Justin Anderson

The Time Donor

Justin Anderson

The girl’s hands were knit tightly, her thumb turning as pink as her nail polish.

“Don’t worry, hon.” Bonnie leaned across the desk. “This is very common. I had over a dozen people last month with similar results. You did a very noble thing coming in—most people never even try to donate.” With twenty- to thirty-minute consultations each, these potential donors ate six hours of Bonnie’s already limited part-time hours.

The girl parted her lips, closed them, and looked out the window. A light rain ran down the glass, distorting the red traffic light outside.

“What does it feel like?”

“The donation?” Bonnie toyed with the ring on her index finger. “You might have noticed when you came in, but we place what feels like an oxygen mask over the donor’s nose and mouth. Then, for about ten minutes, we—”

“—I’m sorry,” the girl interjected. “I understand the process. But what does it feel like?”

Bonnie looked at her watch: 3:15. The clinic closed at 4:00, and then she’d need to get across town to collect her mother for an appointment at 5:00. After that, they’d go to the dollar store, so her mother could hand-select some Christmas presents—cheap pens and chocolates and other junk that people would throw away.

“It’s like drinking through a straw, but you’re on the other end. That’s what one patient told me.”

The girl blinked.

“Have you ever donated?”

“Not here.” Bonnie shook her head. This June would be her twenty-fifth year as a nurse. She spent twenty-four of those years in intensive care, and—well—she’d donated more life energy to that career than she could ever donate here.

“I’ll email your results so you can review them further.” Bonnie stood from behind her faux wood desk. “We have a lot of FAQs on our website if you have further questions.”

The report for non-donors was a third the size of the donor report. Very bare bones to deter people from using the facility to gather health data without performing a donation. It had been a problem at the flagship clinic in Austin.

“Seventy-nine years? Is that all?” the girl rose slowly from her chair, “I’m twenty-nine already, and I don’t even have children, and—”

“You have a long life ahead of you. And our estimations aren’t always accurate. As you can read on the website, we tend to underestimate expected mileage.”

“I’m sorry.” The girl wiped her eyes.

“No apology necessary.” This job could be more therapist than nurse, which had surprised and challenged Bonnie. She hadn’t wanted a challenge.

The girl apologized again and turned to the door. “I’ll send in my husband.”

Bonnie sat back at her computer. She closed the girl’s record and returned to her unchanged donor dashboard.

It was the week before Christmas, and she hadn’t even put up the stupid tree. She was picking up her daughter from college this Friday—a two-hour drive to Bellingham—and her daughter would expect decorations when she got home. Bonnie still had to buy (and wrap) gifts for her daughter from her mother. Bonnie refreshed her donor dashboard as if she expected some miracle, but the circle above her name still read 94.6 years. She wondered if the other nurses had completed their hundred-year quotas. The clinic closed for the year after Friday—a nice, long holiday break that had lured Bonnie to this job in the first place. That, and no late nights, early mornings, or on-calls. But the week was halfway over, and she still had an unmet quota.

“Hi?”

The husband stood in the doorway.

“C’mon in.” Bonnie smiled.

She watched him close the door and sit in the chair across her desk. He sat gingerly, with his back straight and hands resting on his thighs, knees almost touching. He smiled with white teeth and blue eyes, like an adult-sized dress-up doll.

“Thanks for coming in today—” Bonnie checked her monitor “—Newman?”

“Yes. How are you?” His voice was soft but deep

“Making it through. Are you a first-time donor?”

Newman nodded.

“Lovely.” Bonnie surveyed the screen of empty fields she’d need to fill, then turned her attention, at least her eyes, back to Newman. He was a good-looking young man.

“I know your first time can be overwhelming, so let me walk you through the process. I’ll ask you a few questions, which shouldn’t take long—I see you already completed the medical history and waiver on our app, which is fabulous. Then, we’ll take your vitals and prick your finger to draw some blood. This data helps us estimate your expected mileage—”

The clinic issued new verbiage for life expectancy in August to align with the latest version of their donor software.

“—to determine donor eligibility. If everything works out, we’ll proceed with the donation. Can you confirm your full name and date of birth?”

“Newman—”

Bonnie scanned the application to validate these and other data—social security number, medications, family history of illness.

“Do you consume alcohol?”

“Yes.”

“How many drinks per week?”

“Two or three beers on the weekend, sometimes.”

“Are you sexually active?”

