Stories.

Enenes couldn’t see. Not the tunnels, not the buildings, not the waterpipes, not the people. No sun. No moon. No earth.

He walked into a MedCorp hospital that smelled like a water bottle and sounded like an airplane. People buzzed and pinged about the lobby with fervor and purpose. Enenes thought about what it smelled like at the hospital where he worked. It did not smell like plastic there. And there weren’t as many people bouncing around, either. These people must be happier, with all this energy and direction, thought Enenes.
He found his way to the registration line. It sounded like there were three of them. 

“All new patients, please use the line on the right,” a woman’s voice, above the vibrating lobby. He heard people shuffling “All returning patients, please use the line in the middle.” 

More movement. Slow motion. 

“If you are here to refill an IZAC prescription, please proceed to the line on the left.” It sounded like a wave as half the room shifted to the left. He stood there for a few minutes before wondering if it had been more than just a few minutes. 

“Hey,” Enenes said to no one. “Do you have the time?” No one answered. He waited in the dark. After what felt like an appropriate amount of time he asked again, a little louder.
“Hey man. Do you have the time?” 

A man’s voice answered him. “I don’t have time for you, no.” 
“Do you not have a watch?” 
“I do have a watch.” The man looked at Enenes and saw that he did not have a watch. 
“Then you do have the time,” Enenes said.
“Not for this. Not for you.”

No one said anything for a while after that. 

“Next,” he heard the receptionist say. “Next in line please.” 
Enenes approached the window. “Hi. I have an appointment about IZAC,” Enenes said. 
“Do you have an appointment?” the receptionist asked. 
“Yes. I said that.” 
“What is your appointment for?” 
”IZAC.” 
“You and everyone else,” the receptionist said. Enenes was happy to hear that the receptionist was listening. “What is your last name?” 
“Enenes.” 
“Enenes for IZAC,” the receptionist said into their mouthpiece. The computer made a whirring noise and spit out a piece of paper. “Christopher Enenes?” 
“Yes.” No one at work called him Christopher. None of his friends either. He rarely heard his first name. He wasn’t sure anyone even knew what it was. 
“You’re late,” the receptionist said. “You’ll have to wait upstairs.” The receptionist stapled something and handed it to Enenes. “Next.”

The elevator opened to a room that smelled less like plastic and more like people. Enenes felt his way into a chair and waited for his name to be called. 
It could’ve been days.

The waiting room had far less buzz than the lobby. The air was rank, thick with heavy breath from the people waiting to be told what was wrong with them. Waiting to be given an answer to a question they already knew: yes, you’re dying, and yes, we have something for you. 

IZAC.

Enenes worked in a hospital, too. His hospital treated IZAC patients years into their treatment, after they’d reached full ZACitism. The people – ZACites – were vegetables. Enenes changed their feeding tubes and bedpans. 
Given his condition it was a messy occupation. 
According to MedCorp, brain scans of ZACites showed synapses typically associated with happiness. Enenes had never seen a smile. 
“Christopher Enenes,” a voice over the loudspeaker. “Proceed to the door.” Enenes felt his way along the wall until he found the entrance. Despite his struggles in finding her, Nurse Angie stayed quiet and waited for Enenes to meet her there. 
“Hello Christopher Enenes. I’m Nurse Angie and I’ll be your care provider today,” Nurse Angie delivered her lines with the excitement of a bank teller. 
Enenes followed Nurse Angine down a hallway and into a small room. She showed him to the bed in the middle. He sat on the paper and waited for Nurse Angie’s instructions. 

“How have you been feeling lately?” Nurse Angie asked. 
“I’ve been feeling okay,” Enenes said. 
“Just okay?” 
“I could be happier.” 
“What do you do for work?”
It’s amazing how people think that work can make you happy. Work is always work. Enenes did not know what work had to do with happiness.
“I’m a nurse at an IZAC treatment center.” 
“Oh,” Nurse Angie said, scribbling on her clipboard. “It must be tough to see those folks all the time.” 
“I’m blind,” Enenes said, surprised Nurse Angie hadn’t figured that out already. 
“Oh.” Nurse Angie scribbled some more. “I’ve never met a blind person before.” 
“I get that a lot,” Enenes said.

“Why are you here today?” 
“I wanted to try out IZAC.” 
“Even after working with ZACites?” 
“I hear they’re happy.” Enenes envied the ZACites’ vegetative state. There was something attractive about their lack of lifestyle. Living a life with little choice makes any agency feel like a world of power.
“They say the same thing about nurses,” Nurse Angie said. “And look at us. Happy as a doctor.” Nurse Angie laughed. “Don’t worry. In my experience, every patient I’ve treated with IZAC has come out A-OK.” 

