This was, to say the least, different. The feel of starched cloth against skin, a sensation rendered ancient and foreign by untold time naked in my capsule. But there was more. Dark rims framed my view, a view ever-so-slightly tinged by being seen through thick glass. And an entirely novel sensation, a dull ache in my low back sent occasional twinges down my left leg.

“Shall I clean that up for you, sir?” A man in a dull gray uniform was addressing me. No one but the doctors addressed me. Why was he talking to me?

I tried to speak, but my tongue felt heavy and sluggish. The man eyed me with a hesitant pity.

“First time, er, disposing of a subject? Takes some getting used to, don’t it?” He took my silence as tacit agreement and consent for the cleaning and thus busied himself preparing a sad, withered body for removal.

“Thank you,” I managed, familiar enough words.

“Oh, you’re very welcome!” he said in genuine surprise, “I always told those biddies in laundry, Dr. Wilhow is so a nice gentleman.”