I walk down Spencer Street, passing busy shops and abandoned spaces with ‘For Rent’ signs in the windows. Habitually peering down at my arm, it reads 26298hrs:45min:35sec. Just over three years until my supposed death. The digital ink under my skin drives my every move since the day we all woke with it. The entire state of New Hampshire became affected, in a sense, of our fate around six months ago. Masses became chaotic once the realization hit what this mystery timer embedded in us is. Those of us with longer clocks seemed to calm from the news much faster. But even I know, in the back of my mind, one day I’ll be like the others. Still, as I pass the people of our town, I see the fear in their eyes. Their paranoia as they keep checking their arm every five minutes, cursing at it, slapping it, as if they can scare the death clock away. I watch a little girl weep on a bench outside of Jo’s Cafe, a sense of defeat as tears continue to drop onto her arm. She still stares at it, anyway. I assume her time is coming soon. She can’t be more than fifteen years old, yet she sits alone.


I make my way into the cafe, order my coffee from a worker that seems dead to the world already. The employee has a blank stare, her movements are slow, doesn’t look at her arm even once. The girl rushing behind her doesn’t only look frantic in the rush of customers, but she’s visibly shaking. Her eyes are glassy once they meet mine for a brief moment. Something in them tells me she’s terrified. Doesn’t understand how her co-worker can be so calm, maybe. I can almost hear her screaming that she doesn’t want to die. I get my coffee and turn to observe the tables filled with chatter. People’s arms flailing as they try to talk ways around their descent, their listeners’ bodies tense. A little boy crying, his father consoling him – telling him his mother is in a better place as he grips the full coffee cup in his hand. His eyes meet mine, and he’s glaring at me. Like I’m interrupting his moment with his son, or maybe he’s pissed off that I’m just another person who got more time than his wife had. I remember my sick wife at home, and I hold my hand up in an apologetic gesture, my lips pursing. He still glares, now past me at people at the counter, the workers, possibly wondering if any of them have even lost a loved one yet. Suddenly, I’m not in the mood for coffee. I look down at the cup, feeling guilty to still have three years left. A homeless man sits outside the door and when my eyes find him, I stroll back outside and hand him my coffee. He looks up at me, his eyes glimmering with gratitude. People pass by us, some in hysterics like those inside the cafe, rushing to loved ones, looting from stores in a panic. Six months and it still looks and sounds like the town is a movie playing in fast forward.


I look back to the bench where that young girl still sits, trembling. I stand for a moment, a few feet away, until I decide to at least give her company in her final minutes, hours, however long she has left. I sit down next to her, finally, and glance over. Her arm reads 00hrs:37min:56sec.


“What’s your name?” I ask. 


“Ella,” she answers, wiping at her eyes. 


“I’m Thomas. Where are your parents?” She doesn’t bother to look up at me when I ask this, and now her tears have stopped steadily flowing. Her shoulders slump. 


“Dead. I’m the only one left. They killed my mother.”


“You mean her time ran out?” I ask, assuming this little girl is too young to comprehend how this thing on our arms works. At the age of forty-five, I tend to go with the flow. Take what’s factual. I don’t have a wild imagination, unlike these younger kids. Ella finally looks up at me, and her darkened eyes show a swirl of anger. Resentment. But I still see a tinge of fear that her time is coming. 

“No. They killed her.” Her voice falters with those three words.


“Who did?”


“The government,” she says tersely, and I can’t help but chuckle. Kids. 


“You don’t believe me?”


“You think the government is targeting one small town?” I ask, disbelief dripping from my words. 


“Aren’t you old? I thought you all watched the news every morning.” She’s right. I used to, back when things were normal. I had a good life, a loving and healthy wife, a decent paying job working on machinery. My parents raised me well, and I had a lot to show for it. But then life took a turn. My wife got cancer, I lost my job, and everything went to shit. 


“It’s affecting the entire country. Remember those implants we all had put in years ago for free, to monitor our health? They said it would be easier in times of pandemics. Or to catch diseases early.”


“I remember. It’s how we caught my wife’s cancer early,” I say, remembering the day we got a call that her health was in danger and to get her to a hospital immediately. 


“My mom died for telling me the truth. Those implants weren’t to monitor our health… they planned this the whole time. These stupid countdowns on our arms aren’t telling us when we are supposed to die, not naturally,” she answers. 


“What do you mean?” I perk up, mind buzzing with curiosity and alarm bells. My hands are sweaty and I wipe them on my jeans. 


“My mom had a friend working for the government. They got close after my dad passed. We needed help. Ever since he passed, we’ve been struggling to make ends meet. Not like it was any better before, my dad could never hold a job. We’ve always been poor. But this was worse. So she went to him for help, overheard a conversation she wasn’t supposed to.” She looks back down at her arm, the time ticking down as we talk. Her chest rises and falls rapidly with the looming doom of her fate. 


“The implants created these timers. They plan each of our deaths, for population control. Once they figured out she overheard that conversation, her clock changed. Instead of years to live, she had hours left.” 


A couple tears roll down her cheeks now. I take another look at her arm. 00hrs:12min:21sec. It takes a moment for me to process, and I think she might be right. I haven’t watched the news. I have no idea what is going on outside of my town. But this girl knows what most of us don’t. The realization that knowing this information could shorten my time dawned on me, and my heart sinks into my ass. 


“Don’t worry. As long as you don’t spread what I just told you, they won’t find out you know. Doesn’t matter for me, I’m a lost cause,” she says, giving me a sad smile. For a moment, we just sit there in silence, and I feel bad for her. She has no family to spend her last moments with. Instead, all she has is some stranger pulling information out of her that got her mother killed. 


“So what are you gonna do?” Her voice sounds deflated, and I look down at her arm again. 00hrs:06min:17sec. 


In this moment, I wish we could swap places. 


“I’m gonna tell people the truth. Find out how to stop this. Or maybe just pull the implant out,” I say. 


“You can’t. My aunt tried that, she still died.”


“What do you think I should do? What do you want me to do for you and your mother?” I look at her, notice she’s staring back with blank eyes. She’s accepting her fate. 


“Live,” she tells me.