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Author's Note: Deus ex machina is a Latin phrase meaning "God from the Machine." It's been historically used to describe an unexpected or improbable character, thing or event introduced suddenly in a work of fiction or drama to resolve a situation or untangle a plot. In modern times, deus ex machina also has come to describe a device that emerges unpredictably and solves a seemingly insurmountable problem. This story may not be re-posted without the permission of the author. Deus Ex Machina By Lana B. *** PROLOGUE It was the year 2110, and medical science had made significant advances in the diagnosis, treatment and control of diseases, ailments and contagions that had plagued mankind for centuries. With the passage of time, discoveries were made in medical technology that allowed people to live longer, happier and more productive lives. On average, a male born in the 22nd Century could expect a lifespan of nearly 100 years, while a female could count on living for 104 years. Many of these life-enriching technological advances were rooted in discoveries made by NASA. Aerospace research brought innovative insights into the practical application of space science discoveries that became the forerunners of newer aids in the diagnosis and treatment of patients. A new non-surgical breast biopsy technique using a device originally developed for the Hubble Space Telescope imaging spectrograph saved women pain and scarring in locating suspicious lumps. Space shuttle research on the body's balance system resulted in new discoveries of sensory pathways that improved treatments for nervous system disorders. Microgravity experiments in space produced purified crystalline proteins that heralded the advent of improved drug treatments for Parkinson's disease, Alzheimer's disease and muscular dystrophy. The transmission of digital images by satellite links led to a vast improvement in the quality of imaging scans used by radiologists. And deep space experiments on neutrons led to the discovery of the neutronic ruby-red laser, an enhanced radiated light amplification beam that was utilized by physicians to quickly and painlessly eliminate low- grade skin afflictions such as moles, warts, boils, cysts, and ingrown or unwanted hairs. Important space-related technological advances were also made in non- medical fields. Particle beam experiments in the weightless environment of space led to the discovery of the particle-wave oven, a superior food cooking instrumentality that rendered the microwave oven obsolete. Long- term studies of the Van Allen radiation belts resulted in a greater understanding of Earth's climactic conditions, enabling meteorologists to better predict the emergence and trajectories of hurricanes and tornadoes. And deep-space research on protons was a decisive component of the Department of Energy's success in producing the protonic battery, an environmentally clean and dependable energy source that was utilized to propel a new generation of motor vehicles, substantially lessening the nation's dependence on the world's dwindling supply of fossil fuel oils. The sociological and health-related spin-off products generated by NASA technology had a direct impact on improving the quality of life for untold millions of people. Throughout the course of the 21st Century, America's space agency had dispatched six unmanned land rovers to Mars to capture and transmit digital images of the planet's geological features. The graphic evidence was studied and debated by the country's leading space scientists and biologists. Some of them believed it supported a conclusion that Mars had once supported life. Others argued that a definitive assessment couldn't be made without first examining evidence of primeval surface matter situated in the planet's ravines and caverns. Unfortunately, the rough terrain and rock formations found in those areas of Mars rendered them inaccessible to land rovers. With the intention of putting an end to the polemics, NASA proposed to send a manned mission to the red planet by the year 2110. The project had been in the works for over a decade. Utilization of a landing module, similar to the one used on several lunar missions, was considered and debated by NASA's hierarchy. At the end of the day, however, it was deemed problematic for a number of reasons. Unlike the one-way delivery system that brought the land rovers to Mars, a module would make a return voyage to the mother ship, increasing the prospects for misadventure. What's more, employing a module necessitated a well- executed landfall on the planet's surface with insubstantial resulting damage in order to make the return trip possible. Considering the harsh atmospheric conditions associated with Mars, the logistics of accomplishing this feat wouldn't be uncomplicated. A small cadre of dynamic young physicists at NASA proposed an alternative delivery system for the Mars mission: teleportation. They were confident that a teleportation device could be developed that would allow an astronaut to teleport directly onto the surface of the planet from the interior of the orbiting spacecraft, and return back to it in the same manner. Their well-documented proposal was accepted by NASA's command, and research and development of teleportation technology was, accordingly, undertaken. However, by the year 2107, experimentation had reached an impasse. Although researchers had successfully teleported a human being from one point to another, there was a serious limitation: teleportation failed to work when the distance between the departure and destination points exceeded thirty feet. The reason for this completely eluded the researchers. In early 2108, a decision was made at the highest reaches of NASA to use a landing module for the Mars mission. Although it posed a measured risk, for want of anything better, it was the only way to move forward. The alternative of abandoning the project wasn't considered an acceptable option to NASA's leadership. NASA engineers estimated that it would take nearly two years to develop and construct a landing module capable of negotiating the rigorous atmospheric conditions of Mars without sustaining significant damage. If work on the module wasn't started immediately, then NASA would fail to meet its self-imposed deadline of landing a man on the planet by 2110. Consequently, research into teleportation was immediately halted, and resources were redirected to development of the landing module. The limited teleportation technology developed by NASA scientists was handed over to the medical community for research into possible use in the treatment of patients. And in less than a year, the technology was successfully deployed in the area of organ transplantation. A healthy heart of a rhesus monkey was effectively teleported into the chest cavity of a second monkey with a diseased heart, for all intents and purposes taking the place of the malfunctioning heart. Additional testing on animals proved equally successful, and in mid- 2109, trials on humans began. That, too, was productive. Instances of teleportation transplantation of hearts, kidneys, livers, and corneas from one human to another were unequivocally successful. Medical scientists were jubilant. Teleportation transplantation avoided many of the risks normally associated with surgical transplantation. As long as the blood type of the donor and recipient matched, then transplantation of a healthy organ for a malfunctioning organ via teleportation worked without fail. There'd been no reported cases of organ rejection. A serious shortage of donor organs remained problematic, but that was entirely unrelated to the method used to effectuate transplantation. Research continued, and in early 2110, medical experts successfully performed full-body transplantation by way of teleportation. A team of physicians and scientists at the Walter Reed