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Second Chances By Karyn B. Baker I never leave anything on the nightstand. Ever. So when I reached for my glasses that morning, I was surprised by the piece of paper underneath them. A pamphlet for CyLife. Mandi, I thought. I put the pamphlet down again. I didn’t want to think about it. It was my normal waking hour. 5:15 am, even without the alarm. Routine took over. Feed the cat. Shower, shave. Suit and tie. A breakfast of egg whites, fruit and low‐fat cottage cheese. Then I remembered I wasn’t supposed to go to work that day. Uncertainty crept in, and I returned to the pamphlet on my nightstand. Smiling, happy families. Survivors, supposedly. People who had benefited from CyLife’s “revolutionary techniques.” I wondered how many of them were actors. Maybe all of them. Charles had told me the procedure was experimental, but he wouldn’t tell me how many patients had survived the operation. That meant not many. The phone rang, and I answered it. My sister Sarah was at the airport; the red‐eye had landed on time and she was about to board the puddle jumper that would bring her to town. “How are you holding up?”she asked. “OK,” I answered, staring at the open pamphlet. “Any news from the hospital?” “No.” I said. “Nothing.” I sank down onto my bed. She must have heard something in my voice. “I’ll be there, soon, John. Hang in there, OK?” “OK,” I choked out. “I’ll meet you at the hospital. Give me some time to get my luggage and grab breakfast. I should be there by 9 o’clock.” “Sure,” I said. Click. Bump. My daughter’s cat looked up at me from the vicinity of my ankle, then looked toward Mandi’s room, across the hall. Where is she? He seemed to ask. Why isn’t she getting ready for school? I swallowed. “She’s not here, Skimble,” I said. She might not come back either, I thought, cringing. When he meowed in reply, I said, “We’ll get her back soon. I promise.” I looked down at the pamphlet. Maybe, I thought. If I decide to go through with this. And if it works. I turned back to the living room and spotted my briefcase in its usual place by the front door. Routine. I craved it. The deadlines piling up at work called to me. I’d been ignoring them, but they were still there. Sirens of certainty; beacons of habit. Skimble walked past. He curled up in a patch of light, ready to settle into his daily routine. That’s when I made up my mind. I stuffed the pamphlet into my briefcase and headed for the office. At work, I didn’t talk to anyone. I immediately shut the door to my office and closed the interior blinds – our universal do not disturb signals. Unsure where to begin, I opened my briefcase and pulled out the CyLife brochure, then put it aside and turned on my computer. Two days of email disappeared over the next several hours, as I rescheduled meetings, replied to simple questions, and created a list of projects that I needed to delegate. I had finally relaxed into my chair and was thinking about a cup of coffee when I heard pounding on my door. Sarah didn’t wait for me to answer, or even get to the door. She walked right in, leaving the door open so my coworkers could hear every word. “John,” she said, her jaw set and her eyes flashing. “What are you doing here?” I swallowed. “Working,” I said. I’d never been able to lie to my sister. “And why are you doing that?” She stepped toward me. I backed away. Into my office. “We were supposed to meet at the hospital.” Some of my coworkers paused behind her, curious. “I, um, I thought I could catch up on some work before you got here.” She nodded. Twice. At the second nod, I backed up again and bumped against the desk. “I guess that wasn’t such a good idea.” “No,” she said quietly. “It really wasn’t. Your daughter is in the hospital. When I spoke to you last night, you weren’t sure when she’d regain consciousness. If ever. She needs around‐the‐clock care and monitoring from the medical team, but you chose to go to work.” My colleagues – and I – cringed at the venom in her voice. I swear she spit the last word. “But. Well,” I looked around helplessly. I was trapped between my sister and the desk. My colleagues stared back at me, confused and uncomfortable. I wished they’d walk away. Especially because I couldn’t. “We’re going to the hospital now.” She reached for my coat and handed it to me. “But, Sarah,” I sputtered, pushing