your device," he commands. He opens a zip-lock plastic baggie that seems designed specifically to accommodate a device approximately the size and shape of a smart phone. His fingers and thumb are on either edge of the bag, pressing in slightly, opening the top, which he holds out to you. You notice he's wearing latex gloves.

"Oh," you say. Your phone. You swallow heavily. "Can't I hang onto it for now?"

"No," he says with finality. There is no invitation for question or comment, only the implicit expectation that the only thing you're meant to do next is to put your phone into that sleeve.

"I'd... kind of like to keep it for now..." you say, anxiety encroaching into your voice.

"We cannot proceed until you surrender your device," he says quickly with the same intensity and finality as before, as though saying it ends all discussion.

You're faced with a decision about how the rest of the day's proceedings will unfold. It occurs to you that the protocol has been strategically designed this way for a reason, and that your decision to hand over your phone will set in motion one of two courses that, for lack of a better description, can be summarized as either the "easy" way, or the "hard" way.

"What happens if I don't?" you ask.

"Then you will be forcibly detained." 

"As opposed to... what?"

"Voluntary escort."

"If I'm forcibly detained... do I keep my phone?"

"No. If you are forcibly detained, I must confiscate your device."

"So either way is the same?"

"No. Either you will be voluntarily escorted to your hearing appointment, or forcibly detained."

In your mind, there is no difference—but the distinction seems to be an important one in this attendant's mind.

You put your phone in the bag, and he promptly seals it. As soon as he does, you think to yourself that you should have turned it off. You're not sure why you feel it would've been important to do so, and maybe it won't matter after all.

The attendant now gestures to the door, entering the side of the building, and you are escorted. You were not expecting to be accompanied by a federal employee, but they do not restrain you in any way. Their body language, however, communicates an immediate overwhelming presence following your every step as you proceed into the labyrinthine government building.

Their boots march down the tile floors. You hold the large file containing all of the paperwork you've been asked to bring with you. The environment is sterile, nondescript, inoffensive. 

You are brought to a waiting area—a very small room with a series of plastic chairs set out in a row similar to a classroom, without desktops. Fluorescents glare overhead, and there are no windows. There is no water fountain or restrooms in sight. At the front of the room is a thick plexiglass window, a heavy metal door to its left, and a little round woman with long nails whose double chin and lips are obscured by the foam ball covering the tip of a black microphone.

The attendant directs you to a seat, the first chair in the first row facing the plexiglass window, and directs you to sit. You do.

The man closes the door you came in from with a heavy, final CLANK, followed by a brief mechanical hum. He then approaches the door to the left of the plexiglass window and presses a button. A similar mechanical hum is heard, and then the latching lock is released. He enters, and the door quickly swings closed behind him with another final CLANK.

And you wait.

The woman behind the plexiglass window never looks up at you. 

There is no clock. No music. Just a still, refrigerator hum emanating from the federal building's womb you've been led into.

You lose track of time. You did arrive early, but not this early. You sigh, and wish you could look at your phone—and perhaps look over the online FAQ again to help prepare for your questions, rebuttals and what you are now realizing will almost certainly include a request for legal counsel. 

At last. The round woman's little voice booms out through speakers you hadn't noticed.

"Eighmn, Z," she says, monotone.

You stand up and approach the window. 

She does not look up. Instead, she opens a stainless steel drawer in-between the both of you. 

"Do you have your required documentation?"

"I think so," you say.

"Place all files and forms inside the drawer in front of you," she said, without any interest whatsoever.

"Um," you say— "I think I'd like to... speak with an attorney?" 

Her response is immediate. Well-rehearsed.

"Do you have an attorney?" she asks.

"No. I would need one appointed. Is that possible?"

"If you're seeking counsel, you are selecting to be voluntarily detained inside this facility until a counsel visitation can be approved. In order to accept you into a holding facility, you must first provide proper documentation signaling your identity and reason for appearing today. Please place all files and forms inside the drawer in front of you to begin the intake process, please."

Once again, the choice between voluntary and involuntary both lead you to the same result.

You drop your entire folder down into the drawer and slide it back through the wall. You watch her manicured fingers pull out the folder and begin sifting through the documents you've provided. 

"You may have a seat," she says, again, without looking at you. You return back to your chair. This takes some time.

"Eighmn," she repeats into the microphone again, presently.

You stand and return before the window.

"You're seeking counsel?"

"Yes," you say.

"Sign here," 

The drawer shoots out. A clipboard, this one with padded edges and soft corners. You pick it up out of the receptacle and take up the pen that's attached to the board, signing your name.

You return your signature in the drawer.

"Please slide your hands through the slot in the door to your left, please." 