Army Medical Center transplanted the healthy body of a brain-dead car accident victim onto a postal worker whose lungs had been ravaged by cancer from thirty years of smoking. Three more full-body transplantations followed shortly thereafter at other major hospitals across the country. All four patients were reported to be living healthy and productive lives. The success of full-body transplantation caused quite a stir throughout the country. Ethical questions were raised and robustly debated. Views were vigorously exchanged on the possibilities for abuse. Substantial discord on the issue developed as reflected in several national public opinion polls. To address the controversy with an eye toward settling it, the Congress passed a joint resolution to hold a national summit, which convened in Denver, Colorado on April 4, 2110. Hundreds of scientists, physicians, politicians, theologians, governmental officials, professors, lawyers and judges were in attendance. After a month of discussion, debate and consultations, the emerging consensus appeared to be that greater benefit than harm would come from the process. It was widely acknowledged by most attendees that in many cases of terminal illness, full-body transplantation was the only way to save the patient. A vote was taken, and when the ballots were counted, 58% of the conferees had endorsed the process of full-body transplantation. The voice of reason had prevailed, just as it previously had with respect to the issues of embryonic stem cell research, cloning, and late-term fetal abortions. But nearly all in attendance had conceded that protections were necessary to avoid the potentials for abuse and ethical transgressions. It was agreed that the imposition of controls and safeguards would be relegated to the individual States, which were already responsible for the regulation of the practice of medicine. The ensuing summer was a busy time for State legislators. Proposals for the regulation of full-body transplantation were drafted, debated, and voted on. By the fall of 2110, every State had enacted some form of legislation regulating the process of full-body transplantation. While there were naturally some differences in the governing standards adopted from State to State, one common thread ran through all of the enactments: full-body transplantation could be performed only for medical reasons as certified by a judge. *** Helen Traynor opened the door and gazed at the bed in the center of the room. She set her sight on the face of her son, Eric, who slept on his back. She saw the pain lines creasing his brow. She whimpered. A solitary tear broke free of her right eye and slid down her cheek. Helen recalled her conversation with Dr. Henry Watkins, an oncologist at the Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center, two weeks earlier. He'd just examined Eric and she'd asked him for the prognosis. "I'm sorry to say it's not good, Ms. Traynor." "Just how bad is it, doctor?" she'd asked. "The cancer's spread from his stomach to his pancreas, liver, kidneys and lymph nodes. The magnitude of the metastasis rules out organ transplants, even assuming we could round up all of the organs. I'm afraid there's nothing we can do." She'd choked back a sob and asked, "How long does he have?" "A month. Maybe two at most." The hardest thing Helen had ever had to do was to tell Eric the bad news. But he took it like a man. He wanted to leave the hospital and return home. He rebuffed her suggestion to go into a hospice. "I want to die at home, Mom, in my own bed," he'd insisted. Recalling the conversation with Eric made her sob, and she dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. Then anger and resentment germinated in her bowels and quickly boiled over. "He's only 20 years old, for Christ's sake! It's not fair!" She immediately worried her outburst would awaken him, but she saw that he'd slept through it. She was grateful. The last thing Eric needed to see was his mother decomposing. She had to be strong for him, but it was getting harder and harder. It was simply because she loved him so much. Eric was her only child. Samuel, her beloved husband, died five years earlier from esophageal cancer at the age of 42. Since then, she'd constantly worried about her son's chances of inheriting the dreaded disease, and her worse fears came to pass late last year when he'd been diagnosed with stomach cancer. Attempts to treat and contain it were unsuccessful. Although medical researchers had made significant progress in combating scores of diseases, they hadn't come upon effective treatments for virulent strains of carcinoma. Eric was all she had and he'd soon be gone. Tears welled up in her eyes again, but the opening floodgates were abruptly scotched by the pealing vidphone. She wondered who it could be. Helen walked down the staircase and into the kitchen. She picked up the receiver on the fifth chime. The vidscreen over the counter activated and she set her sight on a distinguished-looking middle-aged gentleman with graying hair and bushy brown eyebrows. "Hello." "Ms. Traynor?" "Speaking." "This is Dr. Philip Sanders at Columbia Presbyterian Medical Center. Our records indicate that you filed an application on behalf of your son Eric for full-body transplantation. Can you verify that?" Helen convened her thoughts and recalled that Dr. Watkins had urged her to apply for the transplantation procedure in the slim hope it'd be approved. Dr. Watkins believed the prospects for approval were remote because Eric's blood was type-O-negative, a very rare blood type. "Ms. Traynor? Did you hear my question?" "Uh... yes. Sorry. That's correct, doctor. I filed the application." "Then I have some good news for you. We've found a matching donor." Helen's heart skipped a beat. "But I thought Eric's blood type was so rare that..." Her emotions overcame her and she couldn't continue. "It turns out that that's worked in his favor. The donor is type-O- negative, and at the moment, we have no other compatible applicants on the waiting list." Dr. Sanders paused for a few seconds. "So I assume you're interested?" "Yes. Absolutely." Her mouth stretched into a wide grin. "Good. Can you check Eric into the hospital at ten o'clock on Sunday morning? I know that's the day after tomorrow, but we really should move fast. We believe the donor will survive for another week or two, but nothing's guaranteed. We'd like to do the transplant on Monday." "Of course. We'll be there Sunday morning." "Good. We'll need an affidavit to obtain a judicial order. One of our lawyers will prepare it and fax it over to you. Just sign it, get it notarized, and fax it back to us. I assume you have a power of attorney to act on Eric's behalf?" "Yes, I do." Her heart raced from excitement. "Good. We'll need that, too." A short period of silence ensued. "There is one more thing, Ms. Traynor." "Yes?" "The donor is a female." It took a few seconds for the news to sink in. She wondered if she'd heard it right. "Did you just say the donor's female?" "That's correct." She wrinkled her brow. "Is it possible to do this when one of them is a male and the other's a female?" "Yes. The genders of the donor and recipient are irrelevant. The only limitation relates to blood type. By the way, it's our policy to keep such matters strictly confidential. We'll do all we can to protect you and your son's privacy." He waited a moment to give her the chance to digest the information. "Are you still interested?" She thought about it, but not for long. "Yes. We'll see you on Sunday. Thank you, doctor. Thank you so much." She placed the receiver on its port and watched Dr. Sanders' image fade to black. Helen sat at the kitchen table and thought of the decision she'd just made. She concluded it was the only real choice she had because, in the end, there was nothing she wouldn't do to save her son. *** About an hour after receiving the call from