The words were gentle strokes, drawing her awake.
"Hello. Hello there."
She felt the light on her eyelids, and knew that if she opened her eyes they would sting, and she would have to shade them with her palm and let the light bleed through a crack.
"Feel like talking?" A man's soft voice.
And then her mind cleared enough to wonder: who was this man at her bedside?
She tried to sigh, but no breath came. Her eyes flew open in alarm.
The Minus Eighty . . .
Where millionaires browse the catalogue of icy women, judging on beauty ratings and revival costs.
Where a freezer's gentle hum plays the background symphony for the world's most expensive first dates.
Where death is only the beginning.