TROJAN

1➤IT'S ALMOST TIME

My restless gaze flicks towards the electronic clock mounted to the wall—10:43 A.M.

It's almost time. It's almost time.

I drag my focus away from the neon blue digits and onto the scenery beyond the large heptagonal window-confronting my vision with a blazing sun, its golden beams reflecting off more than thirty towers of polished glass that protrude from the concrete slabs and pierce the cerulean sky. Below, a string of self-driving cars ease their way through the geometric streets of Cyber City. And on careful inspection, I notice a few MotorBots cutting through the automatic traffic, delivering various packages to various customers. Those who are not enclosed in some sort of sophisticated vehicle are either traveling by foot or floating on gravity-resistant boards. In the far distance, serving as the natural backdrop for this bustling setting, stretches a vast expanse of ocean. Yet, compared to the magnitude of my trepidation, it was nothing but a drop of denim.

As the countdown tapers off to zero, I can feel my stomach tightening around a fist of barbed wire; I can practically taste the sweat rolling down my spine and pooling into the small of my back. I've already chewed through six of my fingernails in less than five minutes. It's one of the few bad habits therapists haven't managed to carve out of my chromosomes. And as if trying to ease the tight springs of anxiety coiled around the bones in my leg, my right foot bounces against the white floor, the thick rubber sole of my sneaker rapidly tapping away at the tiles.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I wonder if Walter would allow me five extra minutes to lie down if I told him that I was feeling "under the weather".

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Perhaps he would postpone the whole freak show until next year.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

That's wishful thinking, I know. Besides, it's too late to chicken out at this point. I'm Project Neuro-Aid's first successful outcome. If I back out now, then I'll just disappoint the entire Sci-Tech community.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

But what if something goes horribly wrong?

Tap. Tap. Taptaptaptaptapta—

A hand on my knee jerks me out of my pessimistic thoughts. I look over to see Simon sitting beside me, his countenance drifting between amusement and concern.

"Your femur's like a basketball on steroids," he jokes. Leaning over, he pulls my hand away from my mouth. "Maybe you should try one of the Veggie Bytes instead of feasting on your nails."

With wary eyes, I stare at the small platter of multi-coloured canapés resting on the low glass table in front of us. From what I have learned in numerous advertisements, a Veggie Byte is a confusing combination of herbs, broccoli, spinach, carrots, lettuce, beetroot—I can go on forever—compressed into this bite-sized cube. Basically, it's a miniature salad with four corners and six sides.

"It's actually really good," he comments, munching on an orange cube. The smile that appears on his face after he swallows is reassuring, but it isn't enough to stimulate my appetite. He offers me a glass of water instead.

I accept the beverage with quaking hands, attempting to silence the tremors that ripple throughout my muscles. Despite my best efforts, the rebellious liquid spills over the rim and onto my fingers and the front of my sweater.

In an instant, Simon shuffles closer to me on the couch, the length of his torso nearly pressed up against my upper arm. "Gosh, I never took you for someone who could get cold feet." He helps me to take a few generous sips by steadying the glass and gently tipping it forward. His spontaneous gesture instantly reminds me of the nurses back at the ward. No. I'd rather not think about that dreadful place. I back away from Simon once he starts dabbing at my hands and chin with a napkin. "That's enough, Simon. You don't have to treat me like a baby."