Very briefly Misery considers telling the doctor her truth. That she too knows the horror of watching a family member go to pieces, and surviving to remember the scene. Knows the heat and violence of the moment, and the long nightmares after. A moment of binding, shared solidarity. But she knows nothing of Dr. Sower except that she likes to talk and is too free with her life story. So she stays silent. She hates that she likes the doctor better because of this, though. The two of them just bits in a great machine that shuffles them around, small prey to its whims.

No. This will not be Misery’s fate. She won’t sit docile like the doctor does.

Dr. Sower taps her on the shoulder. “All right. You’re done.”

“Really?” When? Misery missed the point of insertion. She doesn’t feel any different. She sits up, searches the back of her head for metal, for a scar, anything. “You’re joking.”

“Ye of little faith.” Dr. Sower fishes a slender tube out of a pneumatic closet, a finger-length thing that’s half electronics, half holy tigerseye. It floats as she draws a yellow screen out of it. “Do you see the censer?”

A circle blinks in the middle of that translucent diamond, spiked with a crossbar. “You mean this?”

“That is it. The implant’s working. It’s in. Hooked up to your nervous system like it should. No problems.”

Misery rejects this message. She should know if someone messes with her brain. Yet this realignment of her brain happened without the seismic jolt she expected. Not a pinprick of pain or discomfort. Can such a change to her body occur without her notice? It feels violating in ways she cannot articulate.

Dr. Sower carries on, oblivious to Misery’s discomfort. She says, of the censer on the screen: “All right, try to move it.”

Move it how? Misery’s brow furrows as she tries to shift the pixels with her mind. Nothing happens. Perhaps the implant didn’t take after all?

The doctor laughs. “With your finger, genius.”

Stung by embarrassment, Misery scowls and contemplates storming out. The doctor’s easy capitulation to the circumstances of her life is risible, and she doesn’t have to accept this humiliation. But it’s too early to rock the boat. Misery lets her resentment sink and sediment in the pit of her belly. She lets the doctor guide her through the controls: opening things, closing things, summoning things, inputting data. Dr. Sower fusses her through the steps like she’s a child new to walking. It’s fine. Her skin’s pretty thick, she can take it.

Dr. Sower steps back. “There you go. Ready for your new life. The implants will link with anything electronic around the station.” She chuckles. “Sometimes I wish I never got wired as a child. I envy you late adopters, getting to experience a whole new world for the first time.”