The wheels on Ginger’s cart go shh-shh-shh on the white tiled floor. This muffles her sniffles so the only hint of her crying is her red eyes which she fixes upon you after she flings back the hanging sheet that divides the beds.
She tells you to lay back, which you manage. She tells you this will burn, which it does. She tells you to count to ten, which you make to four. Then there is darkness.
When you wake up, Ginger shines a light in your eyes. You squint and try to move. Your abdomen hurts, your throat is dry, you feel nauseous, your head aches. But this will all get better soon, they say. Ginger says. Her eyes are less red now. Her name tag has been straightened. Her white lab coat is pressed and clean.
You’ll feel like a new man soon, she says. She corrects herself. You will be a new man. Your microbiome has been revitalized. She tries to smile. It does not reach her eyes.
You don’t know your donor’s name. No one ever does. But they are revered, these donors. Unique, lucky people whose prolific colons create universes of microbes which save lives, change lives. So many lives.
The bloating starts. This is expected. This hurts. Your abdomen distends, becomes grotesque. You writhe. Ginger helps you up, gets you to shuffle up and down the tiled hall, waddle to the bathroom. Your slippers go shh-shh-shh. This is the first stage, she says. This will pass. And it does.
You are bored with the second to fourth stages. As you start to feel better, you watch Ginger closely. What she wears, how she moves. She is still sad which makes her careless. She forgets a stack of files on your med stand. Your battle between curiosity and propriety is brief. She catches you. You negotiate: her answers in exchange for your held tongue.
An answer: she knew your donor.
An answer: your donor died.
An answer: something garbled. She runs out crying, clutching the files to her chest.
Stage six of recovery is a leap forward. You can manage solids, foods that before you’d never dare eat. You’re no longer allergic to nuts and wheat; you revel in ice cream. Your complexion is hearty. Your hair, glossy and thick. You start to add strength to new muscle.
Ginger tells you take it slow. She’s different now that you’re stronger, more articulate. Her eyes have changed. Not red at all; now alert. Always on you. You find you like that.
Stage eight, you’re close to release. You admire your reflection in the mirror and wonder: have your shoulders ever been this broad? Your smile, this brilliant? Ginger smiles at your smile. This time, it reaches her eyes. Her lab coat is tight and when she walks around your bed, her pantyhose go shh-shh-shh.
The cognitive tests come last. Any negative impacts and this reflects poorly on the donor. Any positive impacts, well. They aren’t machines, after all.
You now prefer mango to pineapple. You love coconut. You feel more patient, less anxious, more open-minded.
Ginger helps you change into your street clothes. She smooths your shirt down your chest, picks off some lint. Her hands stop just above your belt.
She walks you out. You feel light again, untethered. The world yawns open, full of potential. The protestors at the gates mean nothing. This has been worth every penny.
Through the gate, Ginger stays by your side. She hails a cab. She opens the door. She slides in next to you and as you open your mouth in surprise, she calls you Jim.
That is not your name.
Jim, she says. You’re still here. You never left. Ginger pats your belly then looks into your eyes and smiles. Shh-shh-shh, she says.
Anna O’Brien is a writer and veterinarian in central Maryland. Most recently, she’s had fiction published in Amazing Stories, Phantom Flash, and Luna Station Quarterly. She has two cats, two horses, two bicycles, and lots of indoor cacti. She blogs intermittently at annascuriocabinet.com.
Published 2/14/26