On the farm, all ten volunteers and the five Silvers eat breakfast and dinner together. There is no lunch. Today I’ve gotten up the courage and practiced what I think is the correct vocabulary to ask one of the Silvers about my tattoo. I point to it. “What does this mean?”

“Volunteer 4711,” one of the males replies gruffly.

“I don’t understand the word ‘volunteer.’ Please use simple words.”

The male farmer grunts and then says, spitting some food out while he talks, “A person who tries and your number.”

I understand the word ‘number,’ and I know I have a number instead of a name. I tried to get people to say my name when I first arrived, but no one would, but I still don’t understand the other word, but I don’t ask again. So I just remember the first word he said, and I repeat it under my breath, “Voleen-teeur.”

The alien volunteer next to me repeats the word loudly, “Volunteer 4711.”

“Then another alien volunteer points to her identical tattoo, and then to me, and then to her chest. “Volunteer. You are 4711. I am 872. We are the same. Our people here.” Then she makes a movement with her hands like dusting off dirt and nods at me. I still don’t really understand what the word means or her hand gesture. I’ve learned there are many galactically understood hand gestures aliens use to be better understood, and everyone seems to know them but me.

I point to my chest and repeat, “voleen-teeur” and everyone at the table nods as if I’ve said the sky is purple and go back to eating. Now I know what I am called but not the meaning.

* * *

“The doctor wants you 4711,” I am told by 872.

I stop what I’m doing in the field, my hand still on the shoot. “You sure?”

“Yes. He asked for you by number,” 872 replies and points to me to make sure I understand. She comes over to take my basket and tools from me. “Go now, or he will only become angry.”

I reluctantly give her my farming equipment and walk towards the doctor’s house. I’ve never been here unaccompanied. When I reach the door, I push the button to open it. Immediately I’m hit by the stench of rot.

I walk in slowly, trying to breathe through my mouth. “Hello. I am here,” I say into the coppery-smelling house.

“Come to the back,” I hear the doctor say.

I walk through the house to the back, which I would call his laboratory slash examination room. On the way, I have to pass by all the strange and sad animals he has in cages. They’re wounded in various ways, and I’ve no idea whether these alien animals are having good or bad work performed on them. Either way, I’ve never been able to stomach animal testing, and it gives me the creeps.

When I enter his back room, the doctor doesn’t look up as I walk in, which suits me, as his crazy blue eyes always unsettle me. “I need you to disrobe.”