Dr. Sanders, Helen awoke Eric and told him the good news. He smiled for the first time in weeks. She and Eric hugged and then they cried in each other's arms. However, she didn't tell him the donor was female. She worried he might have a negative reaction. Things were complicated enough. Her son's survival took precedence over everything. She'd do or say nothing that might compromise the success of the transplantation effort. She resolved to deal with the gender issue after Eric was safe and sound. Immediately after she talked to Eric, she engaged the services of a private airborne ambulance carrier. Two days later, they arrived at the hospital at the agreed-upon time. There was little air traffic to deal with, and the trip from their residence in Bridgeport, Connecticut to the landing site on the hospital's roof in Manhattan had taken less than twenty minutes. Dr. Sanders met them at the admissions desk. A clerk assisted Helen with the necessary paperwork while Dr. Sanders whisked Eric away in a wheelchair to examine him in the hospital's transplantation wing. Two hours later, Helen received word that Eric had passed the examination; the cancer hadn't metastasized to the head area and the procedure would take place, as planned, the next day. She deeply exhaled, and then smiled, at hearing the news. After Eric was brought to a private room in the transplantation ward, Dr. Sanders offered to take Helen to lunch in the hospital cafeteria. She'd naturally accepted. They sat at a small table-for-two and lunched on the sandwiches and soft drinks he'd bought. Helen opened the conversation: "I have to admit, Dr. Sanders, I'm more than a little curious about the donor." "Yes, yes, that's perfectly understandable. As I've said, the donor is female. Her name is Monica Lederer. She's a 19-year-old exchange student from Switzerland who came to New York to study anthropology at Columbia University. And last week, she was the most unfortunate victim of a freak accident." Dr. Sanders paused and bit into his turkey sandwich. "What happened?" Helen was impatient for the details. Dr. Sanders swallowed the food and drank some soda. "As she strolled down the sidewalk on Third Avenue, she was struck on the head by a 40- pound slab of concrete that'd broken off the facade of an office building." "Oh my God." "Yes, very tragic. She was pronounced brain-dead on arrival at the hospital, and we've had her on life support ever since. Of course, nothing was damaged below the head." "Does she have family?" "As far as we know, just a step-father in Zurich who we've been unable to contact. But her organ donor registration papers are in perfect order. Organ donation was a cause that she fervently embraced. She wanted others to make good use of her organs in the event of a tragedy such as this. There are no legal impediments regarding the donor's consent. And we secured a judicial order a few hours after you submitted the affidavit." Helen thought for a moment, and asked, "What will happen to her after the procedure's completed." "We'll pull the plug." Dr. Sanders saw her discomfort. He wished he'd put it more tactfully. "It's the only humane thing to do, of course. A brain-dead girl with a body devoured by cancer..." Helen softly nodded. "You know, I haven't told Eric the donor's female. I was afraid he'd overreact or possibly even refuse. I didn't want to throw a monkey wrench into this thing." She awaited his response. She still had her doubts about not telling her son all of the facts. Dr. Sanders realized she'd fished for his opinion on the way she'd handled the case's unusual gender component. He wanted to reassure her. "I agree with you. I would have done the same. Telling him now would serve no useful purpose in the larger scheme of things." Helen breathed a sigh of relief. Dr. Sanders had validated her decision. "That's exactly what I thought, doctor. Eric's survival is the primary consideration." They concentrated on their meals for a minute or two. Dr. Sanders resumed the conversation: "Following this procedure, for all intents and purposes, Eric should be cancer-free, unimpaired and physically healthy." "It's comforting to hear you say that, Dr. Sanders. That's exactly why I'm going through with this... considering everything." "Yes, I know." He hesitated a moment. "You may have other problems to deal with after tomorrow, Ms. Traynor." "I'm listening." "Eric will become a biological female as a result of the transplantation. He may find it difficult coping with that. The psychological transition may not be easy. I hope for his sake, and for yours, that it is." "Thanks for your concern, doctor. I hear what you're saying. I'm prepared to give Eric all of the support he needs. I love him very much. He means the world to me. I'll do whatever it takes. I'll get him through this." Dr. Sanders smiled. "You're a very special mother. Eric's lucky." She smiled, too. "Thanks. I appreciate the kind words." That night... Helen leaned on the bed's cool metal railing and stared down at Eric asleep on his back. He'd been pumped up with morphine to keep the pain at bay. She whispered, "This nightmare will end tomorrow." He slowly rolled open his eyes. Helen wondered if her hushed words had awakened him. Eric saw his mother looking down at him. "Hi, Mom." He noticed her pensive expression. "Is something wrong?" "No, Eric. Everything's fine. How are you feeling?" "Okay, I guess. A little woozy. Is everything still on for tomorrow?" "Yes. The procedure's scheduled for 10:00 a.m." "Can you tell me about the donor, Mom?" He'd taken her by surprise. That'd been the first time he'd asked about the donor. "Uh... we can talk about that afterwards, Eric. Right now, you should just rest. You have a big day ahead of you." "I know, Mom. I was just wondering, that's all." He yawned. She watched his eyes close and heard his low snore. Then she closed her eyes, too, and silently prayed for her son's welfare. The next morning... Helen sat on the cushioned fold-down seat in the overhead observatory. She gazed downward into the spacious theatre. She scrutinized the two large steel-grey containment chambers in the center of the room. She guessed they were about fifteen feet apart. She scanned the thick tubes and cables that connected them. Two technicians entered the theatre. They fiddled with an array of switches, dials and levers on three panels that lined the room's far wall. Helen nervously tapped her foot on the floor as she watched them. Twenty minutes later, Dr. Sanders made his appearance. He briefly chatted with the technicians and then he examined the work they'd done calibrating the equipment. He nodded and said, "Okay, let's get the recipient. And then the donor." The technicians left, and ten minutes later they returned with a hospital gurney carrying the transplant recipient. They pushed it toward the center of the room. Helen saw her son on the gurney and gasped. He was encased in a silver mesh body suit that ended at his chin line, leaving his head fully exposed. She intently watched the men move the gurney into the near chamber. Nothing happened for a few minutes. She resumed her foot- tapping. The technicians finally emerged from the chamber and left the room. They returned five minutes later with the transplant donor. She, too, was covered by a mesh body suit up to her chin line. A portable respiration mask that concealed her face facilitated her breathing. Helen watched the technicians push the donor's gurney into the second chamber. They reappeared a few minutes later and pulled down the overhead doors on both chambers, sealing them off from the theatre. Dr. Sanders stood before the largest wall panel. He pushed a series of color-coded buttons with his right forefinger. A low reverberating sound echoed throughout the room. It grew louder and louder until it leveled off at a steady crescendo. Helen felt vibrations in her seat and on the floor. A minute later, the sound abruptly ceased. The sudden silence was deafening. The technicians opened the doors and removed the gurneys from the chambers. They wheeled them out of the theatre. Dr. Sanders trailed them. Helen stood up and gazed down at the empty room with a staggered expression. She was surprised it was over and done with. She'd assumed the process would take much longer to complete. She'd watched in total fascination. Her left hand was clenched into a tight fist. The fingers of her right hand were strenuously crossed for luck. An hour later... Helen waited for Dr. Sanders in his office. She looked at her wristwatch and grew impatient. 