You look over and see an opening, just wide enough for your hands to slide in. It looks like you're going to be forcibly detained after all. 

You walk over and slide your hands through. You feel soft hands, with long nails, slip a plastic cord over your wrists, which then tighten. The round woman's voice emanates through the opening.

"Step back," 

You step back and the door opens.

Time inside the facility draws out at a maddeningly slow and boring pace. You are led to a nondescript room which closely resembles the waiting chamber you were originally led to, but without the rows of small plastic chairs. 

Instead, there's a padded surface, perhaps four feet or so in length, extending out from the wall opposite the door. 

A familiar looking plexiglass service window is on the adjacent wall, though no one sits on the other side. 

You have no clue how long you are held here for. A single minute feels like an hour in this containment cell.

You go insane, there, in that room. In waves of swelling and then diminishing madness. At its peak, you're screaming incoherently—the sound so muffled and muted by the interior padding of the room that the noise is eerily sucked from your lungs into the walls where they go nowhere. At it's ebb, you're huddled on the pad extended out from the opposing wall, rubbing your face with your hands until your skull feels like raw bread dough.

After an eternity, or half an hour—you have no way of knowing—a loud BUZZ is heard from the room on the other side of the plexiglass window. The door opens, and a man enters.

He's tall, even though his neck and shoulders seem permanently hunched, maybe in his 60s. He wears large glasses, and has a long nose. He has a tired, but friendly face. His salt and pepper hair was perhaps once dark brown. He has a mustache, wears a nondescript suit of no discernible color, khaki slacks, and brown loafers. He has a small old-fashioned leather suitcase that he seems to use instead of a briefcase, which he carries toward the plexiglass window counter as the door closes shut behind him.

There is no microphone, but covered slits in the plexiglass window. The man's voice sounds like a less comic Bullwinkle Moose—low, patient, and patronly. One of his bottom teeth are capped. 

"Hello there, can you hear me alright?" the man says as he stands at the counter opposite the plexiglass window. 

You approach the other side of the window. You're suddenly aware of your appearance, and can only imagine how you might look. How long had it been since you were a raving lunatic? Had this man heard your insane screaming? He didn't seem to let on that he had, and if he had, he didn't seem to let that affect his discourse with you now.

"I can hear you," you say.

"Good. My name is Chumley DeLozier, associate attorney," he says, opening his suitcase, looking and sounding apologetic already. He sighs heavily as he looks at the papers and documents inside the suitcase, but then turns his caring eyes toward you, and asks—earnestly, so far as you can tell, with real meaning—"How are you?"

You don't know how to answer that, so you say, "Not so great," flatly.

"Yeah," he says. His eyebrows raise up as he turns back to the pile of papers in the suitcase beside him on the counter. "Yeah, that makes sense," he says again. "So, um. I'm going to talk a little bit about..." He pauses. "No, actually. Let's start this way. Do you have any questions right off the bat?"

Again, maybe it's because you had just recently felt yourself going insane from the silence and boredom of the room, compounded by the pressure and anxiety of facing compulsory state execution, that you once again have no idea how to answer his question. Your mind is both a blank, while simultaneously flooded with emotion.

You feel the pressure in your face mount, and the world becomes a watery pool behind the formation of tears in your red eyes.

"Yeah," you hear him say, with earnest sympathy. "Yeah, I know," he says again, with a sigh, and you weep again. You're reminded of the HR office at your old job when you broke down in front of... what was her name? Debbie. But this time you don't have any tissues.

"You know," you say, the words coming out as sobs. "I didn't think this was... even possible!" you say.

You don't see him, but he frowns a little, nodding in agreement. "Yeah," he says again. "Yeah, it's... hard to believe." 

"Is there... anything?" is all you can manage.

He sighs again, drawing his lips together in a tight line that makes his jowls droop. "Okay. Well. I'll tell ya, this is all still pretty new, you know? Well, scratch that," he corrected himself, closing his eyes tightly enough to make the crow's feet wrinkles at the corners of his eyes spread to the veins in his temples. "The uh... the law was passed by congress back in oh-nine, if you can believe it. It was a provision that was included in a funding bill, of all things, and wasn't really reported on much at the time," he said. "So the law has been in effect for... well, since that time more or less, but it hasn't been enforced until recently, which makes it new for... well, people like us, I guess." 

You're not sure if by "people like us," he means you and him, or other lawyers. 

"Anyway, I've dealt with a few of these cases in the past eight months and..." his eyebrows up again, "I've really learned a lot. I've learned a lot. And uh... well, I gotta be honest, I'm sorry to say, but most of the time these cases are pretty air tight."

"But how? How can they do this?" you say, feeling rage suddenly.

