The Toretto Family

        Yesterday was Mike’s last day in the chamber. He was already in when I arrived, and had finished and changed and left when I got out, so I didn’t get to say goodbye. I felt a pang of sadness, though I hadn’t really known him. He was friendly enough, but when I tried to engage him in conversation, he just stared at me. I didn’t take it personally; judging by the smell of his clothes when he came in, he was probably high as shit.

        Mike was diagnosed with type one when he was 12, two years younger than I had been. He was obese but his glucose levels were always better than mine, despite what sounded like a horrific diet. “135 today. What did you have for breakfast?” the nurses would ask him. “A donut,” he would say. Or “Chicken and waffles.” All the nurses would cringe, but they had to admit, his numbers were good. 

        Last Friday, he had been under the care of CK. “Been two years since my wife died,” he said as she slipped the grounding bracelet around his meaty wrist. “I’m real lonely. It’s real hard to meet people,” he said.

        “You ever do online dating?” she asked. He made a scoffing sound. “I know it’s tough out there. You go to church?” He said no, a little sheepishly. “Me neither,” CK said, “But I hear it’s a good place to meet the ladies.”

“What I need is a nice girl like you. You always listen. Most people don’t listen. It’s too bad I’m not a younger man.” CK laughed. 

        “You just need a good wing man, Mike” I said. “When we get out of here, we should hit the town.” He stared at me like I was crazy, and then they slid him into the tube and we didn’t speak again.

When I went in this morning, they put me in his chamber. “We usually use the middle one for newbies,” CK explained. “You’re a veteran at this point.” It’s true; my eight weeks are almost up, though it’s likely they’ll extend my time for another month, since things aren’t healed up. I’m frustrated but also relieved that I won’t have to face the outside world quite yet. My entire life revolves around the chamber. It’s amazing how quickly we adapt to a new routine, no matter how strange. My old life feels like the distant past. 

“But this is Mike’s chamber,” I say. “Does that mean I have to watch action movies?”

“That’s right,” CK says. “No more artsy fartsy Russian crap for you. From now on it’s nothing but Fast and Furious.” 

I groan. “Maybe I’ll be lucky and catch on fire.” 

    CK grins and punches me in the arm, hard, then slides me into the tube and seals the lid and I know I’m finally home.