Friend, Inc. William Fraser
Beneath soft yellow lights, in a room of sterile white tile and
gentle machines, an old man lay beneath clean, starched sheets. His skin was translucent. His eyes were milky white. His muscles, once ropy and useful, were now waning and thin. He lay there for a long time, not moving. He breathed. He slept. He waited. The door opened, and someone entered. It could be sensed almost at once that this visitor was a machine, a machine built to look like a man. Silver pupils reflected brightly, and aged gears whined softly as it walked to the old man’s bed, sat slowly into a chair, folded its hands and waited. An hour passed. The man in bed shifted and his eyes fluttered. He turned to look beside him, focused, and said, “Andy.” “Hello, Martin,” Andy said, and smiled. Martin closed his eyes again. For another long while, there was only the sound of the hospital’s watchful devices. One chimed with each of Martin’s heartbeats. Andy again sat patiently, as only he could. “What time is it?” Martin finally asked. “Three o’clock.” Martin lay there once more, this time with his eyes wide. Above him, the drop ceiling panels were decorated with a myriad of miniature dots, a random pattern. One could count them all, given enough time. Given enough minutes, hours, days. “What did they tell you?” “I have been informed,” said Andy, “that only family is privy to such information.” “Family,” spat Martin. He drew a dry breath. “I’m dying.” Something inside Andy’s cranium whirred, paused, shut down. “I know,” he said. “Isn’t that strange?” Andy nodded. His smile went away. “What is it like?” The old man shifted. “Steady.” “Does it hurt?” Martin shook his head. “It’s too slow to hurt.” Andy blinked. “Slow and steady.” Martin nodded. “Like a river,” Andy said. 37