You can tell Chumley senses your rage, and it saddens him. Saddens him on your behalf. 

"It's the law," he says flatly, with a shrug. "It's all part of an ongoing mandate to... well, there are these goals that are supposed to justify, but the review process of how the Resource Control Department is supposed to demonstrate how they're helping takes place every eight years, which, of course, most recently took place in the 2024-2025 cycle. They issued this notice to you literally at the very top of the new eight year cycle, so you're in an especially... troubling pickle because your appeal wouldn't make its way into the report for literally eight more years."

"So... I'll have to wait eight years for an appeal?"

Chumley sighed. "No, no. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make it sound... I'm going to issue your appeal after this consultation. It will be... it will be denied. But the review of the appeal that I put forward won't be in the report and analyzed until eight years from now. You'll be... unfortunately, you won't be here to see what the result of that report will be, by then, regardless of how it goes."

"Wait," you stammer. "Why will my appeal be denied?"

"To be honest, because you are the precise demographic that's selected for these compulsory termination quotas they've established," Chumley says. "They've reviewed the paperwork and everything they had on record about you is more or less confirmed. An algorithm reviewed your funds, your debt, your age, your health risks, your economic contributions, even your family history and you fall exactly within a 'nominal zone,' kind of what they call. It's... hard to explain because it's... inherently it's kind of cruel if you ask me, but... it's like they're 'making room' in the middle."

Chumley looks at you. You can tell it pains him to look at you. A part of you is aware that Chumley has a heart and it's been breaking the more of these cases he takes.

"They don't include people from the top into these lotteries, because of their economic contributions. And they don't take people from the bottom because that's good press—showing how many homeless or impoverished citizens are benefiting from the program. So they take from the middle. The exact middle, statistically, and put certain demographics into a lottery pool which draws randomly to fill a quarterly quota. You... you know... you were ultimately selected because you're low-middle income, you have debt that can be written off, you have no familial ties, although... God, I tried to help a father of six last week... It still happens."

"You're saying there's nothing we can do?"

"I'll file an appeal. It's for the record. It goes in the final report. Along with the... hundreds of thousands of others over the next eight years who will also file for appeal. But it will be denied because the law has already mandated that a specific threshold be reached by the next review. At that point it'll be determined whether the Resource Control initiatives are helping reach the goals that have been set up..." 

"What are the goals supposed to be?"

Chumley shrugs. 

"Decrease pollution and greenhouse gases. Increase jobs. Wealth distribution. Alleviate national debt. Population control. Disease mitigation... there's all of these metrics that they use..." 

"So they're going to kill me?"

Chumley chewed on his top lip with his bottom row of teeth, exposing that metal-capped tooth, nervously, full of anxiety and hopelessness.

Chumley left, and another long period of bored, silent madness began—this time exacerbated by the certainty that your fate is now unavoidable. A foregone conclusion. 

The girl you almost had a thing with years ago, who had been so upset to learn what was happening to you, was right, after all. 

You should have just ran.

You hoped your parrot, Bo Bueno, was doing alright.

You don't see Chumley again, but a few things happen quickly the next time the door to your containment cell is opened. A pair of attendants, a young girl who might be in her 20s and an older woman maybe in her 50s. They both wore blue scrubs and spoke calmly. 

They bring you to a dining hall, and serve you a very rich meal, which feels like heaven as you eat it.

You're unaware that the meal, while designed to be tasty, contains—among many things—a surplus of laxatives. You feel the effects of this before you're through eating, and the older of the two attendants escort you to a nearby restroom which also, curiously, contains a shower stall. 

You sit and experience a bowel movement like you've never felt in your life, though it surprisingly isn't accompanied by excessive pain or discomfort. 

After it's complete, the older of the two attendants opens the door and politely directs you to strip and shower. The attendant, wearing familiar-looking latex gloves, administers a fine, pleasant-smelling powder all over you that washes away cleanly. 

You step out of the shower and see your clothes are gone. You're given a smock that drapes over your head and covers your front, and led into another room with an examination table. 

Here, you realize that you've arrived. Somehow, you thought that it would take more time, though you're not sure why. 

The attendant beside you directs you to the table, and asks you to lie overtop a blue plastic tarp draped over the table, and you begin to weep again. 

"I didn't think it would happen so fast," you say.

The two attendants are sympathetic, but clinical. 

"I know, I know," they coo, gently patting your shoulders as you stare at the table. They feel your body trembling, so their pats turn to gentle rubs. "I know, sweetie. I know." 

You weep, but you allow yourself to be gently led to the table, and helped as you sit up upon it. The latex gloves assist you as you lie back, flat, and the smock lifted over your head, leaving you naked once again.

