I shifted, and a thought slammed into my mind: I’m in half a body. The arms burned with the cold pain of adrenaline. The heart hammered like a piston, an echo of the previous occupant’s panic. The head rested against a soft, dependable surface, but something scratched and clogged the nose. The neck and shoulders were stiff, but they had strength in them. Below the chest I felt nothing. No stomach, no crotch, no legs, no feet. Praying that the body would at least be an American’s, I forced the eyes open.

A hospital room, bathed in pale neon light. Wherever this was, at least the place still had power. I was lying in a bed, the torso propped up to a 45 degree angle. Visual inspection confirmed that there was, in fact, a lower body as well. The bedsheet outlined the shape of stomach, hips, and legs, but I couldn’t feel them.

A paraplegic. No wonder the previous occupant had panicked. There was, however, no way in hell I would let their useless terror become my own.

I ate the air in deep, measured lungfuls. The heart slowed, and little by little the acid sting subsided from the arms. I lifted them into view. They were a man’s, pale-skinned and muscular, but heavy with hunger. The past few hours had taught me to tune out a thousand pains and discomforts, and it cost me zero effort to suppress the body’s craving for food.

But in the hunger’s wake an itch crept in, a dirty feeling that the body’s skin was a cancer that enveloped me, seeping into me and twisting my shape. I wanted to vomit, and even more so to be vomited out. It was an ugly claustrophobia, a panic that constricted around me, and if I let it swallow me up, I would shift again for sure.

But the past few hours had taught me that this feeling, too, could be tuned out, if at a considerably higher effort. Again I forced myself to think about Jane, about the car wreck crushing her body like a monstrous steel maw, and old, raw grief inflated inside me until there was room for nothing else.

My head was clear, and I scanned my surroundings.

A rain-streaked window framed a cloudy night sky. A tall wheeled table stood next to the bed, but the tabletop was empty. On the floor below lay a still-life of flowers, water puddles, and the fragments of a smashed glass vase. Some pills down there, too, spilled from a tiny plastic cup. It was all irrelevant. Medical machines in a corner. Irrelevant. A television set craning out from a wall mount, its screen black and irrelevant. And on a chair near the opposite end of the room: a pile of clothes and a gym bag.

Highly relevant.

I grabbed the bed’s siderails and pushed. Without the aid of abs, the maneuver was hell on the pecs and triceps. But the muscles were honed and athletic, and I pushed through until the torso was upright. Then I let the body thump to the floor, medical tubes snapping and rickety IV racks clattering. The fall hurt, but it broke no bones that I would have use for. Glass shards cut the skin as I rolled onto the stomach, but I ignored it. I crawled across the linoleum floor, the legs dragging uselessly behind me. A sudden fear: What if someone came though the door and saw me like this? The face warmed as anger smoldered in the chest.

I locked the eyes on the chair, on the clothes and the bag upon it. Unlike the emasculating hospital gown, these were clearly the patient’s property: sneakers, jeans, a hoodie. And the bag, bulging with personal effects and the promise of a phone.

I didn’t have the strength to pull the body upright, so I yanked the gym bag down onto the floor, unzipped it, and rummaged through. Underwear and T-shirts, an empty plastic water bottle, a wallet, keys, and sunglasses in a case. But no phone. What in the goddamn hell. The body was young, in its early twenties. Why was there no goddamn phone? The sunglasses reflected a scared, white, pretty-boy face, spoiled and still unhurt by life. The face stared at me, its nasal tube like some ridiculous plastic mustache. I smashed the glasses against the floor.

“Where is your goddamn phone?” I shouted.

The shrillness of the voice was the body’s, but its imminent hysteria was my own. A useless feeling, and if I wasn’t careful, it would open the door to the claustrophobic panic that would boot me out of this body and into the next. I closed the eyes and counted deep breaths.

It’s okay. It’s okay, because it has to be okay.

Little by little, I calmed down enough to think. To read the situation.