'How long does the examination take? Where the hell is he, already?' As if on cue, Dr. Sanders entered his office. Helen stood up from the chair and faced him. She extended her arms in a supplicating manner. "Well?" "Eric's fine. Everything went as planned. The transplantation was a success." Helen's legs were rubbery. She sat down. Tears of relief fell from her eyes. "Thank you, Dr. Sanders. Thank you for everything." He offered her tissues and she took a few. She dabbed at her eyes and asked, "What's next?" "We'll keep Eric under observation for a few days. And we'll run a few more scans, just to be sure. Assuming there are no problems, then we'll discharge him." Helen thought for a moment. "I know this may sound stupid, but is it possible to conceal the... details from my son until he's back home? I'd rather he find out in familiar surroundings." "It's not a stupid question. I can see your point." "Thank you." Dr. Sanders gave it some thought. "Eric will be very tired over the next few days. He'll sleep a lot. It wouldn't make much of a difference if we kept him under complete sedation." *** The twelve members of the jury filed into the courtroom and took their seats in the jury box. California State Superior Court Judge Amanda Hughes turned her head away from the jury and looked across the courtroom from her elevated position behind the large mahogany bench. She pronounced, "The defendant will rise." Terry Bullock and his attorney, Tom Bell, stood up from their chairs behind the wooden table. Judge Hughes turned back to the jury. "Have you reached a verdict on the charge of breaking and entering?" The jury foreman stood up. "Yes, we have your Honor. We find the defendant guilty." Judge Hughes polled all of the jurors, verifying the guilty verdict. She then turned to the defendant, who shook his head in disbelief. "Mr. Bullock, you have been found guilty on the charge of breaking and entering by a jury of your peers. I herewith remand you to the Sacramento Holding Center pending your sentencing, which will occur in two weeks." Tom Bell spoke, "Your Honor, the defendant requests that bail be set." Maury Clarke, the district attorney, immediately stood up from his chair behind the adjacent table. "Your Honor, the State opposes bail on the ground that this is Mr. Bullock's third felony conviction in less than ten years. He poses a threat to the community. And there's a substantial flight risk here considering the penalty." Tom Bell curiously watched Maury Clarke lodge his opposition to the bail request. He wondered why Clarke had personally prosecuted this case. It certainly wasn't a high-profile case by any stretch of the imagination. Clarke usually assigned a low-level trial like this to an assistant district attorney. Judge Hughes considered the matter for a brief moment and made her ruling: "Bail is denied." She turned to the bailiff standing near the wall. "Take the defendant to the holding center." *** Terry Bullock sat on the bunk in the 10' x 10' holding cell and stared at the floor. He muttered, "I can't believe this. All I did was take my own stuff. I can't believe this." Terry thought back to what he'd done that'd caused his current grief. He'd moved in with his girlfriend, Ann Kellerman, but their relationship turned sour in a matter of weeks. While he drank beer and shot pool at a local pub on a Friday night, she moved his possessions onto the sidewalk and changed the lock on the apartment door. When Terry returned to the apartment and saw what'd happened, he shrugged it off and took it in stride; he'd planned on moving out soon, anyway. However, when he returned to his brother Carl's house in Fairfield, where he'd lived before moving in with Ann, he was outraged at discovering that Ann hadn't put any of his music and video diskettes in the cardboard boxes she'd left on the sidewalk. Terry resolved to get his diskettes back. He knew that Ann would be visiting with her mother in Compton for the weekend, so he broke into the apartment through the bathroom window the following night. A neighbor who heard the sounds of the shattering glass called the cops, and Terry was caught red-handed. The muffled tones of chatter broke his train of thought. He raised his head and saw his lawyer as the cell door swung open. Tom Bell entered the small room and the guard closed the door and relocked it. They greeted one another and shook hands. Tom sat on a small wooden chair in the center of the room. Terry facetiously asked, "Any good news for me, Tom?" Three days had passed since the conviction and he hadn't heard a word from his attorney. "Actually, yes. The district attorney's office has offered you a deal that doesn't involve jail time. And the judge is prepared to sign off on it if you accept." "Are you shitting me?" "Nope. It's a little unusual, but I told Maury Clarke I'd discuss it with you and get back to him." "So what's the deal?" Tom wasn't sure where to start. He decided he'd just wing it. "Have you heard of full-body teleportation transplantation, Terry?" It sounded familiar to him. "Wasn't that on the news, recently?" "It's been all over the news for months. It's where they transplant an entire body onto another person. It's a quick and painless procedure. It's quite remarkable." "Oh, yeah. Now I remember. I thought it was some kind of joke or something." "It's no joke. It's real. Actually, several transplants have been done already. It can be quite beneficial in saving a life." "Saving a life?" "Yeah. Suppose one person has a fatal brain tumor and another person has terminal liver cancer. You transplant the first person's body so that it takes the place of the second person's body. The second person's life is saved." Terry nodded. He briefly wondered about the fate of the first person. He decided it probably wasn't good. "But what's all this got to do with me?" "Well, the district attorney's office has proposed that in lieu of a jail sentence, you undergo one of these full-body transplants." "What? Are you serious?" "Yes." Terry was stunned by the outlandish proposal. Then he thought of Tom's hypothetical. He blurted, "Hey! In your example, wouldn't the first guy die?" "That wouldn't happen here. I was assured you'd get a completely healthy body." He hesitated for a moment, and then added, "The only hitch is it'd be a woman's body." A few seconds passed, and Tom thought of something else: "Oh, yeah. And she'd get your body." Terry had a stunned expression. His jaw dropped and he said nothing. "Well, what do you think?" Terry stared at his attorney. He appeared serious. "You're not kidding, are you?" "No." "Well, screw them. Tell them I'll take the jail sentence." "Okay. The decision's yours, of course. I'll tell them." There was a brief period of silence, and Terry asked, "How much time will I get?" "This is your third felony conviction in less than 10 years, Terry. You've run afoul of the State's three-strikes-law. You'll get 25 years- to-life." Terry's eyes widened. "Holy shit." He'd fallen in with a bad crowd a few years earlier, and now he sorely lamented his two prior convictions for car theft. "And there's no guarantee you'll be released after 25 years, either." "Jesus." He considered everything Tom had said, and a thought occurred to him. "If I'm covered by the three-strikes-law, then