Copyright 2013 - Lawrence Dagstine
Cover Art Copyright 2012 - Bob Veon
All Rights Reserved
This story is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this story are either fictitious or used fictitiously. Any similarities to real people, either living or dead, are purely coincidental. No part of this story may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without permission from the author.
Jones has disappeared, and I don’t think I can stand it in this bin without Jones. It’s not just that he has disappeared, and so isn’t here: it’s the way he went. Well, let’s take it from the beginning.
If it’s a rest you’re wanting, some respite from the Sturm und Drang of life in these Americas at the dirty end of the 21st century, don’t you make the (my!) big mistake of acting crazy to get yourself put away in a bin. All right, I do know the only way to get into a hospital at all these days—unless you’re a millionaire, have the kind of job that carries Gold Cross with it, or are dying with useful spare parts to spare—is to act too crazy to be safe on the street and get yourself certified and binned. But believe one who’s tried it: you’re two three times better off on the outside, sweating twelve hours a day to keep up with the cybersystem, sleeping five to a room, spending five hours of the rest of the day processing pollutants out of tap water, and trying to believe the food the government says is safe is safe; even if you had a fine friend like Jones inside with you. Much better off.