“TOM! Dr. Pinkerton wants you on the phone,” called Alice. “It’s urgent! He found a good match for you!”
Tom, buried under blankets meant to keep his poor, cancer-wracked body from freezing, reached over for the phone. “Hi, Doctor. No, not very well. Honestly it’s going to take me a while to—what do you mean, the perfect subject?”
A minute later, with a sudden renewed burst of energy, Tom threw on his clothes. “I hate that these jeans are so loose,” he complained. “They’re my favourites. And even my shoes don’t fit right.”
Alice met him at the door. “I don’t want you to get your hopes up,” she cautioned. “What if it’s some flabby 70-year-old man with prostate issues himself? What if it’s some 12-year-old who doesn’t even have to shave?”
“Either of those is better than dying in the next two weeks,” Tom replied acidly. “Do I want to be a senior citizen or a prepubescent kid? No. But at least they’re alive.”
As they made their way to the lab, Tom got a sly look on his face. “What would your ideal be?” he asked cunningly. “If you could redesign me.”
Alice snorted. “I just want my husband back.”
“Seriously, though, what if you could pick? You’ve got to have some fantasy hidden inside that amazing chest of yours. Is it a goofy but strong nerd? A boy-next-door type? An Argentine cattle rancher in a bolo tie?”
“You’re gonna laugh at me. I’m not telling you.”
“Come on, what do you have to lose?”
“I’ve always had kind of a thing for blue collar men. You know, construction workers, cowboys, or laborers. Something about them just does it for me. But the problem is the ones I tried to date before I met you were either sexist pigs who wanted me to make them sandwiches, or dumber than a box of rocks. Hot sex is hot for the hour it lasts, but then there’s 23 more hours in a day, you know?”
Tom laughed. “And somehow you wound up with me, a regular Joe with a desk job that requires a suit.”
Alice laughed. “Who knew I’d fall for Clark Kent’s dorky brother?”
Just then, they pulled into the driveway of the lab, where Dr. Pinkerton was waving frantically.
“Just leave the car! I’ll get a staff member to park it. Come on, let’s go!”
The couple rushed up the ramp as fast as Alice could push Tom’s chair.
“What is so important? I thought you said matches take a lot of testing. Why the red alert?” asked Tom.
“I’m not the only scientist working on this project,” the doctor said, “and there’s someone else trying to take this candidate. But if we can get you to sign off and prep you for surgery, it’s kind of finders keepers.”
“Wow,” said Alice. “This must be some catch.”
“He is,” Pinkerton replied. “Hale, hearty, tall, strong, and… just for you, Ms. Alice, really good-looking.”
They stopped in front of a window labeled “Operating Theatre 3” and Dr. Pinkerton pressed a call button on the wall. The drapes on the window opened, and lying on a gurney was a young man, well built, with a scar across his cheek and a bandage around his left hand.
“Meet Colton Bradshaw, age twenty-three. About two months ago, he was at work when he fell and hit his head. His body healed pretty quickly—young men tend to do that—but unfortunately he never came to. We haven’t found any next of kin, and no one knew where he was originally from. They only knew his full name because he had a Wyoming license on him when he fell. We’ve done extensive testing on him and other than liver enzymes a bit high, probably from drinking, there’s not a thing wrong with him. He’s about a 78% match for you, which is well within limits. So if you’d like to continue your life as this strapping young man, I have some papers for you to sign.”
Tom stared at the body lying in the room. “I have about a million questions about this guy,” said Tom slowly.
“You don’t have time for a million questions now, but we can deal with that after. You’ll be awake in about a week, but right now your cancer markers are sky high and I want you to survive,” said the doctor.
Tom looked over at Alice. “Are you… okay with this?”
Alice laughed. “Okay with it? With the personality of the man I love in THAT amazing body? Get signing!”
Dubiously, Tom signed and waited for the notary to record the signature. Without further ado, he was whisked away to the operating theatre, stripped down, and wired up to the Mind Store Machine. There was a flash of light and Tom drifted off into oblivion.