14 Chapter 14: Heaven 2.0, Part 2

Her smartphone displayed a drawing of a playground. The cartoon Wynette bounded back and forth across the screen in front of a swing set. She nudged a swing with her nose. It swung back, and bopped her in the face. Startled, she yelped.

"Aww," Gretchen said. The icon changed into an open hand. She placed her fingertip over Wynette's back, and rubbed. The hand petted Wynette in slow, gentle strokes. The cartoon Lab smiled, her eyes closed. Ok, Gretchen decided, that's enough for tonight. She ended the stream, shut her laptop, and went to sleep.

The next morning Gretchen woke, took a shower, brushed her teeth, and went to work. She had an uneventful day filing medical claims, after which she went out for drinks with a few friends, came home, played her saxophone, and went to bed. This pattern repeated itself over the next few days, with a few variations. Soon it was Saturday, and she decided to listen to a CD while she relaxed and read. She ejected the disk drive of her laptop, and saw Heaven 2.0 still in the caddy. She pushed it back in, and ran the program.

Weeds, leaves, and garbage overran the playground. Blocky brown pyramids adorned the grass, some with black pixels buzzing around them. Sleet ran across the screen in white diagonal lines. Wynette lay shivering under the merry-go-round. Her pixelated skin clung to her ribs. She pressed her matted, filthy fur into the mud. The speakers repeated a tone that started high pitched, and then fell. Gretchen's heart sank as she realized it was a digitized whine.

She opened the menu. What could she do? She clicked on the store, and breezed through the user agreement. For the price of two more months, she could buy a doghouse, one with a heated floor. She did. Playground maintenance would only shorten her life by one week per year. She agreed to that too, thinking it was quite reasonable. Fresh water was available for another week per year, or a once-only unlimited offer of seven months. "Meaty Afterlife Chow to supplement possibly scarce wildlife? A steal at only one year." What the hell, she decided, and bought the works, including chew toys, teeth cleaning, and de-worming. Her total bill wound up costing seven years off her life. She paused for a moment before agreeing. Then she laughed at her own silliness, and checked out.

When Gretchen was done, Wynette was cozy and warm, lapping at her fresh water, and savoring her Meaty Afterlife Chow. Gretchen draped a warm towel (at a cost of only one day) over her late Lab, and pet her until her hand hurt. Wynette no longer whined. She lay in her heated doghouse, her sides heaving in contentment.

Another week passed. At first, Gretchen spent half an hour a night in her late pet's interactive paradise, but by Wednesday, her dedication had been reduced to a few quick pets, and a toss of the ball. By Sunday, though Gretchen still felt a stabbing ache in her heart, Wynette's digital repose was all but forgotten.

That is, until there was another knock on her door.

Hisao Oshiro awaited her on her front step. The noon sun was hot and high, and brought every detail of his perfect suit and leather attaché case into sharp relief. His fedora cast a shadow over his sagging, milky face that was pitch black.

"Ah, Miss Healy," he purred from the back of his throat. "May I come in?" It was not a question, and Gretchen stepped aside without even realizing. He walked past her into the living room, sat on her couch, and put his attaché case on her coffee table. He thumbed the latches aside, snapping them up with simultaneous clicks. He raised his veined eyes up to meet hers, his expression a frown compounded by a mountain range of wrinkles.

"I'm afraid that legal issue I mentioned has come up," Oshiro said. He removed a manila folder four inches thick from the briefcase, and passed it to her. "This," he said before she could ask, "is your complete medical history."

Gretchen raised her eyebrows. "My what?" she asked. She unwound the binding string of the folder, and opened it.

The first document was a mimeograph, its letters fat, purple, and blurry, bearing the letterhead of her childhood pediatrician. It was a note to her mother, stating that Gretchen had a high fever, but because she was only five months old, the doctor would not prescribe antibiotics. She thumbed through the ream of paper, her heart pounding. Here were her middle school dental x-rays (never a cavity), there were the details of a visit to her college gynecologist for a yeast infection. Oshiro had collected thirty-six years' worth of personal details of her life, every blood test, and every prescription. The last stack of pages was a dot matrix printout of all the medical issues she had ever searched for online, from anxiety attacks to birth control. She squeezed the printout, her knuckles turning white. "Where," she managed to ask, "where did you get all this?"

"Our researchers are quite thorough," said Oshiro. He coughed. "Could I have a glass of milk, please?"

Gretchen mashed the printout in her fists. She threw the wad of paper in his face. "Get out," she said, trembling. Hisao Oshiro just looked up at her, expressionless. "Fine," she said, "I'm calling the police." She yanked her smartphone out of her pocket, and pressed the number nine. Her fingertip touched the number one, and froze.

She felt as if every vein, every capillary, every drop of liquid in her body - even her saliva and tears - had frozen. Illusory razors of ice slashed her skin, gutting her all the way down to her bones. Her jaw locked, smashing her teeth together. She shook, every muscle going into spasms.

And then the pain was gone.

Gretchen lay on the floor, convulsing and gasping for breath. She looked up through tear-filled eyes. Hisao Oshiro stood above her, his rubbery face still expressionless.

"I just repossessed one year from your life," he purred, his voice almost kind. "It took a day, I'm afraid, but you needed a demonstration."

Gretchen said nothing. Oshiro extended a hand to her. She slapped it away, and forced herself to her knees. Black spots exploded in front of her eyes. She crawled to her couch, and forced her aching body up onto it.

"Who - who are you?" she stammered.

"You entered into a contract, Miss Healy," Oshiro said, ignoring the question. His skin was rosier than it had been before, his ancient eyes clearer. "You then requested a greater loan, agreeing to a thorough background check."

"I never did."

He raised an eyebrow. "Did you not agree to the terms and conditions of the store?"