It was an image snapped in someone’s backyard. Flowers and a fence I didn’t recognize set the scene behind her. I’d dug it up from a physical album full of analogue relics, then scanned and cropped it to zoom in on my mother’s face, fine lines around her mouth suggesting that she often smiled, forehead elevens suggesting that she frowned, furrows beneath her eyes where tears sometimes settled.

Dr. Perrault clicked some buttons and the image changed. It was the Aesthetica™ scan he’d just performed, an interactive map of my face. Colors differentiated what was real from what was fake. Red stood for musculature, white for filler, gray for implants, blue for scar tissue.

“Alrighty,” the doctor said and handed me a mirror. I lifted the glass, winced, lowered it.

“If I may,” he said and touched my arm to return the mirror to eye level. He pointed at the marks he’d made. “Our goal will be to remove all signs of previous enhancements, including the extensive filler fatigue we see on your face presently. I’ll be dissolving all of that crap on the operating table to begin. Next, we’ll make a series of incisions along the lateral hairline to remove the cheek implants you had placed, then work our way down to the jaw implants here.” He motioned with a swirling gesture at my jaw. “We’ll excise the calcified biostimulatory filler which, as you know, cannot be dissolved, and remove the surrounding scar tissue in the chin area. We’ll also address the multiple past rhinoplasties by widening and aging your nose with cadaveric cartilage grafts.” He cleared his throat. “Excuse me. We’ll then remove the dermis—”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“The top layer of skin,” he said and I felt thrilled, slightly nauseous. “We’ll remove the dermis and, using my custom Aesthetica™ technique, we’ll stretch and replace it. For a final touch, we’ll use my UV resurfacing laser to simulate some of the natural signs of aging such as sun damage, fine lines and wrinkles we see here on your mother. Sound good?”

“Yes,” I said and thought my voice sounded confident and sure. He placed a hand on my shoulder. Yes, I was sure.

“Alrighty, let that numbing cream soak in a bit more.” He left the room. Alone, I lay there, wondering if I felt the Valium, wondering if I could ask for more. I have a benzo tolerance built up but didn’t want to tell Dr. Perrault about it. As if he might call off the procedure over a minor addiction, as if he might think me special, for needing what so many people need to stay alive.

I closed my eyes, listened to the pop music blossoming from the speaker, frantic. Music is so canned now, so obviously built to brainwash, I remember thinking that, remember trying to feel the drugs, count breaths.