The form was colorful and animated, with a steady stream of HV ads running along the bottom. The questions flew by—her old junior college had wanted to know more, and unlike Metromart, there wasn’t a drug test. Standard stuff, really.

Until the last one, of course. “I hereby release Healing Visions LLC from any and all legal liability that may arise during the aforementioned procedure,” she read silently. “This includes physical traumas such as strokes, heart conditions, degenerative neurological conditions, and mental ones such as hallucinations, insomnia, paranoia, manic depression, suicidal tendencies, and/or depression. I, the undersigned, do recognize and accept the risks of this procedure and…”

Aria sighed. “What am I doing here?” she whispered. Her mind turned toward the ladies in the break room the other day, and how much she’d agreed with them.

They’d been watching TV and chatting when an HV commercial had come on, and immediately the gossip had started. “I heard that the can only show you a few seconds because it’ll cause a brain tumor if the go any longer. One slip up and you’ve got a fried egg up there.”

Aria had nodded silently as the one-upsmanship began. “Well, I heard that there are these guys—like slum lords or something—in Nigeria that collect money from people so they can go on ‘spirit quests’ to the local HV center,” another lady had said.

“And you know they’re whipping those people up into a frenzy over it,” Maria from jewelry had added. “On 60 Minutes the other day I saw a feature about these people in London that’d had a bad time at HV. They saw bad things, and just quit their jobs, walked away from everything and started hanging out in gangs, doing drugs and crime and suicidally dangerous stuff.”

“Who’d ever want to do that?” Aria had interjected, half-heartedly. “Who’d want to see? I’d rather be surprised.”

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