A young man, an athlete of some sort, handsome and blessed with money to pay for care like this. Of course there was a phone. Kid like this could never live without it. Especially not here, paralyzed and trapped in a hospital bed . . .

It would have to be within reach of the bed. On the table right next to it. The table that one of the body’s former occupants had swiped a panicked hand across, spilling everything to the floor. I openened the eyes, twisted the head back around, and scanned the linoleum.

And there, past the flowers and the shards of the broken vase, nestled against a hospital bed wheel, lay the flat, black shape of a phone.

Crawling back toward it felt like basic training, the burn of the shoulders driving me on. I grabbed the phone, and its screen lit up to reveal a photo of its owner dribbling a soccer ball. The local time, apparently, was 5:07 AM. This should have given me a hint as to where I was, but it didn’t. I had no idea how much time had passed since everything fell apart. Less than a day for sure, but the chaos of the shifts had left me too confused to keep track of hours and time zones. But the upper left hand corner identified the cellphone carrier as a UK one. That was something. At least the language wouldn’t get in the way.

I swiped up, hoping that the phone’s owner had activated facial recognition. He had, but the phone’s tiny lock symbol shook like a nervous head, denying access and prompting me to enter a six-digit passcode I had no way of knowing. Some treacherous part of my mind shat out a split-second memory of Jeffrey Poirier’s mousy, meddlesome face.

“Goddamn it!” I shouted, then caught myself and counted breaths.

Could the phone belong to someone else? A nurse, or—No, obviously not. The boy in the lock screen pic was clearly the same person I had seen reflected in the sunglasses.

Except for . . .

I ripped out the nasal tube and swiped up. Neat, colorful app icons fell into formation as the phone’s home screen opened.

All right. I finally had a phone, but for how long? The battery stood at seventeen percent, so video was out of the question. I tapped the green telephone app and entered the only number that I still knew by heart. I turned on the speaker and rolled the body onto its back, then lay there trying not to count the pulses of the ringing tone.

From this angle I could see an old, framed poster on the wall above the head of the bed. It was peppered with tiny drawings of animals, insects, plants, and sea creatures, all connected by a curving line that fractalled from the bottom of the design to its top. Bacteria and jellyfish, a dinosaur, a scorpion, and a soaring eagle, and there, clustered among the mammals, a human head in profile. The poster’s copy read “Tree of Life”. I felt weirdly relieved that the artist had left out one particular animal from the representation.

A sudden memory: Bare feet on a cold concrete floor. My little sister Sharon peeking between a pen’s steel bars, pointing at a piglet suckling a sow’s teat, its rump stained by a vague red birthmark, and Sharon whispering: “See, Clancy, that one’s called Rose cause it’s got a rose on its butt!” And her laughter and my laughter, both cut short as Dad—

The voice from the phone snapped me back to reality. I hadn’t caught its words, but the familiarity of its timbre shook me.

“Hello? Can you hear me?” I said, with all the authority that the body’s vocal chords could muster.

The voice on the other end—a voice I knew more intimately than any other—answered in a rollercoaster of strange, bouncy syllables punctuated by long vowels, bleating and accusatory.

“Do you speak English?” I thundered, cutting off the endless string of Chinese or whatever.

A short pause, and the assault of foreign words resumed. Blood rushed to the face as rage rolled in, and I slammed the floor. Shit! I was so goddamned close! But the heart rate was increasing, and again I counted breaths, forced myself to calm down. I rolled back onto the stomach so I could see the phone. The battery stood at fifteen percent.

No other option. I tapped the video chat icon.

Seconds dragged by, then a trill of electronic notes signalled that the connection was made. A face filled the screen. It seemed uglier than usual, partly because of the weary, frightened expression it wore, partly because it had its rights and its lefts mixed up. This was not really the case, of course. I was just used to seeing the face in a mirror.

