But I know. I’ve always known. A recorder: a transmitter of memory of sorts. And to say they were displeased it had been scraped out would be an understatement. I don’t recall the procedure once I disappeared into the light under the bed, just like the first time, the time when I was three. What I recall is the intense light, the paralyzing fear of being dragged away and now this….

Calmly standing at the foot of our bed in our little house in Africa. Staring in a trancelike state at Ryan, who sleeps unaware as the sun begins to rise. Like a cow that has received a tranquilizer my mind floats along, unconcerned with anything but tracing the thread pattern in our duvet with my eyes.

I idly rub my left forearm, where I feel a curious, malleable lump. It doesn’t hurt, there is no scar, and it most surely wasn’t there the night before. There is no message. At least there isn’t one for me or, further to the point, there isn’t one for us. The messages are for them. I am a simple tool in their complex game.

I am the transmitter.

Harvest

HIS NAME is Joe, a simple name for a simple man. He does what you and I do. He dreams about a better life, another victim of the human condition. Joe dreams about a better life. On this particular morning, which was not unlike so many others, he stood at the side of a dirt road. The sun baked down on his shoulders, further deepening the tan of his russet skin. An empty gas can hung dejectedly at his side and he walked with the purpose of someone who has nowhere important to go.

Joe’s head hung and he scanned for bugs on the gravel, which seemed to stretch out before him like an endless conveyer belt. Searching for insects had always been a mild fascination for him, although now the activity was carried out by sheer force of habit. There was no longer a trace of excitement as his eyes scanned the dirt—not like when he was a kid. His cowboy boots squished pebbles noisily as he considered this. His life had become void of passion.