Receipt for Services Rendered¶
Itemized:
- 1x Memory Adjustment (Standard Package)
- 1x Emergency Trauma Suppression
- 1x Government-Sanctioned Narrative Alignment
- 1x Tip (Mandatory 20%)
Total: $0.00 (Paid in Full by Department of Civic Harmony)
Gustavo
They made us split the tip. Can you believe that? After everything, the paperwork said we both had to sign for the "generosity of the state." Hilda crossed out the 20% and wrote "Bread & Circuses" in the margin. The health inspector didn’t laugh. Not even a crack in his face. Just stamped the receipt and said, "Next time, cook the lies a little longer."
The kitchen was still when he left. Hilda rolled her sleeves up, revealing the numbers inked on her wrist. Not her number—her brother’s. Or so she said. I never asked. You don’t, in this line of work. The grill sizzled, fat from the steak hitting the flames. Smoke curled like it was trying to escape.
"You ever get the double?" she asked, nodding at the receipt still in my hand.
"Every Tuesday."
"Same as mine?"
"Word for word. Even the tip."
We didn’t talk about what they’d done to us. Or what we’d done to deserve it. The orders came through the fax machine at midnight: Adjustments Required. Subject: The Incident. Protocol 74-B. No details. Just the number.
Hilda fed the receipt into the shredder. The blades choked on the paper like it was alive.
Hilda
He kept staring at the chair. The one in the corner, bolted to the floor. Stained gray fabric, fraying at the seams. I wanted to tell him it wasn’t for us. That the real subjects sat in the dining room, eating their veal and pretending they’d chosen the specials.
But Gustavo’s hands were shaking. Not from fear. Boredom, maybe. Or the way the memories lingered at the edges, half-formed. Like tasting cinnamon but not knowing if it’s in your coffee or your grandmother’s cookies from thirty years ago.
"You ever remember something," he said, "and then realize it’s not yours?"
I didn’t answer. The line cook’s mantra: Don’t engage. Plate the food. Collect the tips. Forget the faces.
The fax buzzed. Another receipt. Same as always. Gustavo tore it out, crumpled it, lit it with the burner. We watched it burn. No smoke. Just a clean, white ash that dissolved before it hit the ground.
Gustavo
The inspector’s name was on the receipt. Or maybe it was mine. The ink blurred. Hilda said it didn’t matter. That names were just another thing they could retype.
She showed me her wrist again. The numbers had changed. Or had they? I couldn’t picture them from before. My own arm itched, like someone had redrawn the tattoos while I slept.
We prepped for the lunch rush. Chopped onions, sliced potatoes, checked the locks on the walk-in. The chair stayed empty.
Hilda hummed a tune I almost recognized. When I asked, she said, "It’s from the war. Or maybe a commercial. Hard to tell these days."
The fax buzzed again.
Hilda
He read the new receipt aloud. "Adjustment Successful. Subject: Gustavo M. Subject: Hilda R."
I took it from him. The paper was warm. "They always say that."
"But what if it’s true this time?"
I laughed. It came out like a cough. "Then we’d remember it being false."
The grill hissed. Orders started coming in. We moved like gears in a machine that’s been oiled too many times—smooth, but worn down at the edges.
The chair waited.
It always does.