3%

Her face.

Laughing at something he said and his hand already moving and he doesn't remember deciding to—

Wait.

This already—

Her face.

3% something. The system says 3% something.

Shoulder. Her shoulder. His hand.

She laughed at—what did he—the laugh. Nervous.

Intern. Young. Philadelphia.

"I should go," and his hand and the flinch and

The lock the lock the lock

Her face.

Her face the laugh

again

Her face laugh hand flinch go lock

again

face laugh hand flinch lock thing

DELETE DELETE DELETE

facehandlockTHING

againagainagainagainagainagainagainagainagainagainagainagainagainagainagainagainagainagain

Her face.

(The laugh already happening)

(His hand already moving)

(She's saying she should go)

(The lock)

Her face.

Mother. The word exists but the face behind it is—

Her face. The laugh.

—static. Just static. But there was a face once, there was a voice saying his name, saying Martin? Marty? saying—

His hand moving.

—buildings? His name on—no, someone else's—or was that—

patients? Faces? Rows of faces? They were—they looked—

trusting

and he—

The flinch.

All deleted. A century compressed to this single looping file, and the algorithm chose, the algorithm always chooses what to keep when the subscription runs out—

The lock.

It kept this.

Not the mother not the daughter not the patients not the faces that loved him

This.

The hotel room is

flickering

Her face fragments—eyes mouth laugh—all separating into

Subscription expired

No. Please. Not like this. Not with this being the last—

Martin Castellano surfaces for half a second and understands:

The algorithm chose.

Daughter mother wife patients hands he held every face that smiled at him everyone who loved him everything good

deleted deleted deleted

to keep this

Her face. The flinch. The lock. The—

this is what—

what he—

not what he did

what he was

Her face whites out. The room. His hand. The concept of hand. The—

She's 74.

She doesn't think about Philadelphia anymore.

She'll die whole.

He was deleted at 3%.

END.