I watched my own eyes stare back at me through the screen, not quite meeting my gaze. I watched my own lips form words in a language I didn’t speak. It was a violation, not just of my body, but of the uniform it wore and all that the uniform stood for. Again I wanted to vomit, and clouds of shame blurred my vision. Or was it just the dizzying sense of disorientation? Yes, I decided. Just the disorientation. The moment called for absolute confidence and authority.

I placed the paraplegic’s finger against the pale lips and shushed my own body’s occupant. It worked.

“You,” I said, pointing at the screen, “listen.” I pointed at the paraplegic’s ear.

My face stared back through the phone, fearful and confused.

“I,” I said, pointing at the paraplegic’s chest, “am Clancy Truman.” I traced the finger across the spot that corresponded to where my own body wore my nametag.

My face stared back, uncomprehending, still not meeting my gaze.

I repeated the gestures and the words, desperate for a sign that my body’s occupant understood.

I saw my lip quiver for a second or two, then break back into its torrent of incomprehensible babble. A note of panic rose in my voice, chasing it from its well-practiced baritone into an ever shriller register.

This was hopeless. I saw my eyes darting wildly as my body’s occupant twisted my head from side to side, screaming its garbage language and shaking my phone like some primitive shaman’s rattle. I caught a swooping, disjointed view around the large plexiglass cage at the heart of Anvil Base, with its industrial LED lights and racks of cameras, sensors and computer equipment. My body was apparently still alone inside the cage. If you didn’t count the Angelhammer, of course. Which I sure as hell didn’t. The on-screen image flickered into a scramble of pixels as the foreigner kept shaking the phone and screaming in panic. I closed the eyes.

We were fucked. We were all fucked. I was fucked. Sharon, wherever she might be, was fucked. Anvil Base was fucked, and all the men and women under my command. America was fu—

Quiet.

The phone had gone quiet.

It takes me longer to find her this time. But once I do, I never stray far. She’s where I knew she’d be. In her garden. Surrounded by all that she holds precious. Mustn’t let myself get distracted by them; their scent is enough to draw me away.

I approach her cautiously, trying to be casual about it, as if I weren’t there simply to bask in her glow. I miss her. I don’t know how long it’s been since I last dropped in on her. She looks the same. No new grey hairs, as far as I can tell.

I of course look different. Unrecognizable, you might say. But I like to think that if she really tried, she could see me as I used to be. Young. Healthy. Hers.

I touch her arm gently, too gently, and she flinches, only slightly distracted from her work. I retreat, waiting for the right time to try again. She doesn’t like to be interrupted when she nurtures the life under her domain, the plants and flowers she cultivates. I must wait till she is finished.

I can see images—not quite complete memories—of when she started this garden. It was so small then, nothing like it is today. I seem to recall her difficulty in keeping what little there was there alive. She’s come a long way, picking up tricks and tips, all the little secrets of how to make things thrive in her care. . .

I miss her. Did I say that already? I miss holding her in my arms, taking her places, doing things with her. . . Now I just watch her.

And when I try to get close to her, she usually brushes me off, not wanting me around. I try not to take it personally.

The sun is higher in the sky now. Her morning duties should be coming to an end. I will try again and hope she will not reject me.

I touch the back of her neck. She doesn’t move. Her skin is warm from the sun, and I revel in its texture. Perhaps I can kiss it, taste the saltiness of the sweat caused by the heat of the day. I try.

Her hand is swift. She smacks the back of her neck, and I come away in her hand. She sees this, looking down at my crumpled form, and she is instantly saddened.

“Oh,” she says, regretting her rash action against me. “It was a butterfly.”

I had tried to appeal to her this time. To come back in a form she would find pleasing. I don’t always have that opportunity. I don’t know how long till I may have it again.

But still it was nice to be next to her again. To feel the touch of her skin. To see her happy. And not in mourning. It took a while for her to return to her garden. To care about life, or giving life to other things. But finally she moved past losing me. And was able to smile again.

