Chapter 1 - Jesse

I paced through the peaceful hallway like an idiot. Twenty-two steps from the elevator to the door. Twenty-two steps back. Again. At least at this rate, I'd be able to cut my evening run in half. Thank God the building seemed quiet this time of day.

Although, come to think of it, that was a bit curious considering there were quite a few professionals in residence. Maybe it was because my appointment was at 3:15 instead of 3:00 or 3:30. It was an odd time to schedule an appointment, but what do I know about the way a consort's schedule works. Maybe randomly timed appointments were normal. If that were the case though, shouldn't I have encountered more people as I attempted to wear holes through the stormy grey carpet? Who puts carpet this light in a public area anyway? Surely that must lead to stains and the need to constantly hire cleaners. I didn't see any stains.

I'd only had to pause my pacing and force a pained smile once during the ten…quick glance at my watch…no…twelve minutes I'd been doing this. I was certain there were video cameras in every corner of the hallway—nearly every business and living complex has them these days—and as each minute passed, it grew more and more likely that security would arrive. Oh, they'd probably smile and ask how they could help as they politely questioned why I was in the building, but it wouldn't matter. I was too anxious to even knock on the door. I would unquestionably lose the ability to speak and start stammering the moment I opened my mouth in an attempt to answer their questions. They'd grow concerned, escort me out, and I'd lose this opportunity. I needed this opportunity.

I've always been a hard worker. Growing up on a farm will do that to a person. The value of hard work and cooperation was embedded into me from the time I was…well… younger than I can remember. My whole family would rise early, and together we would tend to the crops in the fields during long summer days, and in the hydroponic buildings during the winter.

From the time I was three years old, I'd been given small chores to complete just like my two older siblings. Simple things really. Looking back, the tasks I was given were so simple they weren't really chores at first. Things like making sure the shoes by the front door were lined up neatly, and following my dad while he fed the chickens to ensure that they seemed happy with their breakfast. Eventually, I was given actual chores, of course. When I was eight, it became my job to sweep out the hydroponic barns once a week. At thirteen, I learned to drive the collection truck behind mom's tractor during the harvests. By the time I was sixteen, I could have run a smaller farm on my own.

My parents are good farmers, and good parents. They tried their best to balance fun and responsibility, and I never felt they pushed us too hard while still managing to teach us that it was important to contribute. Hard work is simply a way of life on a family farm.

I suppose it sounds like it would have been hard on a child; that the demands of school and farm life would push a teen to rebellion. Maybe in another family that would have been true, but not mine. Chores were games when I was young, and work remained playful as I'd gotten older. My parents would wake us with love and laughter, andbreakfast always hot and waiting on the table. We'd laugh as we worked together, enjoying one another's company while completing our tasks. Evenings were even better. We'd cook together, complete our homework, read, and play games. My youth was filled with joy and laughter. I can remember only a handful of moments where arguments or unhappiness slipped their way into the peace our family worked so hard to cultivate. If we were hurt or sad or upset—as children are inclined to be on occasion—our parents would gather us into their arms and listen. They supported, they loved, and I always felt cherished. How could one rebel against that even if it was accompanied by hard work.

I've always considered myself to be intelligent, largely because my parents and siblings took the time to listen to my ideas, no matter how childish they may have seemed when I was young. As I'd grown older, they'd encouraged me, both in school and on the farm, often taking the time to sit with me as I laid out complicated inventions and elaborate schemes. They'd smile as I finished, and gently offer suggestions or tweak my ideas; encouraging me to do the same. I learned the art of creative thinking and developed the ability to trust in myself. By the time I was a teenager, many of my suggestions for improving yields or making our lives simpler had been implemented as part of our daily lives.

When I was twenty, I'd told my family that I wanted to go to college and then medical school instead of staying on the family farm. They didn't blink an eye even though I knew it must have crushed them that I didn't intend to follow in their footsteps. They'd hugged me, supported me, and told me they were sure that I was going to be an amazing success no matter what path I chose. They'd saved every penny they could while I completed my base courses at the free public university and by the time I'd finished five years later, they'd been able to send me off to the city with my tuition paid and enough money for rent and food. I have no idea how they'd done that. They must have given me most, if not all, of their savings.

It wasn't enough.

Life in the city was far more expensive than any of us had imagined. So, despite my careful planning and tight budget, I was already having to limit my spending to one or two meals a day in order to stretch what meager funds I had left as I headed toward the end of my first of three years of courses. Even if I thought my family had anything left to spare, I'd never have asked them for anything more. They'd already given me far too much. They'd already given me everything. I needed a job to survive, and there were very few jobs in the city that seemed compatible with my skill set and schedule.

After fourteen minutes of pacing, I stood in front of the door, counting my heartbeats and fighting to slow my breath as I focused a bit more intently on my unfamiliar surroundings. The hall was a calming shade of pale blue, the lighting soft and warm. There were tall trees in several of the corners; bright green with dust-free leaves. They looked healthy and happy even without access to direct sunlight. Surely this was a good environment if the houseplants seemed happy here. For the fourth time, I raised my hand to knock. I could do this.