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June 18, 2025

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Smoothing her skirt, Charity waited politely for the air raid siren to die down before asking the patient to continue.

 

“I’m sorry,” she said, when the noise had stopped. She reached forward and gently wiped debris off of him and the stretcher. “They were supposed to have patched the hospital’s shielding by now. But please go on.”

 

The elderly man coughed and, craning his neck as much as the biosensor leads would allow, looked up at the tangle of life support system hoses that now spilled from the ceiling. “Yeah, um… like I was saying, Doc… I want to do my part for the war effort.”

 

At that moment, her retinal view screen came online. A chime sounded deep within her cerebral cortex as words scrolled into her field of vision in neonesque red. Liability concern. Provide clarification to the patient as per protocol.

 

“Mr. Obrador,” she said, “like I mentioned earlier, I’m a recruitment coordinator. I’m not a doctor.” A smile formed on her lips. “But I help people, just like they do.”

 

He nodded slowly. “Oh, right.”

 

Before proceeding, she was careful to check his Injury Severity Score, as displayed in blue on one of the floating screens above them. Seven. Perfect. Well within recruiting criteria. A warm feeling washed over her as she studied his clinical feed, noting that he’d been rescued from the asteroid colony with only minor cuts and bruises.

 

Here’s to number 307, she thought to herself in pleasant anticipation. Or rather, she assumed that it was anticipation — her cerebral shunt limited the range of emotions at her disposal and sometimes made it tricky to identify the ones that did register.

 

Having signed up 306 candidates in the month so far, she would surpass the existing bureau-wide record if she secured one more recruit by the end of her shift. It was a fact she had tried not to dwell on, with limited success. And now, with an hour to go before clocking out for the night, she found her thoughts returning to that objective.

 

For recruitment coordinators, there was a fine line between taking pride in a job well done and becoming competitive, and the cerebral implant was designed to prevent counterproductive emotions like the latter. Silently, she hoped that she wasn’t experiencing anything which would require recalibration or time away from work.

 

“I like your attitude,” she began. “Now, I understand that you were found outside of the emergency domes.”

 

“I don’t stay in those shelters anymore. Not much to do to pass the time, you know,” he said, shaking his head. “Folks just wanna eat or go into cryosleep — no one ever wants to sit and chat. I used to go to bingo there, but I quit when the missiles started coming every day. With the shielding breaches and the people gettin’ blown up outside, you couldn’t hear them call out the numbers.”

 

“Your feelings are perfectly understandable. You want to do something meaningful. And The Bureau of Organ Procurement and Trauma Tech can help.”

 

“Harold Edgewater always cheated. He was cheatin’ in the last game, too, right before the roof fell on him.” He paused and looked at her with cloudy eyes. “Do you know Harold?”

 

“No, I’m afraid not,” she answered politely. “Now, Mr. Obrador, there’s a simple way that you can make a powerful difference for our troops. The gift of a few organs gives a soldier the resources they need to rejoin the fight. Some of our most generous donors have signed over their whole bodies. With the current shortage of synthetic tissues, that’s especially helpful.”

 

The old man interrupted her there. “I’m sure Harold used his artificial arm to mess with the bingo screens. He was always braggin’ about how the VA gave him a synth-limb with the newest bells and whistles.”

 

Charity was surprised to feel her jaw tightening as her thoughts circled back to the recruitment record. She found herself considering using an AI-generated signature to provide his consent — a first in her career. Neither uncommon nor illegal, the practice was generally only frowned upon when coordinators got sloppy with their paperwork. But she had personally considered it to be unprofessional.

 

Her retinal view screen interrupted her thoughts there with a new directive in red. Diagnostic warning. Evidence of incompetence and/or mental instability. Adjust your approach to accommodate the patient’s fixation.

 

“That’s just unsportsmanlike,” she said after a minute, shaking her head. “Your country appreciates that you’re not selfish like that. And your contribution will make a big difference.”

 

“How’s that?”

 

“By giving of yourself for a worthy cause.”

 

He paused as there was a loud cracking sound overhead, culminating in new debris raining down on them. “That’s nice. Which cause is that?”

 

Something inside her seemed to shift in a way she couldn’t quite name. Maybe using AI is the right call, just this once… She found herself continuing in a tone that was ever so slightly less polite. “The war effort.”

 

“Oh.” He looked thoughtful for a minute and then went on after glancing at the ceiling. “There’s no way Harold won all those games without cheating. If that bum thinks I’m not keeping track, he’s got another thing comin’.”

 

She nodded, her mind on the approaching deadline.

 

“You know, having a roof fall on you isn’t an excuse to weasel out of the consequences. That’s not how bingo works.”

 

A calmness settled over her as she made her decision. Just this once, she told herself. After all, to help others serve their country was the highest calling. Lingering on that thought, she didn’t hear his question at first.

 

“Doc, is that tax-deductible?”

 

“What?”

 

“My body.” He sat up slowly on the stretcher. “Since I’m not going to bingo, I guess I don’t need it. But, you know, I’d wanna get a receipt for my tax records.”

 

Charity broke into a smile. This time around, she easily identified the emotion rising within her as something agreeable. “I’m sure we can arrange that.”

Copyright 2024 - SFS Publishing LLC

But, Doctor, Is It Tax-Deductible?

Your patriotism is appreciated

Jenny Abbott

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