I wish I got to see her smile at me. That was why I came back as a butterfly this time. I must learn from this life how better to approach her next time. I will wait again, as long as I have to, so that it is a butterfly again that returns to her garden. Instead of touching her, I’ll put myself in her line of sight. Let her see my colors, my pattern.

I think it’ll make her smile.

A Finalist in 2020’s J. F. Powers Prize for Short Fiction and the L. Ron Hubbard’s Writers of the Future Contest, Anthony Regolino has had his fiction and poetry included in various anthologies devoted to fantasy, horror, science fiction, crime, and comedy. He worked as an editor in the book publishing field for over a dozen years, has been a ghostwriter and contributing writer, and composed blogs professionally for major companies’ websites.

I pulled into the strip mall parking lot, and my implant disengaged, bringing me out of autopilot. Probably for the best that my conscious mind hadn’t made the forty-minute drive. As I reengaged, so did the adrenaline, as if the surprising, alarming phone had just ended.

The awning over the door was green, faded to yellow. West Allis Conscious Shelter. The kind of place I had always ignored, as if that could save me from ending up here someday.

Deep breaths. When I heard Theo was in there, I knew I had to come. Even if I hadn’t heard from him in years.

Verne, the woman who called me, met me at the door and led me inside. The cinder-block corridor of plexiglass-fronted cells was unnervingly quiet, but each cell was occupied. In one, the patient walked repeatedly into a wall. In another, their fingers writhed in the air, typing at a keyboard perhaps. Another seemed to stir a pot that wasn’t there.

Maybe on a subconscious level, I thought coming to Theo’s aid this time would be like busting him out of jail after the protest, or holding his hand at the clinic. As if I could swoop in and make everything right. This series of tableaus dispelled that. I didn’t want to see him like this, but it was too late to back out now. If Verne had called me, it had to mean she hadn’t reached anyone else.

Theo was in the last cell on the right. He had a bowl cut, like I remembered. His facial hair had finally grown in. He wore a stained, scuffed suit that hung off bony shoulders.

“Holy…no…” I muttered under my breath at the sight.

“They were probably on autopilot for a few days before anyone found them,” Verne said.

“Him,” I said. “As of seven years ago, anyway.”

“I got some food and water into him, and a fuel pill for his implant.”

As we watched him through the plexiglass, Theo kept moving around the cell, in some elaborate pattern. Like a bee guiding its hive to a flower.

“He must be exhausted,” I said.

“I’ll give him a little sedative too. Just wanted you to get a good look first. The only way he gets out of this loop is if he can finish doing what he told his implant to do,” Verne said. “I take it you weren’t there when it happened?”

“No, I haven’t seen him in years.”

“But he had your number in his wallet.”

I blinked, surprised. “I guess so.”

“Alright then, tell me what he was into back then.” There was a glint in her eye. A drive.

“We used to hang out a lot in college,” I said.

“Uh huh,” Verne said, smirking. I blushed. How I felt was so obvious to her; had it been obvious to Theo? I’d always wondered.

“It wasn’t like that,” I said. “I met him before he was openly trans, and I had just parted ways with my Bible study group. We were both figuring out who we were going to be. I remember watching direct-to-video action movies, listening to Italian folk music, drinking soju together…” The memories were surprisingly hard to distill. “I don’t know what he’d be doing now. Certainly not this.”

“People often use autopilot to get through something they don’t exactly want to do,” Verne said. She laid a hand on my arm. “Keep pulling on that thread. I’ll be right back.”

She ducked into a supply closet, and I heard a clatter as she pulled boxes off the shelves. She brought out exercise equipment, video game floor pads, an oversized piano mat. One by one, we tried sliding these under Theo’s feet as he moved around the cell. Nothing fit; the props only made him stumble.

I could feel the pressure of exhaustion and frustration behind my eyes, and noticed the time, well past midnight already.

“No luck yet, but we’ll figure it out, you wait and see,” she said, but it sounded rehearsed, unsmiling.

On my way out, I walked back down the corridor of dimly lit cells, past all the other patients, and I tried not to take those words as an impossible promise.