Enenes thought about some of the people he treated at work. Most of them made no noise. They just smelled like sour cream. He didn’t think that any of them were A-OK.  “I’m not sure if I trust IZAC,” he said. 
“Do you trust me?” Nurse Angie asked. Enenes could hear scribbling.
“I’m not sure,” said Enenes. Nurse Angie scribbled some more. Enenes put his hands under his thighs. “Well we’re both nurses.” Nurse Angie looked up at him with a blank face. “I guess that’s like trusting yourself,” Enenes said. 
“Not really,” Nurse Angie said, rolling over to the cabinet beneath the sink. She pulled out a box of rubber gloves and snapped them onto her hands. “I test patients to see if they’d be a good fit for IZAC. You just treat IZAC patients after they’ve reached ZACitism.” 
Enenes did not like the way that Nurse Angie said just. “I thought that was the hard part,” he said. 
“What’s so hard about changing bedpans and feeding tubes?” Nurse Angie scoffed. Enenes did not like the way that Nurse Angie said that entire sentence. 
“Looking at them can be hard,” Enenes said. For Enenes looking was more like knowing that someone was there. He says that sight can be limiting for people who can’t feel things.
“Well you don’t really do any looking these days, do you?” said Nurse Angie like a volleyball spike. “I’ve never met a blind person before.” 
“You already said that.” He waited for Nurse Angie to ask about how he does his job, how he eats, how he makes love. People who cared a little bit more would ask if he wished he could see or if he felt fulfilled in his life. “You don’t have to be able to see to know someone doesn’t look so good,” Enenes said into his chest. He thought that was pretty smart. Nurse Angie didn’t care. She lifted his sleeve and took a deep breath. 

“IZAC works by replacing some of the existing cornea in your eyes with a new, MedCorp enzyme. It also stimulates brain activity by suppressing pain receptors. You will be able to hear sounds and see sights typically invisible and inaudible to the human ears and eyes –” she paused. “Not the eyes, for you.” Nurse Angine scrambled to get back on script. “But – umm – yes, right – If at any time you feel like passing out, relax and lay down. Nothing’s happening.” Nurse Angie removed the plastic tip on the syringe with her teeth. Enenes could barely hear her mumble “Do you acknowledge that I am injecting you with IZAC?” 

Enenes readied himself for the jab. Taking the syringe out of her mouth, Nurse Angie waited for his response. She grew impatient. “Say yes I acknowledge.” Nurse Angie said that sentence like a robot. 

“Oh. Yes I acknowledge,” Enenes said. He was feeling a bit like a robot, too. 

“This is an experimental dose. Just enough to know what IZAC feels like.” She plunged the needle into Enenes bicep. “It will take about 47 seconds to kick in.” Enenes heard Nurse Angie snap her gloves off. He waited in the dark. He felt the IZAC swim up his arm and into his chest. It slid cooly into his brain, filling his empty eyes. He heard sounds from the radiator, then a patient, breathing in the next room. It was amazing, the new information he was discovering, where before there was none.

It felt like a miracle.

Then there was light. He could make out the shapes of the furniture – or what he thought furniture was and looked like. The same with the outline of the cabinets – the water dripping from the faucet. He could see most of Nurse Angie, standing by the door. Enenes stared at her, shoveling a candy bar into her mouth. He could tell that she did that a lot. 

“How do you feel?” Nurse Angie said dryly. 

Enenes weighed the consequences of honesty, wondering what the full truth would mean for Nurse Angie, for him.
“Good,” he said.
“Better?”
“Yeah.”
“It will wear off in 92 seconds.” 

Enenes didn’t like the way Nurse Angie said 92 seconds. 

Back in the dark, Enenes wanted to feel like he did 92 seconds ago. 
“What do you think?” Nurse Angie said, scribbling again. Her pen waited for Enenes to say something like “Give me more!’ or “How much does it cost?”
“Pretty good.”
“Most patients say that they feel amazing.” Nurse Angie sounded disappointed. “Was it not amazing?” 

Enenes thought about the way that Nurse Angie spoke to him throughout this interaction.
He thought about the role nurses play in approving IZAC.
He imagined Nurse Angie with an IZAC button on her nurse’s uniform. 
“I guess it was pretty amazing.” Enenes was still in shock that chairs looked like that. Or that Nurse Angie could eat a candy bar so fast. 

Nurse Angie wasn’t satisfied. She wanted more. “Like a miracle?” she asked.

Enenes did not feel like giving Nurse Angie the satisfaction of knowing that IZAC was indeed miraculous.
But why would he weigh the burden of his truth, if he reaped the benefit?

“Yeah. Like a miracle,” he said.