Doctor Olnivac.
Brown, with a hint of olive.
It was my annual check up. We sat across from each other, divided by a big wooden faux-antique desk.
'How old are you now?' he asked.
'Sixteen,' I said. Yellow. Fifteen had been off white. I was still adjusting to yellow.
'Twelve months since your last service?'
'Yes.' My mother booked me in for my annual service like clockwork - she suffered from the post-pandemic health paranoia that controlled the developed world.
'Have you had any health issues in the last year?' he asked.
'No.'
'Any prolonged stomach pains?'
I shook my head.
'Any shortness of breath? Any stabbing pains in the heart?'
I shook my head again and again.
'Have you had regular appointments with your family GP?'
'Yes.'
'Okay, I'm going to run the tests now.' He walked over to a machine and pressed some buttons. I heard beeping noises, but I didn't feel a thing.
He recited the usual script, 'I'm programming you with a sample disease to check that the microchip diagnoses it and alerts us effectively.'
I wondered what the sample disease was. He never explained.
'Lucky it's all wireless now.' It was the same joke every year.
He walked over to his computer screen.
'I'm just bringing up the alerts list now.' He used his forefinger to navigate the screen. He was quiet for a while. Then he said, 'I'm just going to re-boot my computer.'
Re-boot? That sounds so last century.
'It's just reloading', he said. 'How's school?'
'It's fine.'
'How's your mum?'
'She's busy,' I said. 'She's been overseas for almost one week every month lately.'
'And your sister, she got married didn't she? Was it a great success?'
'So far,' I said. 'They're expecting a baby.'
'That was quick. They must have made a good match.' He fiddled with something on his screen. 'We're seeing an agency about my first born daughter. It's an intimidating process for parents too. You should know that.' He kept his eyes on the computer screen. 'All right ...' he said slowly, 'the alerts list is coming up now.'
His eyes flitted through the list, like he was watching a tennis game.
'It hasn't come up.' His voice sounded defeated. 'Let me have another go.'
He returned to me on the table and pressed my side, under the rib cage.
'Is it still there?'
'As far as I know.'
He went back to his flashing machine and pressed more buttons. Beep, beep. Beep, beep. He scanned the computer screen again, one of his shoulders almost rising to his ear.
'Come and sit over here,' he said.
I got off the bed and sat in the leather chair by his desk.
'What is it?'
'I think your microchip is faulty,' he said. 'Don't be alarmed...'
I wasn't alarmed, until just now.
'We are going to have to replace your microchip,' he said.
'Wirelessly?' I asked, hopefully.
'Unfortunately not. It's going to mean a general anaesthetic. You'll be completely knocked out. You won't feel a thing.'
'When?' I asked.
'As soon as possible. Tonight, hopefully. You wouldn't want to be without it for much longer. You're not insured. I'll get Linda to ring your mum and we'll see if we can get you into theatre tonight.'