The smock you only wore to cross the hallway, a facade olive-branch gesture of dignity.

Noticing your body shaking, the older of the two attendants leans over your face, her necklace dangling over your eyes, and asks:

"Would you like to speak to our Certified Faith Director?"

"What is that?" you ask, your nose running.

"They're trained to represent a lot of different religions. They just come and talk with you about your departure. Do you practice a particular expression of faith?"

"An expression of faith?"

"A religion?"

"Oh," you look at the attendant. "I was raised Lutheran..." 

"Lutheran," she says. "Okay, she knows about Lutherans." 

"I haven't..." you stutter. "I haven't in a while..."

"Would you like to speak with her?"

You shrug. "I don't know. I don't know..."

"You have to say yes or no, sweetie."

"Oh. Um." You swallow. "I... yes, I guess."

She looks at the younger attendant. "Go get Deb." 

You breathe on the table, aware that the attendant is holding your head in place, and as you try to tilt your head to look around the room, you feel her gentle pressure to keep your head turned upward. You do feel others in the room who are putting straps around your ankles and wrists, and pulling the blue tarp around you into a bag, which then is zipped up to cover your genitals.

A needle is poked into your arm, and you begin breathing hard—but the attendant soothes you, softly.

"It's okay, sweetie. It's just to help you relax," she says. "It's not that, yet. It's okay." 

Soon, a new presence enters the room. You look up and a woman with straw hair, with strands of white pulled back into a bun, enters your field of vision.

"Hi, my son," she says. "I'm Deb. It's an honor to be here with you," she says in a voice that's well-rehearsed to be soft and consoling. 

"Hi," you say, hyperventilating. 

"Yana says you're Lutheran!" 

"Um. Maybe, I guess. I don't know... I haven't thought about it in a long time."

"Well that's o-kay," Deb says. "Because THEY have thought a lot about YOU."

"They?"

"The LORD."

"Oh," you say, trying to breathe. 

"Is there anything you want to say?"

"Uh-- I really don't know. I guess... maybe, I'm sorry?"

"Okay. Okay... yes. It's O-KAY," Deb says.

You wince and try to look around, but the attendant's gentle hands hold your head in place. 

"Sir, my son--" Deb repeats. "I just want you to relax, okay?"

"Okay," you say, but you know you aren't relaxed. You try-- you want to be-- but you aren't. "Wait. This isn't right," 

You hear everyone in the room-- and there are more than you thought-- begin to shush you.

"Shhh, shhh, shhh," Deb repeats. "It's O-KAY," Deb says.

"Can we stop? Can we stop for a second?"

"No, sweetie. No," the attendant interrupts. You move your leg and are reminded that your ankles are bound underneath the bag, which crinkles around you. You try to do so with more strength, but your muscles feel heavy. You remember the shot they gave you.

"My son," Deb continues, "You're going to want to prepare your heart, okay? Relax and prepare your heart."

"No, we need to stop..." 

Deb looked at the attendant. "Okay," she said-- her tone shifting. It wasn't the practiced, calm tone anymore. It was a direction; a deliberate signal.

The bag is zipped up further, and straps are being applied over your legs and waist and chest. You're hyperventilating. 

The attendant's voice returns, a little more urgent, and stern-- "I want you to breathe deeply, alright? Just breathe. Breathe a lot if you can, just like you are now,"

But your breathing doesn't feel good. It feels panicked. It feels urgent. You don't want to breathe like this, you want to escape, but your muscles are feeling heavier. 

The bag is zipped up further, covering your face. The attendant's hands slip out, and return to either side of your head over top of the bag. The zipper covers your view, but above you, inside the tarp, is a narrow, circular opening that you can still breathe through.

This hole is then covered by a tube. You taste a new kind of air flowing into the bag from the tube. There's a finality to this, and you sense others throughout the room, outside your bag, begin to relax.

"No! No! No!" You begin screaming, but already it feels difficult to muster the strength to shout.

Your struggles slow. You hear the attendant's voice saying, "Just breathe, sweetie, just like that."

The panic. The rage. They cloud everything else, except the hard beating of your naked heart under the bare skin of your chest.

You're flooded by the grim knowledge that, after everything, and so quickly, it's happening.

Then, suddenly, out of nowhere-- Bo Bueno enters your thoughts.

Your parrot.

For a moment, it seems like he had landed on you on top of the blue bag zipped over your body. You feel his little feet above you. See the silhouette of his feathered figure shine down from the lights above. 

You close your eyes, then open them again. Now you can feel his black beak nibbling on your knuckle, bound in front of you.

His little dexterous tongue affectionately tapping the skin of your finger.

The little hoots he makes when he's happy.

You think about Bo Bueno.