The room is dark. The only sounds are the beeps and hisses of lifesaving machines working overtime.
At the center – a lone bed where Julie Phillips lies. Frail, barely hanging on. And sitting beside her is a large, muscled, square-jawed man who’s asleep with unpaid hospital bills in his lap.
Suddenly, Julie’s husband awakens as a pair of hulking guards appear in the doorway, assault rifles in hand.
“Now?” he asks.
The guards say nothing. Instead, they both adjust their trigger fingers on their respective M4 carbines.
Robert takes note as he rises slowly from his chair.
“Now it is…”
The Weekday One Hundred 