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candidate.”
    Somehow Batista’s honesty regarding the machine’s risk factor means more than anything he’s said since he first offered me the test.
    â€œOkay,” I tell him as adrenaline streaks through my body like electricity. “Let’s go do it.”
    â€œGood, good,” he responds, once again rubbing his hands together, as if warming them.
    We make our way back to the terminal, where Misty waits with wide eyes and hopeful expectations. The fear returns as I see the transmission portal, and I smile to conceal this from her.
    â€œWell?” she asks.
    â€œI’ve decided to do it.”
    â€œOh, Cameron . . .”
    â€œIt’s something I really want, Misty. We’ve talked about this. I just needed a little reassurance from Rodrigo, that’s all, and now I’m ready. Really ready.”
    â€œBut—”
    I bend down and kiss my wife. With my lips pressed against hers I try to make her understand that my love for her is part of what drives my desire to do this. I want to be a better person. A better husband. And if something goes wrong, I want her to remember this. This kiss.
    â€œI love you, Misty, but I have to do this.”
    She lets go of me.
    â€œAre you wearing contacts?” asks Cheryl, the transmission attendant.
    This is part of the drill. During the transmission process, a human body must go through minus anything not permanently attached. Just a protective measure, I’ve read, but I can’t help but think of that little mishap in the Jeff Goldblum version of
The Fly.
Sweat moistens my upper lip.
    â€œNo,” I tell her. “Had laser surgery.”
    â€œAnd,” she smiles reluctantly here, as if to apologize for saying so, “you’ll remove anything else attached to your body that is not permanent?”
    â€œCertainly.”
    â€œGood,” she says, and then looks toward Batista. “I think we’re ready?”
    â€œRight this way, Cameron,” Batista says, opening the door marked PASSENGERS . The black hole stands before me, door open, shadows concealing whatever may lurk inside. And suddenly the fear returns, unexpected. It begins near my heart, simultaneously hot and cold, and swells rapidly, fluidly, until my entire chest cavity floats with it. Then into my arms, my legs, and now I’m afraid I will simply collapse onto the floor, a boneless, shapeless heap, my insides completely melted.
    Melted by this sudden fear of death.
    â€œCameron?”
    Behind me. Misty. Her hand on my shoulder, her voice wavering, and I turn to hug her tightly once more. Without looking into her eyes. Without admitting what she may already have guessed.
    â€œI love you, baby. I’ll call you when I get there. Not even an hour away.”
    She cries openly now. “Oh, please, Cameron.
Please
. . .”
    I release her and look only briefly into her eyes. “I’ll call. I promise.”
    â€œGood-bye, Cameron,” she says, and turns away.
    â€œInside the portal,” Cheryl tells me in a soft voice, “we’ll communicate via intercom. If you have questions or wish to abort the procedure for any reason before the scan begins, just say so.”
    I step inside the transmission portal. This time it is just how I imagined—a square of seven by seven feet with a sturdy-looking metal seat positioned two-thirds of the way to the back wall. The starkness of this room somehow resembles my impression of the electric chair.
    I turn around and look out into the terminal. Misty stands there, watching me. I wave and mouth the words
I love you
to her. She nods and then looks away. The sum of our fear is overwhelming.
    Painted on the closed door is a short list of instructions, including a bold reminder to REMOVE ALL JEWELRY OR OTHER NONPERMANENT BODY ATTACHMENTS .
    â€œCameron?” Cheryl calls over the intercom. “Doing okay in there?”
    â€œFine,” I say.
    â€œWe’ll send