I'm on my knees, hovering over Shane, checking his pulse, giving him a shake. He's alive, but he's not responding.

I look up at Rick who is still smiling at me, looking so pleased with himself.

"Why would you—?" I can't even form the question. He was supposed to get help–I was being attacked! And instead he went and changed his clothes? And got a syringe to stick Shane with? What the—?

He starts taking off the ugly hoodie and sweatpants, revealing his regular clothes from earlier underneath.

His smile fades.

"Don't look at me like that, Honey. This is for the best," he says, now straight-faced.

"But, why?"

"I was on my way to get Shane, because he was the closest person who could help," he explains. I nod and he goes on, "He passed me going the opposite way, so I knew he was on his way to help you, tracking you down."

"Okay, but—"

"He must not have noticed me–I had gone around the close side of the cafeteria, and he was on the far side. So, I had to decide what to do next. Follow him? Just to watch him get you again and bring you back to his room and not be able to do anything about it?"

I'm starting to see Rick's dilemma, but I'm still not understanding why—or how?!—he attacked Shane.

"So you decided to—?"

"Take care of the problem."

I just look up at him, waiting for an explanation.

"Honey, love, don't look at me that way. He's fine. This is just to give us a head-start," he explains. “To get to the other side of the station, to get away—"

"I don't want to do that anymore," I talk over him.

"I can see that. So you've changed your mind then?" he asks hesitantly.

I nod. I don't explain it to Rick, but there's something about seeing my husband beat Jared within an inch of his life that makes me want to give him another chance.

And there is a small, insidious feeling that's telling me Rick and I have it all wrong. Shane loves me and there must be some other explanation. He's not this villain in my life that I need to escape. He is the one I have always counted on to take care of me. And he just showed that again, by rescuing me exactly when I needed him.

And this is the thanks he gets?

"Fine," Rick says flatly. He bends down and scoops Shane up, shouldering him fire-man style carry, "Let’s go back."

"Okay."

We're walking for ten minutes, and Rick isn't breathing hard or sweating or anything. He's really carrying this heavy-ass full-grown man, no problem.

Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

"So," I finally work up the nerve to ask what I think is the most pertinent question of the afternoon, "How did you get around your protocol and do this?"

"Well, I was able to trick myself into perceiving Shane as cyborg. If he's a cyborg, then those protocols don't apply. I've been able to do it for a while, but I always quickly revert to recognizing him as a person I can't harm," he looks at me and I nod at him to go on, "It's like a purposeful glitch. My program quickly identifies it and corrects it. But today I had the idea that could put on the Faraday outfit, and that could delay it for a bit, and it could give me time to sedate Shane and get you away from him."

I nod in understanding. That does make sense. And it explains why he went ahead and did something that I for sure didn't want him to do. The Faraday outfit interfered with our sync for a few minutes.

"Do you remember," I ask him carefully, "when you woke up here? When you grabbed me by the throat and choked me?"

"No!" His quick answer is full of dismay and denial.

"I want you to try. I know you weren't yourself when that happened. But do you have a memory of how you felt and how you perceived me in that moment?"

He shakes his head, "What are you getting at?"

"I wonder if you recognized me as a Match, like you? And that's why you were able to hurt me, because you have no fail-safes to keep you from harming another Match?"

"Honey, that's crazy-talk. You don't actually believe that guy do you? He's nuts. You're not a Match," he assures me.

"How are you so sure?"

"Well," he starts reasoning, "The Perfect Match program is only two years old. This technology is too new for us to entertain the idea that Match-like cyborgs were manufactured, and Rick bought one five years ago. That's what you’re thinking isn't it?"

"Yeah, I guess it doesn't make sense."

He grins at me, shaking his head, "You let that guy get inside your head. There's no reason to believe anything he says. He's crazy."

I nod in agreement. "Yeah, but he was so sure. And it seemed to make sense with what you told me about my code. Doesn't my implant have the same kind of coding you'd see in a cyborg?"

"Well, the thing is that what makes someone a cyborg or not is a matter of existential debate. It's been argued that anyone with an implant is cyborg."

I laugh at that because the vast majority, like ninety-nine point nine percent of the world's adult population has some kind of implant now.

He goes on, "It's also been argued from the other side that it's not a matter of mechanization, but experience. Like, if you had a childhood, you're a person, but if you were grown in a vat and came into consciousness as an adult then you're not."

“That doesn't make a person a cyborg though."

"Exactly," he agrees, "and now that memories can be shared via implants, it doesn't really apply anymore. If human experiences equal personhood, then anything you back up your implant with would be a person. You could store memories in the hard drive of your fridge or back them up in you tablet, it doesn't make that device a sentient person."

"Okay, but what's your point?"

He looks at me with sympathy, "My point is, it doesn't matter whether you started out as a cyborg. Even if you were a ‘sentient person’ to start with, by erasing your memories and re-coding your implant you've been made into a cyborg."

I stop and stare at him in horror.

He's right. It doesn't matter how I got this way, this is what I am now.

I still argue, "But I have an ID. And a birthday. I have a high-school diploma and a birth certificate—”

"Yes," Rick agrees. "And all that makes you legally a person."

"But is it all fake somehow?"

He shrugs and says, "It's possible."

"But you don't think it matters."

He stops walking and gently sets Shane down on one of the benches along the corridor. Then he pulls me into a hug and kisses me on the forehead. I cling to him, reveling in the closeness and warmth.

"If it matters to you, then it matters," he assures me.

"I just want to know what the hell is going on for once," I complain.

"Well, there's an easy way to find out."

"How?"

He looks from me to Shane's prone body that's slumped over the bench.

"Let's tie him up and question him when he comes to. He's the one who would have your answers."

I chew my lip indecisively. It makes sense, but I really don't want to hurt Shane. Or confront him at all.

"We wouldn't hurt him or anything. We'll just ask him and listen to what he has to say, then let him go."

"Okay," I agree to this new plan. I don't like it, but we need to do something…I can't just keep going on the way I am.