text: Deliver, scan 06:05. Deliver, scan 08:17. Deliver, scan 09:10. Deliver, scan 09:54. Deliver, scan 13:12. Deliver, scan 18:34. 18:52 Six newborns today to six sets of parents; a clean day, no twins would need to be separated. The last child, a boy, was delivered at 18:34 today, just making the final cut of the day before the clock struck 19:00. These six infants will wake up tomorrow out of the hospital and in new homes to their new parents. Some will be reunited with their biological parents; others will end up in completely new homes. That decision will fall on the lottery now. Once the baby is delivered, it is out of our hands, it is out of the parents’ hands; fate guides all. It has worked this way since the machines were introduced in 2025. The baby is delivered and immediately taken from the parents into an isolation room. The newborn is scanned, receives two options, and is put to be fed, cleaned, and laid down with all the other newborns of that day until the lottery begins. The newborn will always receive two options. There is ‘option A’ the good news, the option we all hope will become the truth. And of course, there is ‘option B’ the bad news, the ultimate worst. At first they were called ‘positive’ and ‘negative’, but too many parents were leaving their children in the care of the hospital, placing too heavy a connotation on the ‘negative’ aspect. We have found that providing parents ‘options’ allows them the illusion of choice. In the last thirty-nine years not a single child has procured himself an adulthood that has not proved one of the options true. The machines are foolproof in the sense that one of two will be fulfilled. However, with every machine comes a unique disparity. Our machine predicts ‘option A’ correctly 82% of the time. Not as good as other area hospitals with 90% success rates, but better than the others that can only guarantee a 64% chance. It is those lucky ones that hit ‘option A’ who run the world as we know it today. If an infant is unfortunate enough to hit their ‘option B’, well... we’re lucky enough to be operating at 82% “Doctor” the nurse called from the hallway as she walked towards the shut office door, “It is after 19:00, the parents need to be informed and the lottery must begin.” Getting up out of this chair and walking those fifty feet to where the parents await could feel as if you were walking for days. This walk that feels like days is one that takes place every day in hospitals around the world. We are always walking, always. 19:09 “Parents, thank you for your patience. You are all well aware of how we are going to be managing this system.” The speech is always the same, learned as a code, an oath, by every Doctor whom this task is given to. “A lottery has already taken place, and you know whether you are number one, number six, or any number in between. You know that we cannot inform you how the lottery system works, or which child is your offspring.” The words fall off my tongue flawlessly as my mind drifts to what is on the dinner menu tonight. “We can only inform you of what their options entail, and it is up to you make your decision. Remember, this hospital runs at an 82% success rate, so please keep that in mind. You have the choice of selecting a child, or passing, and we will not leave this room until all the parents have taken their choice. If a child is left in the care of the hospital by the end, the parents will have a chance to claim this child along with the one they have already chosen.” “Let us begin.” 21:20 The lottery always takes longer than it should. Two future professional athletes, a future diplomat, a police chief, and a successful entrepreneur were all given new homes. ‘option B’ scenarios tend to blur together as the days go by. Murders, war criminals, even those who will suffer from psychosis. We encourage the families not to hang their heads on these 18%, yet most days we end up with a child who will not have a home, and parents who will have to wait another year to try. Today was no different. Five adopted children, and one that will remain in the care of the hospital. ‘option A’ Olympian. ‘option B’ child molester, 18%. This newborn, the one who was delivered at 08:17 is now in the care of the hospital, and his options will not pan out. Those who are left in the care of the hospital are trained to become a Doctor. There is no glamour in this job as there is no pain. The ultimate neutral, the middle ground between ‘option A’ and ‘option B.’ Going through life knowing you were left there by all potential parents, the unwanted. Growing up knowing your ‘option B’ was so bad it turned everyone away. Pain. One bright side to this life of a neutral comes on your 25th birthday when you finish your training, and are introduced to the system, how the lottery works, and why the machines were brought in. The Doctors are the only ones who know, the only ones who will ever know. In twenty-five years the baby delivered at 08:17 this morning will know. He will know how the system works, and he will learn what his options were to get a feel of what potential parents choose not to select. He will have to live from age twenty-five on knowing what his life could have been, and what it became instead. We are given no names, only the title of ‘Doctor’ and enough knowledge to keep the system moving. My title is Doctor. I know how the system works. I was born with two options, as was everyone else who was born on this planet since 2025, in a hospital that guaranteed an 86% ‘option A’ success rate. All eight parents that day passed on me, and I was left in the care of the hospital. My fates were unique in the sense that they were identical. Had I not been left at the hospital, today I would be the leader of the world. My title is Doctor.