how can I avoid jail if I do as they ask?" "An amendment to the law gives the judge discretion to impose an alternative sentence in extreme cases where imposition of a long prison term would amount to a miscarriage of justice." "And I'm in that category?" "I think you fit the profile. Your crimes didn't involve weapons or personal injury to anyone. You carried out crimes against property. You really don't deserve 25 years-to-life." Terry thought for a moment. "Tell them I'll do something else. Anything else. Anything but that." "I suggested alternatives. I proposed a stretch in the military in lieu of jail. Clarke turned me down. He said it's either the transplant or jail. There's nothing else on the table." It was unreal. Terry shook his head to clear his mind. "How can they defend such a bizarre proposal?" "I asked Clarke the same thing." "Well, what did he say?" "He said that the woman in question has a medical need for the transplant. And he said as for you, it addresses the recidivism issue." "What issue?" "Recidivism. It means the chance you'll commit more crimes when you're released from jail." Tom saw that Terry appeared baffled. He thought of another way of putting it. "Recidivism refers to repeat offenders, Terry. I'll elaborate. Over ninety-five percent of the country's prison population is male. More than half of them are serving sentences for second or third offenses. In contrast, most of the female inmates are incarcerated for first offenses. Women usually don't revert to crime after they're released from jail. In general, they're not inclined to commit crimes at all. That's why less than five percent of the prison population is comprised of women." "So what's the point, Tom?" "The point is that if you agree to the transplant proposal, the chance you'll commit another crime is negligible because you'll be a woman. That's Maury Clarke's theory, anyway." Tom could tell by Terry's expression that he now understood. Terry faintly nodded. He wondered about something. "What's the deal with this broad? Who is she? And why the hell does she even want this?" "I asked about that. Clarke wouldn't say. Who knows? She's probably just some woman who wants to be a man. There are lots of women like that. And there are plenty of men who'd rather be women, too. This new transplant technology opens a lot of doors and raises even more questions. That's why it's so controversial." "Jesus. If I did this, I'd be a woman." The words even sounded bizarre to Terry. "From the neck down, I suppose." Tom thought about it for a moment. "I guess that'd make you a woman. Anatomically speaking, anyway." Terry briefly wondered if he was having a bad dream. "I don't think I could do it, Tom." "The alternative's 25 years in jail. Maybe more. And you'll be sent to a maximum security prison, too." The new information was another dagger to Terry's heart. He shook his head. "I don't think I can do that, either." He gazed at the ceiling and considered the proposal. He lowered his head and looked into his lawyer's eyes. "What would you do?" "I'd do anything to avoid a long prison term. Especially in a maximum security facility." "Even this?" "Like I said, I'd do anything to avoid a long prison term." Terry stood up and paced the small cell. He couldn't even tolerate confinement in the holding center. He considered that he might not survive a long sentence in a maximum security facility. And even if he did, what type of life could he expect in such a place? He turned to his lawyer. "If I agree to this, I won't spend any time in jail?" "Not a single day. Your jail time will be commuted. Right after you sign the necessary consent forms, you'll be taken to the Sacramento Medical Center. The transplant will be done there." Terry sat on the bunk. He clasped his hands and looked down at the floor. Then he slowly raised his head and made eye contact with his attorney. "Alright, Tom. Tell them I'll do it." *** Judge Hughes sat on the cushy black leather chair in her chambers and gazed at the desktop photograph of her daughter, Emily. She worried about her. In the past few weeks, Emily's depression had snowballed. She was concerned her daughter might attempt suicide. Emily was depressed because she wanted to be a biological man and there was no effective way to achieve that. Until recently. The new technology of teleportation transplantation could now accomplish what surgery had been unable to attain: conferment of a fully-functional male anatomy onto a female. Emily was aware of this and so was her mother. But Judge Hughes also knew that compliance with the usual procedure of placement on a waiting list was a time-consuming affair. And in the judge's estimation, time was something in short supply for her daughter. She believed Emily couldn't bear to live much longer as she was. Her depression deepened by the day. So Amanda Hughes made the difficult decision to abuse the power of her position as a judge in order to obtain the donor that Emily so desperately needed. Emily was her daughter and it was a matter of her survival. It was as simple as that. It hadn't taken long to find a victim. The case of Terry Bullock, an impending three-time loser, came up for trial a month later. Much to the judge's delight, his blood type was B-negative, the same as Emily's. Judge Hughes was perfectly aware that she could expose herself to a charge of nepotism in carrying out her plan. Moreover, she knew that while a medical basis arguably existed to approve the transplant from Emily's standpoint, there was no real medical ground to support it from the healthy defendant's perspective. But if the defendant consented, she'd sign the order anyway. What it boiled down to was that Amanda Hughes would do whatever was required to save her daughter, even if it meant losing her cherished seat on the bench. She rationalized that she already had more money than she'd ever need, and she'd contemplated retiring soon in any event. Judge Hughes sincerely regretted implicating Maury Clarke in the matter. But her long-time friend, bridge partner and lover had readily agreed to it. "Don't worry, Amanda. I can take care of myself," he'd said. Amanda had promised Maury that if the shit should ever hit the fan, she'd claim she'd ordered him to broker the deal. A knock on the door put an end to her ruminations. "Come in." The door swung open to reveal Maury Clarke. "Hi, Maury. Any news?" "Yeah, Amanda. And it's good. Terry Bullock's accepted the deal." "That's great! I owe you, Maury. Big time." Her grin expanded to its bounds. "All in a day's work. Are we still on for tonight?" "Absolutely." The smile still adorned Amanda's face after Maury had left. She planned to warmly thank him tonight until he cried uncle. *** Eric soundly slept in his bed under Helen's watchful eye. They'd returned to the Bridgeport Victorian by airborne ambulance an hour earlier. Helen exulted at the absence of pain lines on her son's face. The post- transplantation examinations and scans had revealed no traces of cancer or any other maladies. The doctors had proclaimed that Eric was now completely healthy. She was told by Dr. Sanders that the sedation had been stopped and he'd regain consciousness in roughly six hours. She looked at her wristwatch. She saw that there were about four hours to go before he'd awaken. On the way home in the ambulance, she considered how she'd break the news to him. She couldn't settle on the right words. She decided she'd improvise. Helen scanned the outline of her son's body beneath the thick quilt blanket. Nothing appeared unusual. But she knew that that was far from the case. She'd briefly seen him naked at the hospital after the transplantation was done. She reached toward the bed and grasped the blanket. She slowly pulled it down and over his feet. He still wore the hospital gown. She unbuttoned it and then she carefully slipped it off of him. She looked at Eric's face and then viewed his