Donor 23 by Cate Beatty

realized she didn’t have the rose. The last of the sun was setting. She watched it move slowly behind the earth, the glowing orb growing redder and angrier, as if fighting to remain and reluctant to give up. She went into the Center, found a massage room, and lay on a bed. At some point she fell asleep, only to be awakened again by her nightmare.
    When morning came, Joan got up. With the sunrise also came a realization for Joan. She knew what she had to do. Rather, she knew nothing could be done, and she had toaccept it. First, she scripted to their phone at home, telling her father she was OK and had spent the night at the Center. She made her way into the Center’s cafeteria, where she got hot chocolate, eggs, and toast. She greedily ate the food, not realizing how hungry she was.
    As she ate, she spied two citizen athletes finishing their meals at a table near her. They left most of their food, a few breakfast rolls, bacon, and sausage patties. She flashed to a memory of her father admonishing her at the dinner table, “Waste not, want not.” That maxim did not apply here, not to citizens.
    As the busboy—a donor—cleared their table, he unobtrusively slipped the food into his pocket. His family would have a treat. This was considered a lucky job for a donor, as it offered easy access to extra food for one’s family. She thought of the waitress, the one with the violet-colored eyes. Glancing around the cafeteria, Joan didn’t see her.
    Later that morning, she climbed the rock wall. Her hand slipped from a hold, and she grasped vainly with her other hand. Her shoulder muscles strained—all her muscles ached from the medical tests the day before. She concentrated on relaxing. Don’t use your arms, Jack had taught her. A climber shouldn’t rely on arms for rock climbing—it’s the leg muscles one should employ. She took a breath and used her legs for the climb. Another trainer, not Jack, aided her. She didn’t want to see Jack. He must have known about the tests—about the donation—yet he said nothing. She ascended the wall, with no problems. She had a knack for rock climbing. While she belayed down, Captain Nox walked into the gym.
    As she landed on the ground, the trainer said, “Perfect climb. You were able to discern the changes in the face to make it up the quickest route.”
    She didn’t hear him. Her focus rested on Nox. He was making his way across the gym toward her. Joan fumbled with the carabineers, trying to get unhooked. She desperately wantedto get out of the gym before he reached her. She looked up. Nox paused as gymnasts blocked his path.
    “Here. Let me help you,” the trainer said, reaching for the carabineers.
    But he only got in the way, and Nox was getting closer.
    “No, I got it,” Joan said, as she finally managed to unhook the device.
    She turned to leave.
    As she did, Nox grabbed her arm. “23, let’s talk.”
    They went into one of the massage rooms. Nox, as was his custom, began pacing in front of her.
    “You didn’t go home to the ghetto last night. You never checked in at the gate.”
    Although exhausted, Joan summoned more courage today than in their initial meeting, “I spent the night here at the Center.”
    He moved close to her face. Joan backed away.
    “Don’t move away from me.”
    Joan stepped back to where she had been.
    “You wouldn’t be lying to me, would you?”
    Joan shook her head.
    “You weren’t at any illegal gatherings?”
    Joan continued shaking her head, “I swear. I worked out late and missed the last bus. So I slept here. Sir,” she added at the last minute. Under his glare, she began to lose her confidence.
    “Because if you knew of any illegal gatherings—so-called underground meetings—I’d expect you to tell me.”
    “I don’t know of anything like that. I spent the night here. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. Sir.”
    Nox paused to evaluate the situation—evaluate the donor. He changed tack. Like any good interrogator, he