Credit: Justin Randall

Bob rubbed his thighs. His breath went fast. "Is it happening now? Are the done signals travelling now?"

"The brain is a dynamic system," Dr. Morgan said. "It continuously shapes itself, yes."

"But don’t you understand!" Bob said. He imagined the domino stones falling backwards, faster and faster. "At first it was hand washing and counting. Done! Then it was hobbies and pastimes. Done! Next it'll be eating, walking, getting up in the morning, and then breathing…"

Sally gasped.

Dr Morgan wiped away the network drawing. "No, Bob. No. As I said, the new guy in your head wants to learn. You taught him one thing. Now teach him the opposite."

Back home, Sally started chopping a fruit salad, her way of venting aggression. She peeled and chopped. Juice ran over the counter.

"Teach him the opposite, the eager little fella!" she snarled. "Whip it into shape, that little homunculi-homuncula! Easy as pie! What a quack."

Tears ran down her cheeks. Bob watched the blade of the knife grind into the wooden board, and smelled the scent of oranges. He stood behind Sally and wrapped his arms around her soft shoulders.

"There are still some things I want," he murmured into her neck. She stiffened and stood still, breathing fast.

Bob kissed her greying hair and held her closer. His need of her surprised him. He had been so focused on the implant, on her thumb on the button and the calm sense of completeness, that he'd forgotten about his body. Now, in his state of confusion, it seemed to take over. "I love you," he said.

She took a deep breath and turned around. Her cheeks were flushed.

"We can't, now," she whispered. "We have to treasure feelings like this. Preserve them."

"Feelings like this?"

She nodded. "Feelings of need. Of wanting something. Of... not being done." She blushed.

Bob understood. He took a step back. The urge to hold her again tugged at him.

"Only for a while," she said.

Bob's body proved to be the road to re-establishing a sense of craving, of need.

Sally served him bland food, and Bob, who had never consciously tasted the spices in his dinner, now had to piece the perfect taste together himself.

"No, it's not done yet," he'd say.

And Sally would say, "Good!"

She brought home a bag of white powder. She held a pinch above Bob's head and let it trickle down on him. Immediately, his scalp started itching. Flames licked at his skin, and ants travelled up and down his veins.

"Oh, come on, Sal!"

"Don’t touch it."

"You're sick."

She smiled a sweaty half-smile. Bob's hand twitched with the urge to scratch, just once, just a bit, but he didn't. He tasted the compulsion, its dominance and paralysing urgency. It would feel so right to scratch that itch. But he didn't give in, because once he started he wouldn’t stop. He preserved the feeling.