Rubies cluster above your head: constant dark teardrops that stream down the plastic artery to your arm. Soon, you’ll be able to get on with your life again.
“That’s why we call it lifeblood,” says the nurse, replacing a drained bag with a plump, new sachet.
She monitors you for allergic reactions, saying, “Huh…five units…over half your natural allocation. The national database tracks donor identity, but I can tell you, it’s English. So, after we’re done here, you’ll be English. Maybe Yorkshire, if you’re lucky.”
Infused with lifeblood rubies, intimate and strange, you wonder: whose life will you live now?