by Erica Friedman

Sammy came out of the lab, shoulders hunched over.

“Failed again?” I asked over my shoulder from inside the clean washroom, as I ran the nanosoap over my fingers, with painstaking precision. We’d taken to dying our hands green first before washing, so we were absolutely sure every last inch of skin had been covered. I was using a fiber brush on my cuticles, now, just another 5 minutes or so before I’d be cleared to head out for my monthly leave. I had a pile of deliveries coming in. The service told me that I’d get fruit this time, although I had no idea what…