My purse was stolen, you see… But it was valid and up to date, I swear to you…”

The physician’s assistant nodded, devoid of emotion. Taking notes on a tablet computer, his questions came in a hurried barrage, by rote.

“Have you been treated in the last six months for any medical condition? Are you on any medication, or have you been on any medication in the last six months?”

“No, sir.” Myra had in fact been on black-market arthritis medication, but she knew better than to disclose that. Any potential risk factor was a red flag. Too many of those and you were headed for a “camp.” But not the kind with canoes.

The physician’s assistant pressed on. “Roll up your sleeve, please.”

He pressed a pneumatic syringe to Myra’s arm and she felt a sudden jab. In an instant it had sucked a full blood sample into its reservoir. Myra watched him snap a yellow-capped tube off the needle and carry it to a nearby analysis machine. He slid the sample into a self-loading tray, an amber light flashed on, and there was a high-speed whirring noise.

It was a breathless moment. Though Myra was certain she was uninfected, she still had the sense she was playing Russian roulette. If somehow that light turned red, she was dead. Simple as that. The possibility, however unlikely, was enough to whiten her knuckles.

The light flashed green. Clean. 

Myra realized that she’d been holding her breath. She started breathing again. One hurdle cleared….

The PA reappeared. His demeanor was matter of fact, showing no pleasure or relief at her test result. She suspected that his expression wouldn’t have been much different if the test had come back positive.

“Okay. Given your age, a mandatory physical must be conducted by the next available physician. Sit tight — you’ll be called when they’re ready for you.”

He rushed off, and Myra began the waiting game all over again. She wasn’t out of the woods yet. Not by a long shot. If the physical turned up anything of concern, she could still be deemed a v-risk. That meant a one-way ticket to the camps. 

Everyone had heard the stories, even virtual shut-ins like Myra. Only the hardiest of souls survived “re-assignment,” and only with luck. “Supervised Living Shelters” were designed not to help people recuperate and return to society, but to give them a safe place to die.

Almost an hour passed before Myra was called behind a flimsy curtain for her physical. The doctor was in her early 30s with long dark hair, high cheekbones and archetypally feminine features. There were faint circles under her eyes and she had an impatient, distracted demeanor. Still, Myra felt a surge of hope when they made eye contact — there was real warmth in this young woman’s demeanor. A marked contrast to the icy detachment of everyone else she had interacted with since this terrible day began. 

“Hello, I’m Dr. Gladden,” the woman said. 

“Myra McCarthy, nice to meet you,” Myra said, trying to sound hale and hearty.

What came next was difficult.