“Yes.”

“How many partners?”

Newman blushed. “One.”

Bonnie asked him to step on the scale.

“Should I take off my shoes?”

“No.”

He wore those running sneakers made from almonds. What did they weigh? Like eight ounces?

Bonnie’s daughter would lecture her about disposable coffee pods this weekend. ‘Recycle those!’ she’d said at Easter. ‘Don’t use disposable! They’ll end up in the ocean!’ she’d said at Thanksgiving. She’d probably gift Bonnie reusable pods for Christmas.

With a healthy height, weight, and blood pressure—albeit high from nerves—recorded, Bonnie asked Newman to place his finger in the blood sampler, a little contraption that looked like a gel nail light. His nail beds were surprisingly healthy for a man.

Newman winced as the sampler pricked him, and Bonnie clicked at the computer to confirm the blood sample and trigger the software that calculated his expected mileage. A clockface loading icon appeared.

Nine out of ten donors were women. Men were a mixed bag—on average, their healthy mileage was 78 years, so the bar for accepting donations was a few years lower than women. But their expected mileage was often lower than the healthy mileage threshold. The algorithm must predict them doing something stupid and dying, or maybe it said something about the guys who donate time.

“Any plans for the holiday?” Newman asked through his straight white teeth. Did he use whitening strips?

“My daughter will be back in town. We’ll probably go to dinner somewhere on Christmas Eve but take it easy otherwise.”

Before Newman could press further, Bonnie asked. “Did you have any questions about the donation?”

It was 3:40. If she could get him on a table in fifteen minutes, she’d be all set. They accepted no new donors at 4:00, but the staff would stick around if a donation was in progress.

“What about exercise post-donation? Is there anything I need to worry about?”

His resting heart rate had been 45 beats per minute. Along with his long legs, that made Bonnie think he was a runner. But he didn’t have that gaunt, weathered look of a marathoner—his face was immaculately smooth.

“Lay low this evening and take it easy for the next two to three days. If you feel faint, just take a break. Don’t push it too hard.”

The application chimed.

“Here we go.” Bonnie swiveled to the monitor.

The animated gauges turned green. Across the board—cardio health, weight, vitamin levels—Newman was top of the charts. When Bonnie reached the bottom of the page, she immediately refreshed.

“Everything okay?”

The page reloaded, and Bonnie discovered her eyes did not deceive.

“Good news, Newman.” She folded her hands on the desk. “Your vitals are excellent, and you have an expected mileage of 94 years.”

Newman placed a hand over his mouth.

“That gives you a donation potential of sixteen years.”

The clinic had a policy capping each donation at five years, but Bonnie had never seen anyone come close to that. She hardly broke one year per patient—even if they had a five-year potential.

“You have plenty of options for your donation: One year, five years, whatever you want.”

Newman was quiet, a hand still over his mouth. He must not have anticipated such a high life expectancy, which, Bonnie supposed, was rather refreshing. Many patients—or prospective donors, as the company had branded them—became indignant, or, like the wife, saddened by their readouts, like they were entitled to above-average scores.

Newman lowered his hand. “What do you recommend?”

The rain pattered against the glass, and Bonnie recalled her training—a recorded video from the pant-suited CEO explaining the benefits of the Quality LifeTM. In the old-world paradigm of the Quantity LifeTM, people falsely assumed more was better. Increased years was the measure of a well-lived life— society would worship the Methuselahs and turn a blind eye to the inevitability of physical degradation in their elderly years. Many financial and social benefits rewarded a life that valued quality over quantity.

“It’s a very personal decision,” Bonnie quoted her training. “You have many factors to consider— financial savings to support long-term care, career ambitions, the lifespan of a spouse or partner.”

Newman stared at the desk. To have such options…Bonnie could only imagine what she would do with that much time. Almost enough to consider a donation herself, something small and annoying, nothing more than a few months, but enough to get the readout. That said, she wouldn’t want to cling on forever, like her mom, and burden her daughter. She’d sooner be shot behind a barn than live in an assisted living facility. Bingo and coloring books and puree dinners, no thanks. Her savings were in an okay place, but her 401k wouldn’t last forever. Her financial adviser made that abundantly clear. Lord knows she wasn’t getting a pension—that concept was dying with her mother.

The wall clock ticked from 3:46 to 3:47.

“Ninety-four years.” Newman shook his head, laughing. “What am I going to do with all of that time?”