body. It was unsettling. A chill crept up her spine, making her shiver. Helen carefully studied her son's new body and saw no discernible flaws. The breasts were well-rounded and appeared firm. She guessed they were a B-cup, like hers. She glanced at the tapered waistline and rounded hips. She saw that the pubis boasted a small patch of silken blond hair that crested the fleshy folds of the vulva. And the slit in the middle of it all hinted at the vagina that lay within. She shifted her gaze to the lovely thighs and calves. They were as shapely a pair of legs as she'd ever seen. She hadn't noticed an ounce of flab on the extraordinary body. It was trim and taut, yet so curvaceous, too. She gauged its weight as 115 to 120 pounds and its height as five-five, give or take an inch. Helen pondered the clinical approach she'd taken in assessing the body. She'd detached herself from all of her emotions. But now, she considered this body that lay before her was more than just a body. Much more. It was her son. She scanned Eric once more and it immediately occurred to her. Her analysis was flawed. By outward appearances, he was not her son. He'd become her daughter. Helen yawned. She was dead tired. The last week had been a grueling one. It'd taken its toll on her. She gazed at her wristwatch and calculated that Eric wouldn't awaken for at least another three-and-a-half hours. There was enough time for her to take a nap. She pulled the blanket onto her child and left the room. *** Eric faintly heard the melodious sounds of warbling birds and sluggishly opened his eyes. He scanned his surroundings, and it slowly came to him that he was in his bedroom. He struggled to collect his thoughts, and he recalled his illness. Then he realized the pain in his abdomen was gone. He concentrated and recalled the conversation with his mother in the hospital. She'd told him the transplant was scheduled for the next morning. That was the last thing he could remember. A feeling of wellness inundated him, and a thought popped into his mind: 'I've had the transplant. I've been cured.' He smiled at the thought. He slowly pulled himself up and rested his back against the headboard. He immediately detected an unusual tugging sensation on his chest. He looked down. He saw the fleshy growths. 'What the hell...?' He reached for the lamp on the nearby night table and turned it on to get a better look at himself. He glanced at his chest again. They were still there. 'They look like breasts.' He didn't understand. He slowly stood up and steadied himself. He walked toward the wall mirror near the closet. He felt the growths bounce as he closed in on his destination. He was perplexed. He stood before the mirror and looked at his face. It appeared normal. Then he lowered his gaze and viewed his body. He saw that it was a woman's body. He tried to sort it out, but couldn't. "What the hell's going on here?" The sound of his voice frightened him. It wasn't his. "What's happened to me?" He winced at his voice and then it occurred to him. It was a girl's voice. It matched his body. Anxiety sprouted in his mind. His heart pounded. He wondered where his mother was. "Mom! Mom!" The strange voice heightened his anxiety. The screams awoke Helen and she looked at the clock radio on the nightstand. "Oh shit!" She jumped off the bed and bolted for the door. Eric stood before the mirror and stared at himself in horror. His mother entered the bedroom and he turned to her. "What the hell's happened to me?" Helen saw his panicked expression. "Calm down, Eric. Everything's fine." She watched him turn toward the mirror and stare at his reflection once more. He said, "Everything's fine? I don't think so!" She scampered to the closet and pulled out the bathrobe. She ran to his side and threw it over his shoulders. She pulled his arms through the sleeves and tied the belt. The robe was too large for him, but it did the job of veiling his nudity. She then grabbed his arm and pulled him to the bed. "Sit down, Eric." He did as he was told and Helen sat next to him. Eric stared into his mother's eyes. "What's going on, Mom? What's happened to me? And my voice... I don't understand." "Calm down, Eric. I'll tell you everything. But you must relax. Do you understand me?" She'd used a stern tone. "Yeah." "Good." She took a deep breath. "You had the transplant. The donor was a woman. She was the only available donor, so I authorized the transplant to save your life." "You authorized this? I can't believe it!" "I did it to save your life. There was no other donor. I couldn't bear the thought of losing you. I love you so much, Eric." Her emotions came to a head and the dam burst. The tears fell like raindrops. "I couldn't let you die, Eric. I just couldn't." Eric considered her words. The murky picture came into focus. He realized she'd had no other choice. He softly nodded. "I understand now, Mom. I do." Helen affectionately smiled at him while she wiped the flowing tears from her cheeks. "There was nothing else I could do, Eric." "I know. I'm sorry I yelled at you, Mom." Tears now skated down his cheeks, too. They embraced and wept together. *** Eric stepped out of the shower and toweled himself dry. The touch of the towel on his breasts felt nice. So had the shower's warm spray. He put on the bathrobe and walked down the hall and into his bedroom. The robe's hem dragged on the floor. It was hard to believe it'd been his robe. He figured he was at least six inches shorter, now. He walked to his bed and immediately saw them. Blood rushed into his face and he shook his head. After they'd cried themselves out just a half-hour earlier, she'd offered him some of her clothes. He'd politely declined. "No thanks, Mom. I'll wear my own," he'd said. She'd obviously ignored him and returned to his room with the brassiere and panties. He stared down at them and shook his head again. He walked to the wall mirror and dropped the robe. He gazed at his reflection. It was his head, alright, but that was all that was left of him. He saw the barely noticeable line right under his chin where everything had come together. He scanned his new form. It was hard to believe he had a woman's body. It was an attractive one, too. He studied his chest. The pendulous mounds of flesh looked so alien on him. He raised his hands and curiously cupped them from underneath. He gently squeezed them. They were incredibly soft and pliant. He released them and they jiggled for a few seconds. The feel of it made him squirm. He examined his groin. It looked endlessly vacant without the male genitalia that'd always been there. It felt so strange without them, too. He wallowed in a perception of emptiness. Then he considered that they were gone, never to be seen again, and a sense of sadness pervaded him. He pulled himself from the mirror and retrieved a pair of his briefs from the dresser. He pulled them onto his waist and they promptly fell to his ankles. "Well that worked just fine." His mellifluous voice startled him yet again. It was going to take some getting used to. He went to the bed and viewed the undergarments. He shook off the embarrassment and grasped the beige cotton panties. He slipped into them. They fit just fine. He picked up the matching bra and examined it. He ignored the looming indignity and brought it up to his chest. He captured a breast in each cup and secured the clasp with some difficulty. He took a few steps and immediately appreciated the way the bra held everything in place, largely curtailing the annoying movements. He tried to get into a pair of his jeans, but they were way too large. So were the flannel shirt and sneakers. His stomach rumbled. He was famished. His mother had gone to the kitchen to prepare some food. He slipped into a pair of oversized sweat socks. He put the robe back on and went downstairs. Helen heard his approach just as she'd put the finishing touch on the meal. She'd made grilled cheese