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managed.
    The truth is more complicated. Some of Chance’s patients have years of phantom pains and phantom experiences—hunger, excitement, even visions—that seem to come from drives that have died. Drive death can be so traumatic that fringe groups like the Safe Hemlock Society advocate “practice dying” and stage elaborate “mortality events.” The Safe Hemlock Society actually teaches that the only way joins can embrace their true, immortal nature is to experience the traumatic death of a drive.
    â€œPart of me was solo until last year,” Chance says. “Part of me is scared.”
    â€œThat’s the luckiest part,” says Apple Two, the bartender.
    Which is true. If the cancer had struck earlier, Chance Five wouldn’t have joined and might have really been killed by it. Dead dead. Then again, this particular cancer is more common and more dangerous among joins. Maybe, if he hadn’t become Chance Five, Javier would have remained healthy.
    Chance Three says, “I know,” but says it grimly. It’s hard to be self-pitying when people consider you privileged.
    â€œYou’d be about two-thirds of the way to a complete join, wouldn’t you, if the drive were to die in six more months?” asks the bartender, Apple Two. He’s referring to common wisdom that says psyches integrate quickly, but drives take about eighteen months.
    Chance Three is feeling buzzed and is exhausted from his shift, but Chance’s mind is mostly clear. “Up until last year,” Chance says, “for part of me, that drive was everything, literally. For the rest of me, well, I’m a five. I’m going to be a four again.”
    â€œHow long were you a four, before this join?” asks the waitress.
    â€œFifteen years.”
    â€œWell, that is sad,” she says.
    A very long time ago, joins decided that when they had a choice, sympathy from the opposite gender was more emphatic. Now, it’s almost etiquette. With the right intonation that choice can also carry a distinct kind of irony. Though it’s sometimes hard to detect, Chance thinks he may have just heard it. Chance isn’t sure whether Apple believes what she said, doesn’t believe it, or both.
    â€œThere’s not full physical integration yet.” Chance is annoyed by Apple’s callousness. “Okay, right now this is me, but I—the man who was my Five—am still afraid of dying.”
    The waitress sighs. This time her empathy does seem real. “You kind of won’t,” she offers.
    â€œAnother whiskey! Something cheap!” the other customer calls with gusto from several tables away.
    â€œSo that guy’s fucking awesome,” Apple Two says under his breath as Apple One gets up, grabs a bottle, and walks toward the guy.
    The bartender gives the other customer a quick wave and a nod. Then he explains to Chance, “He’s a nine. Was a ten.”
    Chance feels a small charge of interest—this is someone who’s recently lost a drive?
    The bartender waits a moment, watching the waitress and customer, then continues, “He says he wants to run down to a two or three. Then he’ll build it back up. He likes to kill them slowly, with alcohol poisoning.”
    â€œWhat?” Chance says. “That’s horrible!”
    Apple raises a finger to his lips—Chance’s reaction was too loud. Chance borrows a few more cycles from his sleeping drives, becoming more present with Chance Three, less drunk.
    â€œAnd if he even got to two or three,” Chance says, trying to hold down his volume, “and then he added, how could he be sure he’d still want to do it, to go down again?”
    Apple leans his palms against the bar. He doesn’t respond but instead watches Chance, challenging him to come up with the answer.
    â€œHe’s not joining kids?” Chance asks with a touch of disgust.
    The bartender’s eyes