Bonnie shrugged.

“I’d like to donate five years. I’m sure someone else could use them better than me.”

“That’s very noble.” Bonnie’s heart fluttered with excitement as she entered the details into the donor software.

Six padded folding tables lined the room, and two nurses supported a young woman with pink hair on one of them. Another nurse loaded canisters onto a metal cart. The wife sat, red-eyed, on a folding chair beside the window.

“Right here.”

The table squeaked as Newman laid down. Cheap things. The clinic had the look of the multipurpose room at her mother’s church—tile ceiling, carts of folding chairs, and a dusty closet to hold the flimsy padded tables. The company had been around for three years now—you’d think they’d construct a more permanent facility.

Bonnie donned a facemask and wheeled a canister beside the table. By far the most valuable thing in the facility, the apparatus sported a sleek, stainless-steel case shaped like a barrel. A white hose emerged from its top and ended in a silicone suction cup. It vaguely reminded her of a beer keg—her daughter probably knew a thing or two about that. She better; Bonnie would have killed for that college experience.

Another nurse appeared across the table.

“We’re going to place this mask—” Bonnie lifted the silicone suction cup for Newman to see “—over your mouth and nose. When we turn on this machine—” she tapped the stainless-steel apparatus “—you’ll feel a light sucking. It might feel uncomfortable at first, but that’s completely normal. Keep breathing, sit back, and try to relax.”

A flush of color graced Newman’s cheeks.

“If at any time you feel uncomfortable and want to stop, raise your arm, and we’ll assist.”

Newman eyed the apparatus. The nurses jokingly called it “the vampire.”

“How long does it take?”

“For five years,” Bonnie glanced at the nurse, whose eyes widened at the number. “Around thirty minutes.”

Bonnie plucked a tablet from a nearby cart and handed it to Newman.

“We have games and TV shows if you get bored.”

The nurse gently lifted Newman’s head from the table, and Bonnie fixed the suction cup to his face and tightened the straps around his skull. Nice and snug. She then knelt beside the vampire and tapped its screen. The interface was clean and straightforward—one field for rate and one for volume, and plus and minus buttons between them. Easier to configure than a microwave oven.

Bonnie set the standard harvest rate—two months per minute—and the volume to sixty months. Her watch dinged, and she saw a message from her mother’s assisted living facility. She used to call these places “nursing homes” until she admitted her mother. She didn’t bother to read the message but saw that it was 3:55. Biting her lip, she upped the harvest rate to three months per minute. Newman was a strong kid; he could handle the higher rate. Bonnie flicked the switch atop the vampire, and it began to whirr like a coffee maker. The screen transitioned to a countdown timer and an indicator for months harvested. Cross-eyed, Newman stared at the cup over his nose.

“How are you doing?” Bonnie asked over the vampire’s buzz.

Newman gave a thumbs-up.

The wife sat tall in her chair, her fingers scratching the top of her chest. Bonnie forwarded Newman’s thumbs-up, but the girl didn’t divert her watch of the table. She must have scheduled their appointments—probably read some article about “giving back this holiday season” and couldn’t resist her urge to “make a difference.” She might have received one of those heart-string-yanking text messages about grandma expiring a month before her granddaughter’s birth. That one made Bonnie laugh.

Newman coughed beneath the mask, and Bonnie watched him settle back down.

“Highest quality, lowest suck,” the trainer had said, making Bonnie think of the slogan from her hometown grocery store: “Highest quality, lowest price.” A lower rate was easier on the donor and harvested higher fidelity months—whatever that means. Even if a month or two got corrupted, these five

years would vastly exceed her past two weeks’ donations combined. Bonnie had four “pregnancies” last week, which she had considered the most lucrative. Three-to-six months was the most common, even though most donors—most women—had a potential of one-to-three years. The company pushed a “donate a pregnancy” campaign to encourage women to give nine months at their next clinic visit.

Newman’s face turned red and sweaty, so the nurse placed a damp cloth on his forehead.

This was a double-win for the wife, really. Not only was Newman’s donation a substantial act of good, but they were enabling an earlier retirement. A reduced lifespan could lower their retirement savings target or allow them to enjoy it more frivolously. They could buy a boat or a timeshare or whatever they wanted. They wouldn’t have to see their nest egg diminished by long-term care, rising inflation, or capital gains tax.

