THE PROCEDURE WOULD be painless, the white-smocked facilitator assured her. Lee sat almost catatonic as the translucent wires were removed from her forehead, moving only to smooth the white fabric of her skirt over her knees. She kept her eyes in soft focus, and she was peripherally aware of the indistinct rustling coming from behind the sheet of glass separating her from the viewing room. Soft murmurs, clinking champagne flutes, the quiet sounds of privilege. Uncrossing her ankles and sliding out of the chair, Lee was ushered out of Gallery 9 and down the fluorescent-lit tunnel towards Procedure Room 4.

Her footsteps echoed down The Clinic’s hallway, its sleek interior of glass and steel illuminated by flickering white panels. Lee wondered why The Clinic kept such an antiquated lighting system, considering its resources. It was no secret that it had become essential to the city’s economy. Private donors and government funding kept it operating even as other industries crumbled. It was said that a generous grant was among Minister Kren’s first acts of office after the recolonisation. The Clinic was the pride of the new New York. And the crux of the district separation.