I was remembering the sales associate’s voice, the practiced ease of his pitch, as the anesthetic took hold. More than human, he said. A better you, he promised. Satisfaction or your money back, he guaranteed. At twenty million North American Dollars, plus surgical fees, I’ll hold him to it.
I never lost consciousness. The doctors yammered on about soccer scores as they worked in my head, my arms, my spine.
I’m not supposed to experiment with the telekinesis until I’m fully healed, but the telepathy is already working well: the night nurse thinks I’m attractive for a man my age…
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