sandwiches, French fries, tomato soup, and lemonade. They were Eric's favorites. Eric walked into the kitchen and sat at the table. Helen smiled and said, "Great timing. I just finished." They ate in silence for a few minutes. Helen noticed he'd worn the bra. "I see you found the... underwear I left in your room." Eric looked down and saw that the robe had parted to reveal his chest. He pulled it together and blushed. "Yeah. Thanks." The words were barely audible. "Are you sure you don't want to use some of my clothes?" Eric knew that his mother liked to dress nicely. She nearly always wore a dress. She had a few pair of slacks but didn't own even one pair of jeans. There was no way he'd wear clothes like that. "No, thanks. I'd like to get some clothes of my own, Mom. Jeans, sneakers... stuff like that." Helen easily saw his discomfiture. It saddened her. "I'll make you a deal. When we finish eating, you do the dishes, and I'll drive down to the mall and pick up some clothes for you. What do you say?" "It's a deal, Mom." Eric smiled for the first time since he'd returned home, and that elated Helen. Two months later... Eric stood before the bathroom mirror and shaved his face. He had a fair complexion with a light beard. Before the transplant, he'd shaved every other day. That wasn't required, anymore. The transplant had caused an obvious slowdown in the growth rate of his facial hair. Shaving once a week was all that was necessary, now. He noticed that his facial hairs looked and felt different, too. They weren't as coarse as they'd been. They had a downy-like quality to them. The transplant obviously had affected that, as well. He felt a little foolish shaving his face. He wasn't sure why. It made no sense to him. He stopped thinking about it. He finished and retrieved the other razor. The one that he used to shave his legs and armpits. He hadn't liked the way his legs and underarms looked and felt with hair on them, so he'd taken to shaving those areas of his body a few weeks earlier. He figured it wasn't big news. He finished shaving his legs and slipped into the white silk bathrobe. He went to his bedroom. He took off the robe and put on a fresh pair of sky-blue cotton panties and matching bra. He'd borrowed the robe and underwear from his mother. They were about the same size and the bathrobe and undergarments fit him well. He slipped into a plain white cotton blouse, blue jeans, and sneakers. His mother had bought a sizable stash of jeans for him. She'd also picked up a bunch of simple cotton blouses and two pair of sneakers. He walked to the wall mirror and looked at his reflection. He could see his body's curves even though he was casually dressed. They were plainly evident at the bust, waist and hips. There was nothing he could do to hide them. He'd tried. He gazed at his face. It looked a little different. He studied it carefully and noticed the subtle changes. It'd taken on a softer and rounder look. And the barely discernible transplant line at the junction point under his chin had faded away into nothingness. He saw that his naturally blond hair had grown to the point where it'd completely obscured his ears. He'd considered getting a haircut, but hadn't acted on it. He walked to the bed and sat on its edge. He thought of the past two months. His mother had returned to work as a clothes buyer at Macy's a week after his discharge from the hospital. When he'd become ill, she'd taken a leave of absence from her job to care for him. Even though he'd been cured by the transplant, she was reluctant to leave him alone all day. He'd urged her to return to work. "I'm not sick anymore, Mom. There's no need for you to stay home. Go back to work and don't worry about me. I'll be just fine," he'd told her. Eric knew that his mother had sufficient means to live comfortably for the rest of her life. Samuel Traynor had been a bank president. He'd made prudent investments and amassed substantial savings prior to his death. He'd also taken out a large life insurance policy. Helen worked not from financial need but from the enjoyment and satisfaction the work gave her. He was glad his mother had something to do that she liked. Eric, in contrast, quickly became bored. There was just so much vid he could watch. He'd never liked reading. And he wasn't quite ready for a public outing, even to the mall. So for lack of anything better to do, and to keep himself occupied, Eric assumed a number of domestic tasks. He kept the house clean, he did the laundry, and he cooked the meals. As the weeks passed, he came to appreciate all the more what his mother had done for him. Without her intervention, he'd have surely died. He sincerely regretted yelling at her upon discovering the particulars of the transplant. He had a very rare blood type and was fortunate a donor was found. Any donor, even a woman. The past two months unfortunately hadn't elapsed without a few embarrassing moments. Early on, he'd felt silly about sitting while relieving himself. He'd attempted to urinate while standing. The experiment was a dismal failure. He'd peed all over his legs and the floor. He'd quickly learned it couldn't be done. And then there was the matter of his first period. He'd seen the trail of blood on his thigh and screamed. He thought he'd been seriously injured. His mother had barreled into his bedroom at hearing the shouts. She'd seen the blood and softly smiled. "It's just your period, Eric," she'd dispassionately said. She'd thereupon retrieved a tampon and instructed him on the fine points of menstrual hygiene. He felt foolish at the way he'd reacted to his first period. At least now, he knew what to expect. He also knew that the next one would show up soon. It certainly wasn't something he welcomed. The bleeding and the cramps had been unpleasant. It'd also made him moody. And wearing the tampon had been uncomfortable. It was hard to believe he'd go through the same thing every month. He wondered if he'd ever get used to it. In looking back at the past two months, Eric believed he'd done a respectable job in acclimating to the transplant. It'd been an adventure, but he'd endured. He nervously wondered what the future held in store for him. *** Terry Bullock sat on the weather-beaten sofa with his legs crossed at the thighs. He felt sorry for himself. Three months had passed since the transplant, and things had gone from bad to worse. He'd moved back in with his brother Carl after his discharge from the hospital, but the arrangement hadn't worked out. Carl's live-in girlfriend, Donna, treated him as if he were a freak. She picked fights with him. He was afraid of her. Carl privately apologized to him for Donna's behavior, but he'd never confronted Donna about it. It'd become increasingly apparent to Terry that he couldn't stay in the house, and after just one month there, he'd moved out. He'd borrowed $500 from Carl and moved into a rooming house across town. Terry had no family other than Carl. He had no friends. He didn't have a job. There were no prospects. And if all that weren't bad enough, he'd run out of money soon, too. He'd thought of committing a crime to tide him over. He'd considered boosting a car or robbing an auto battery recharging station. But the simple idea of returning to a life of crime gave him anxiety. It made him shake all over. He'd never be able to go through with it. Terry recalled Tom Bell's remarks on recidivism. Perhaps his attorney was right? The transplant had left him with a woman's body, and the mere notion of perpetrating a crime gave him the cold sweats. There were other things that daunted him now, too. Going out in public was a nerve-racking experience for him. At first, he was puzzled by it, but the reason quickly came to light. It was his size. Or to be more precise, his lack of size. Before the transplant, Terry had been six-two and 195 pounds. He'd been muscular and athletic. He'd never avoided confrontation. He'd