As they had arranged months back, Marc texted “Touch.”
She knew that he would return to his house, then text her again. She tried to work on the new flow chart, but her heart was beating fast and her hands were getting clammy, just imagining what was happening to Agent 23.
They had heard too many reports. She knew the conditions Agent 23 would face in the Re-Ed center as a “morbid obese,” or MO. She knew about the forced exercising and the starvation diet. What was worse yet, she knew how Agent 23 would be forced to “renew” herself -read “brainwash”- herself into believing or pretending to believe that she would be worthless and a danger to society unless and until she lost weight which would put her below a BMI of 30. Which, for most of them, would be never, and would entail death by starvation, since they would never lose the weight necessary to put them below a “dangerous” BMI.
There were other whispered stories, worse than any of these. She tried not to think about them as she waited -god, she bloody hated this waiting, waiting- for Marc to reach his house and text her again.
It came in half an hour. “It’s definite.”
She texted back, “Do you know which one?”
She checked her present list. They had no one, not even a sleeper, in 265.
Don’t beat yourself up, kid, Marc texted. She knew the risk. We knew this would happen one day.
We knoew, she texted back. But that doesn’t mean I accept the idea of her staying there.
What are you going to do? Marc texted back.
Get her out.