And one of them was a baker.
The math was obscene. The file showed quarterly revenue reports, tax deductions, depreciation schedules on his own body. His skin had been leased to a burn treatment research lab. His marrow had been biopsied seventy-three times. His eyes, still open under their translucent lids, had been used to test retinal implant firmware because his optic nerve remained pristine.
But Marcus Lin had a rare blood antigen. Type Rh-null. The “golden blood.” It could be given to anyone without rejection. And the state’s private health partners had realized: a living staller was worth more than a dead one.
“Does he feel anything?” I asked.
His crime? He had failed to die on time.
It was a person.