The vampire hum grew louder, and the console beeped: twelve months harvested. Newman’s breathing stabilized, so the nurse removed the damp cloth and motioned to Bonnie.

The nurse whispered. “How about an extra year?”

Bonnie wrinkled her forehead. “We’re already at five, we—”

“—Stravos is coming.”

“So?”

“His monthly injection?”

The nurse searched Bonnie’s eyes.

“He takes a six-year dose, and, well—” her whisper softened “—last month, he raised a complaint about freshness.”

“What about her?” Bonnie thumbed toward the pink-haired donor. “Can’t we use—”

“—Stravos doesn’t take mixed months, remember? Besides, she only donated three.”

Bonnie exhaled.

“When’s he coming?”

“His assistant said four.”

It was 4:05.

Newman’s laced fingers rested on his rising and falling stomach. The wife perched in her chair like it was a fire tower.

“I have to pick up my mom.” Bonnie turned her back to the wife’s vigil. “I’ll raise the donation a year, but can you handle Stravos?”

They exchanged a visual handshake and returned to separate sides of the table.

Six instead of five? A simple, fat-fingered mistake. Shouldn’t it be the machine’s job to restrict volume anyway? Why would the device make it possible if they shouldn’t accept six-year donations in the first place?

Bonnie knelt beside the vampire: 42 months.

“Doing well, Newman. Halfway there.”

Newman slowly raised his hand, probably to scratch his face.

Bonnie tapped the big plus sign on the console, and the vampire beeped. Nobody noticed, so Bonnie hit it eleven more times to increase the harvest to 72 months. After the twelfth tap, the vampire whirred like a ShopVac. Newman shuddered.

The other patient coughed, and the nurses brought her water. While the vampire harvested Newman, Bonnie made herself busy boxing up uneaten snacks. She needed more donations like this: quick, easy, high-volume. Not the chatty do-gooders with their piddly three months. A few five-year donations and— She withdrew another tablet and tapped Newman’s shoulder.

He opened his bloodshot eyes.

“Would you like to register for recurring donations? You can donate up to four times per year. We’ll send you email reminders if you’re interested. All you have to do is enter your email.” Bonnie placed the tablet on Newman’s chest and pointed to the form. “We’ll take care of the rest.”

With fingers like pale toothpicks, Newman tapped in his email address one character at a time. Bonnie accepted the tablet when he finished, and Newman lay limply on his back, eyes half-closed and chest undulating like a flag in the wind. The hose draped over him, an albino serpent that latched onto his face. He didn’t have much longer.

It was 4:16.

The vampire buzzed like a chainsaw, louder than the rickety box fan in the corner. If nothing else, the buzz drowned out the adult contemporary droning over the speakers. Stupid thing. If the machine couldn’t handle a three-month-per-minute harvest rate, it shouldn’t give her the option. Bonnie snatched a bottle of sanitizer and sprayed the empty tables. Two, three more minutes, and they’d be done. She rubbed a rag over the surface. Why weren’t the other nurses helping? Didn’t they have lives to get to after this? Where—

The whirring stopped.

The nurses’ heads swiveled to Newman’s table.

The vampire stuttered like a pull-string lawn mower before it caught and resumed its steady hum. Bonnie dropped the rag.

“Newman?”

He lay still, his arms splayed and hands dangling off the table. Unresponsive. Bonnie pressed a hand to her forehead. Could she be liable for this? What kind of legal fees would she—

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god!” the wife sprang from her perch, “No, no, no! Oh my god! Oh my god! Someone, help! Help!”

“Stand back!” Bonnie yelled, and the assistant nurse stepped between the wife and her husband.

Bonnie crouched beside the vampire and tapped the screen. 115 months.

How could that be? Bonnie clutched the stainless-steel vampire. The whirring increased. The target volume was still 60 months, and the harvest rate was—

“Mother—” 15 months per minute!

Bonnie’s fingers fumbled with the minus button, but the number didn’t drop. 116 months.

“Oh my god! Oh my god!” the wife shrieked.

Should she pull the cord? The sudden end could corrupt the donation.

“Newman! Oh my god!”

A nurse appeared, and Bonnie felt eyes squinting at the console.

She yanked the power cord.

The whirring stopped, and the vampire’s screen went black.

Bonnie rose, lifted Newman’s head, and loosened the straps. The cup slid off his face.