given a good account of himself in every scrap he'd been in. He'd been proud of his physique. Now, he was only four-ten. And he tipped the scale at just 93 pounds. He was small, weak and flimsy. He had difficulty opening jar lids. He couldn't reach the upper shelves in the supermarket. Carrying grocery bags exhausted him. Wind gusts had nearly bowled him over a few times. Everything looked so large to him now, too. It was an entirely different perspective and he couldn't get used to it. He was intimidated when he walked down the street. Nearly everyone was a lot bigger than him, even many young school children. Large dogs looked like ponies to Terry. Another problem was that he became humiliated every time he looked at himself. He actually had breasts, now. They were rather small, probably an A-cup, but they were on his chest. And that slit between his legs made his head spin. To make matters worse, he felt vulnerable. He worried about being sexually assaulted. He'd become fearful of men for no rational reason. Every time he saw a man on the street or in a store, his heart pounded. He kept his distance from men. He frequently thought of himself in disparaging terms. He likened his actions to that of a coward. He regularly thought, 'I'm a sissy, now.' And that made him ashamed of himself. Terry realized he'd overreacted to the physical changes that came with the transplant. He knew his fears were unwarranted. But he had them anyway. He couldn't keep them out of his mind. They gnawed away at him like a horde of gnats. He was mortified by his new appearance. He was fearful of leaving his room. He was nearly broke. He knew that this was no way to live. Depression overcame him and he wept. He was at the end of his rope. He contemplated suicide. *** Emilio sat in his car and gazed at the rooming house across the street. He'd finally tracked him down. The private investigator's fee was substantial, but he'd justified the exorbitant charge by finding him. Shortly after the transplant, Emilio had thoughts of the anonymous donor. The thoughts intensified to the point where he couldn't avoid thinking of him. Who was this man who'd given him what he'd always wanted? He just had to find him. Emilio was thrilled when the donor turned up alive; he'd worried the man had donated his body because of some terminal illness, like a brain tumor. Emilio now assumed that Terry Bullock had wanted the transplant because he was displeased with his birth gender. He hoped that his transplant partner was satisfied with the results of the exchange. Emilio knew that he had a lot to be thankful for. He counted his blessings when a donor was found. He was grateful for the technology that allowed the transplant to take place. And he was overjoyed with the results of the transplant. He couldn't have hoped for a better outcome. His new body was large and muscular. He'd finally become the virile man he was meant to be. Of course, it probably hadn't hurt his chances that his mother was a judge. He wasn't privy to all of the facts and circumstances, but he suspected that his mother had used her position for leverage. On the downside, there'd been something in the execution of the transplant that didn't sit right with Emilio. The whole thing had been shrouded in secrecy. He and Terry Bullock had never met or communicated with each other. Steps apparently had been taken by his mother to prevent that. The process had had a suspicious aura about it. Gazing at the rooming house, Emilio's thoughts returned to the fate of his mysterious counterpart. He just had to know how he'd fared. And he wanted to thank him. He left his car and walked across the street to meet Terry Bullock. *** Terry heard a soft knock on his door. He wondered who it was. The rent wasn't due for another week. He stood up from the sofa and warily made his way to the door. He slowly opened it. He looked up at the tall man. He became nervous. "Yes?" Emilio looked down at him. His apprehension was evident. Emilio smiled in an attempt to put him at ease. "Are you Terry Bullock?" "Yeah." Terry had never seen this man before but his voice sounded familiar. "My name's Emilio Morrow. May I talk to you, Terry?" It suddenly occurred to Terry and he blurted it out: "That?s my voice. You're... you're the person who..." He couldn't find the right words. Emilio recognized his old voice, too. "That's right. I'm the man with your transplanted body. May I come in?" "What... do you want?" "I just want to talk to you." "About what?" "Well, first of all, I wanted to thank you." The man seemed sincere. Terry's curiosity overcame his misgivings and he invited him in. He led him to the small table near the entrance to the kitchenette. Terry sat on one of the dilapidated wooden chairs, and Emilio took the other one. Emilio's chair creaked and swayed, and he worried it'd come to dust beneath him. He discreetly scanned the squalid living quarters. It looked like the place hadn't been cleaned in weeks. And Terry looked no better. His hair was disheveled and the blue nylon jogging suit he wore had seen better times. Terry looked at the man who had his body. The one he'd dreamed of recovering. He suppressed the budding resentment. "You said you wanted to talk?" "Yes. Like I said before, I wanted to thank you." Terry stared at Emilio and envied him. He had what Terry wanted. He had what was virtually confiscated from him. He couldn't contain the simmering resentment any longer. "I hope you're not expecting me to graciously say, 'You're welcome.' I've been miserable since this happened. I've got no job or money. And just look at me! I've got a girl's body. I'm so small, now. It's made me nervous. And this silly voice, too! It's demeaning! It's... it's..." Terry's emotions overflowed and the tears came. He ran into the bathroom and closed the door behind him. Emilio had a dumbstruck expression. He hadn't seen it coming. Terry Bullock was in a tormented state. And Emilio had caused it. Guilt rained down on him. He didn't know what to do next. Terry sat on the toilet lid and wiped at his tears with some tissue. He tried to stop crying, but couldn't. The tears had a mind of their own. Emilio wondered whether he should just go. But he knew that he couldn't leave it like this. It would only make him feel worse. And he felt pretty bad already. The sobbing finally subsided and Terry dried his face. He felt foolish for the way he'd acted, but airing his frustrations had also relieved him. He exhaled to calm himself. He wondered if Emilio had left. Emilio had his elbows on the table and his head in his hands. His guilt burgeoned. He considered going to the bathroom to see if Terry was alright. He heard the door open and looked up to see him standing there. He said, "I'm sorry I upset you, Terry. Are you okay?" Terry saw his anguished expression. "Yeah. Look, I'm sorry I yelled at you. It's just been a difficult adjustment. It's been hard to handle. I mean the physical changes and all." "I can imagine." Emilio reminisced about the premature birth that'd undoubtedly affected his growth rate as a child and adolescent. He recollected that he'd never cared for the tiny body, either. It'd made him feel elfish and unsafe. Knowing now that Terry obviously hadn't desired the transplant, Emilio was overcome by a strong sense of empathy. He knew exactly how Terry felt occupying the slight female frame. He said, "I'd like to help you." "Help me? But why?" "Because I feel responsible for your... situation." He sensed a bare undercurrent of relief from making the oral admission. He wanted to do more to ease Terry's pain and assuage his own guilt. Something palpable. "Look, I have a house in Santa Rosa. It has a nice basement apartment. Why don't you come with me. You can stay in the apartment until you get back on your feet." Terry was touched by the generous offer. "But... I can't pay you right now." "I realize that. Don't worry about it. Consi