the coat away. “Just a few more minutes and I’ll be caught up on everything.” She shook her head. “Remember when Judy was in the hospital, dying, and you were up all night with her? Well, now it’s your daughter’s turn. Her daughter’s turn. We’re going to the hospital.” She pressed the coat into my hands again and held onto my arm, ready to drag me out. “But,” I protested, pulling away from her half‐heartedly, glancing over my shoulder at the desk. It wasn’t work that caught my eye; it was the CyLife brochure. Second Chances, page 2 Sarah shook her head, walked behind me and pushed me out of my office. She turned around to pick up my briefcase; the CyLife brochure was left behind as my sister escorted me down the hall, past my gawking coworkers, and to her rental car. Nothing had changed at the hospital. The same equipment surrounded Mandi, the same sounds, the same beeps and whirrs of the machines that kept her breathing and monitored her heart rate, her blood pressure and who knew what else. Her 12‐year‐old body was unresponsive; my daughter lay there, unmoving, unseeing, unaware of the machines, of the doctors and nurses bustling around her. I wished she could sense that her father and aunt were here to see her, or that she could enjoy the flowers, stuffed animals and balloons sent by her sixth grade class, but Mandi wouldn’t be enjoying them anytime soon. Nor would she see a huge bouquet of yellow roses, from CyLife; I was almost grateful for that mercy. Charles had been waiting for us at the hospital, ready to talk to me again. “Mr. Smith,” he said when Sarah and I met him in the lounge he’d commandeered. “So nice to see you again. And Mrs. Smith?” he looked at Sarah expectantly, smiling too broadly. “This is my sister, Sarah,” I answered. “Sarah, this is Charles. He’s with the company I mentioned last night.” Sarah frowned. “What was the name again?” “CyLife,” Charles replied promptly. “We specialize in organic cybernetics and biorobotic solutions. Technology that‘s revolutionizing the medical industry.” Industry. As a parent, I should have zeroed in on solutions, but it was industry that spoke to me right then. He wasn’t here to help Mandi; he was here to make money for his company. “And what is it you think you can do for us?” As usual, Sarah was skeptical and to the point, one of the things I loved most about her. Charles gestured that we should take a seat; the three of us were the only ones in the waiting area. We sat on the sofa, he sat in a chair on the other side of a coffee table. He pulled out another brochure, identical to the one left at work, and put it on the coffee table in front of us. “Groundbreaking technology,” he began, “has advanced prosthetics to previously unimaginable heights.” He opened a small computer, and a video began to play. As we watched a demonstration of prosthetic arms and limbs that amputees could manipulate through nerve pulses from the brain, he explained. “We’ve gone beyond replacing limbs now, John. Sarah,” he nodded at my sister, then looked back to me. “We’re finally to the point that we can replace an entire human body.” He paused, smiling triumphantly, as if he was somehow responsible for the achievement. “What do you mean?” Sarah remained skeptical. “How will prosthetics help Mandi? She can’t even breathe on her own.” Second Chances, page 3 Charles moved to the edge of his chair, leaning towards us. “It’s beyond prosthetics, Sarah. Traditional prosthetics replace a single limb, a piece of the body that is missing after injury or amputation.” He paused, eying the two of us intently. “This is a full‐body replacement. The stuff of science fiction, until now.” “You mean, an artificial body?” Charles nodded enthusiastically. “That’s exactly what I mean. In Mandi’s current condition, it’s the best hope of her returning to a normal life.” How normal? I wondered. How normal would it be to go back to school in a body that isn’t organic? To be a machine. I couldn’t say it out loud, though. “So, she’d be a cyborg?” Sarah frowned. “How normal is that?” Charles leaned back. “Think of the kids in school who have the latest technology – the newest computer, the newest video game. She’ll be like that – the newest medical advancement. Like when someone shows up on crutches, and everyone wants to try walking with them.

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