His eyelids fluttered, and then Newman coughed. A nasty, wet cough that made him sound like a smoker. Body shaking, he hacked until his body relaxed, and his narrow eyes turned to Bonnie. Holy Christ. A flood of relief washed over her as she uncapped the water bottle and held it to his mouth. His lips parted in compliance, and she poured the liquid down his throat.

“Newman, can you please tell me your birthday.”

“June—” his voice sounded like Yoda “—seventeenth.”

“Thank you.” Bonnie patted his shoulder.

A red circle lined his nose, cheeks, and chin from the suction cup. He surveyed the nurses that encircled him—watching the worry depart their faces.

“You gave us quite a scare,” Bonnie smiled behind her mask.

Why didn’t he raise his hand? They could’ve helped him long before any of this happened. Did he not value his life? Or did he prefer suffering in silence?

The wife rushed to Newman’s side—gripping his hand and stroking his hair.

“Oh, baby, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

The nurses shrugged and returned to their tasks. Bonnie tended to Newman—wiping down his forehead, giving him more water, checking his pulse—while the assistant nurse, bless her, catered to the wife.

“He’s okay.”

“Passing out is very common.”

“Keep giving him fluids…”

As Newman recovered, Bonnie sanitized the mouthpiece and coiled the hose around the canister. When the other nurses weren’t looking, she plugged the vampire back in and watched the screen blink to life. She braced herself for a big goose egg on the month counter. Miraculously, the interface still read 116. Bonnie exhaled. Newman was sitting up now, and the wife was feeding him a protein bar. The config was set to a fifteen month-per-minute harvest rate. Bonnie held down the minus button with a steady finger until the number dropped to two. Then unplugged the vampire.

It was 4:27.

“Take it easy for the next few days.” Bonnie handed Newman a pamphlet with his donor ID and post-donation recovery recommendations. “Avoid alcohol for 24 to 48 hours and try to limit strenuous exercise for the next three to five days. If you feel faint, take a break and rest. Get some extra sleep. Drink plenty of fluids—”

The wife plucked the pamphlet from Newman’s hands.

“Thanks again for your donation.” Bonnie placed a sticker in Newman’s now empty hand—a clockface with Time Donors Association of Western Washington scrawled around it.

“Don’t—” Newman coughed violently, his shoulders shaking “—mention it.”

The wife looked at Bonnie, mouth agape.

“Completely normal to have flu-like symptoms for a couple of hours following the donation.”

The wife shook her head and removed her sweater, draping it over Newman’s shoulders. Sniffing, Newman squeezed her hand and gently swung his feet off the table.

When the couple was gone and the other nurses were cleaning and collapsing the tables, Bonnie marched to her office and, still standing, opened her donor dashboard. Relief rained over her at the sight of her quota circle: green, full, and 104.3 years. A century in a year, a decade in a day. It was 4:35.

Bonnie shut down the computer and pulled on her coat. When she started this job, she wondered if the system recorded donation volumes per patient. She figured it had to. They must monitor the donation volumes to ensure no one exceeds the five-year policy, right? At the very least, they performed audits, of course? She’d given them too much credit. Nobody had time to care. If the quotas were full and no complaints came through, it was all kosher. The wife might complain, maybe, but she hadn’t seen the harvest volume, and her husband walked out of the clinic, so her complaint—if it even appeared—had no legs to go anywhere.

As Bonnie closed her office and crossed the donation floor, the assistant nurse trailed her.

“When you unplugged the—”

“You’re all good.” Bonnie didn’t slow her stride. “All months are accounted for.”

“The—”

“All six.” Bonnie zipped her jacket. “Even a little extra.”

“Extra?” The nurse paused by the door.

“Merry Christmas.” Bonnie patted her shoulder and exited the room.

As she crossed the atrium, her padded shoes squeaking over the tile, Bonnie withdrew her phone. She opened the map app and navigated to her mother’s nursing home. As the route loaded, she caught a whiff of cigar smoke and looked up. Stravos was shuffling across the atrium, his pearly implants shining between his leathery orange lips. He was smiling at her. Not a smile of recognition, but a grin that modeled his desired behavior. Say what you want, but this old geezer was the real donor—his monthly injection fees kept the clinic open; you didn’t need an accountant to figure that out. Not returning the smile, Bonnie looked back at her phone as they passed. All routes were yellow, and her ETA was a few minutes behind schedule. She fished the car keys from her coat pocket and hastened her stride. If the lights turned in her favor and she drove a bit faster, she might just make it.