lunam solis lumine conlustrari putatur

It goes exactly as he expects it to. Somehow this doesn’t make it any easier. He’s poked and prodded by specialist doctors, tested by patronising psychologists, then groomed and dressed. He wonders if the strenuous sequence is intended to tire him into complacence. He wouldn’t dare step a foot out of line even if he was the type: he knows that, behind each room’s tall, wide mirrors, he is being watched continuously by a group of people that are judging his looks, his headspace and his every move. Knowing this, he is not able to relax, and he requires a large dosage of drugs to settle him into a nap. He goes clawing, afraid, and is silenced by a pacifier. 

When he wakes, there is a dark shape above him. Oh, God, Dennis thinks. I’ve been matched. This shape—this person—must be my caregiver. My future. He blinks and squints, and his pacifier falls from his mouth. Still affected by the drugs, he slurs, “Wobby?"