For One Ear Only

Hazen went to Service Elevator 43-7 to smoke. Very few people ever went there. One of the lights had been broken for months and no one had bothered to replace it.

That day, though, someone was sprawling on the floor near the elevator.

Hazen stopped a few steps away. He stared at the half of the man’s face not pressed into the concrete—eyes closed, mouth slightly open, a thin thread of saliva trailing down.

There was something small tucked into the man’s ear.

Hazen squatted for a better look. It resembled an earbud, its thin rubber wire trailing beneath the man’s chest, connected to something hidden. A faint, erratic rhythm leaked from it—barely audible.

Who was he? How did he get this?

The longer Hazen stared, the more the man looked familiar.

“Gilbert?” he muttered, uncertain.

No reaction. The name just floated there in the stale air.

Feeling pins and needles in his legs, Hazen stood up, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it. That’s what he came here for.

Was the man dead?

He looked so pale.

Hazen squatted again, holding his breath, watching for any movement in the man’s nose. Nothing. No breath.

He should tell someone. But not now.

The earbud held his gaze again. It looked like the ones he’d seen in Grandpa’s drawer. Before Hazen was born, Grandpa told him, people could choose what music they wanted to hear.

Then the bans came.

The government outlawed songs that stirred negative emotions, which might slow production. Personal music devices were confiscated. In their place came "good music," played only through speakers in factories and public squares. Cheerful. Controlled. Cleansed of melancholy.

There had been smugglers, once. Hidden networks passed illegal gadgets and forbidden songs from hand to hand. But traitors were always nearby. People turned each other in for rewards. Eventually, the rebels were silenced.

The cigarette burned to his fingers. Hazen flicked it to the ground and crushed it out. His legs were tingling again. The numbness crept up his spine, prickling his chest and face, blooming into a sharp impatience.

One day, he thought, these legs would be replaced with machine parts.

He winced as he lowered himself beside the man. He hadn’t seen an earbud since Grandpa died. Father had probably thrown them out. Father always followed the rules.

Hazen sighed.

Lying on his side, he propped himself up with one hand. With the other, he eased the earbud out, never touching the man.

The wire stretched tight toward him.

He shuffled closer. Lay back down.

Then, slowly, he slipped the earbud into his own ear.

Eyes closed.

He was ready to be carried away—anywhere but here.