To Rehabilitate

         The cries resounded in the room. The chocking, sputtering cries of a stubborn little baby, refusing to sleep. He knows that if he cries, he will stay up. And it is with this determination, this profound need to defy that we know that this one, this child, when he grows up, will be a fighter. And the republic will not accept that. If he is left alive, he could start a rebellion. We have one year to change him. The first year of his life is to make him docile, to make him subservient. To make him obey. And even happy to do so. We have one week left. There has been no improvement. He will be terminated within this week. Happy first birthday, 8436.

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nine years later
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         Life on the run with a boy with an attitude is not the way I thought I would be living my retirement. I worked forty years as a rehabilitator. Forty years as a worker then you are done. Retirement is mandatory at fifty, just as work is mandatory at ten. It has been decided that after forty years at a job, you no longer do as well. You have outlived your usefulness at your job. Sometimes retirees are sad, because they enjoyed their job. Usually it is a relief. Jobs are assigned at ten and nontransferable. They claim to match you with a job that fits your needs and interests. But everyone knows this is a lie. You get a job, do it for the forty long years and then retire. Retired people are society's royalty. Retirement is what motivates the general population. Retirement motivated me. And now I'm on the run for this boy who can't seem to understand all that I'm doing for him.          Sometimes I wonder about what my life would have been like if I didn't steal him away. If I let them terminate him. But then I look at him and I know that I wouldn't have been able to live with myself, even though it happened to so many children before him, there was just something about him that I couldn't let them take away. So I, the celebrated rehabilitator, defied the republic. The first act of defiance in my life. For this snotty boy that calls me Granny even though I am only sixty and not even remotely related to him.
         “Granny, you know what day it is? Hmmm? Do you?”
         “Thursday,” I say tiredly, even though I know exactly what he is talking about.
         “No, try again.”
         “Friday?” I ask, barely hiding my smirk at his frustration.
         “It's my birthday. Duh! How can you even call yourself my Granny?”
         “I don't Theo, you call me that.”
         “Did you not hear me? It's my birthday!”
         “So? Do we ever do anything for your birthday?”
         “You tell me your adventure!”
         Thats true. Every year, I tell him my and his story of escape. Theo looks forward to it every year, but by now, I would think he has it memorized, and as I start my suspicions are confirmed as he starts the story with me, word for word.
         “Back in civilization, where there are other people, when the babies are born, they are taken from it's mother for a year. Babies that are stubborn, like you, are rehabilitated until docile. You, however, like many others, refused to be rehabilitated. These babies are a problem because when they grow up, they could cause an uprising. Or even lead it. If not docile by the end of the first year of life, these babies are terminated. To be rehabilitated, each baby is assigned a rehabilatator. I was yours, 8436.”
         At this Theo made a face. He didn't like that we had numbers instead of names. After all it made sense to the republic, names repeat and ensue confusion, numbers are more personal. Or so they want us to believe. Titles are only used for the robotic officials and the supreme. Nicknames and terms of endearment were banned to get rid of hate crimes. Names, we were told did not matter. When Theo turned two he started calling me granny after we found a book about a granny and her grandson, who baked a pie together. All childrens books were left outside of the civilization, so this was a real treat. The little boy had a name, Jonny. And 8436 wanted a name too. We had found an old cell phone, the kind not installed in your ear, the hand held kind. And it actually had a number pad. I looked at the numbers and on the numbers there were letters. TUV. GHI. DEF. MNO. After trying out a bunch of different combinations, Theo stuck. He wanted me to do my number name too, but I decided that having a name would be too weird for me.
         “Theo, you can't forget your number, if we ever go back, you need to be able to respond to that. If you don't you will be hurt.”
         “But, Granny, wasn't I supposed to be exterminated? If I go back, won't they know I wasn't/?”
         “They reuse numbers. They can only have 10,000 people at one time, or else all the oxygen will be contaminated. They don't have trees in the civilization.”
         “But there are trees out here.”
         “But they don't know...do you want me to tell you this story or not?”
         “Sorry...”