Everyone wants to live forever. Not everyone can. Who decides? Desperate to save his daughter from a mysterious sickness, Daniel applies for the Methuselah Treatment. If she gets it, his daughter won’t just recover, she’ll live forever. But the drug is tightly controlled, and only the special, the talented, and the truly deserving ever receive it. There is nothing special about Daniel’s destitute ten-year-old girl—or is there?
The Methuselah Treatment
by T. C. Powell
Daniel de Montes pulled Estrella’s photo from the manila folder in his lap and handed it to the fellow beside him on the waiting room couch, an elderly gentleman in a gray sports coat.
“She’s pretty,” the man said, handing it back.
The picture showed Estrella blowing out the candles on her seventh birthday cake, her frilly dress the same pink as the frosting. Only three months before they noticed the cough.
“How old?”
“Eleven in September.”
The gentleman looked away, not a word in response. He probably felt embarrassed for Daniel. The immortality offered by the Methuselah Treatment was reserved for society’s elite; it wouldn’t be given to a child. Daniel had to be either some sort of nutjob or incredibly desperate to think she would have a chance.
Neither far from the truth.
A pleasant female’s voice came through the public address system: “Now serving number two-oh-five at window G.” The message was repeated in Spanish and then Mandarin.
Only six more.
Filling seats along the walls, the competition was checking their own number tags, grooming in mirrors, or looking over their applications. One of them—Mr. Two-Oh-Five no doubt—walked to the bank of windows lining the far side of the room.
He was a typical candidate for Methuselah: late fifties, blue suit and tie, gold Rolex, probably a captain of industry or powerful financier.
Daniel looked down at the photograph of Estrella, her eyes shining with candlelight.
Just a little girl, nothing special. Except to me.
Estrella wasn’t a musical prodigy or mathematical savant. Hell, she got a C the last time she was able to sit through a math class. But no one here had ever seen Estrella run through the rain or heard her laughing when her feet were tickled.
I have to make them understand.
A commotion erupted at the window to the left of Mr. Two-Oh-Five. The applicant, a husky red-headed woman in a too-tight green dress, was yelling at the balding clerk behind the thick glass partition. Must’ve been a no.
“Forty years I’ve been paying taxes,” she screamed, a strand of pearls bouncing around her neck. “I’ve never asked for any kind of handout or charity. Not one goddamn dime! The only time I ask for something, and you have the nerve to say denied?”
The clerk held his hands up to pacify, but the woman’s face was the color of her hair. Those who had no further recourse, appeal, or hope were dry tinder, and this one seemed ready to burn.
“Go ahead and call security,” she continued to yell. “Let them shoot me in the alley or whatever your Gestapo does. It’s all the same, isn’t it? Kill me or just let me die?” She pounded the window with her fists.
Everyone watched now, the room grateful for a break from the tedium of waiting and being on edge, knowing what might come next.
The harried clerk walked away from his window and exited through a metal door behind him. Simultaneously, another door at the side of the waiting room shot open, and two black-jacketed police officers stormed in. A third officer, armed with a laser rifle, held the door open.
The two officers charged the woman and grabbed her with Taser gloves, knocking her unconscious. They dragged the woman on the backs of her white pumps through the side door, and the third officer let it crash shut.
A few in the waiting room applauded, and a woman yelled, “One down!” which was followed by a scattering of laughter. Two men in their late thirties, maybe brothers, gave each other high-fives.
Over the speaker, the pleasant voice returned: “Two-oh-six, window F.”
The clerk at window T—her nametag read LUISA—had a warm smile and honest eyes.
Hopefully she has children herself.
Luisa slid the manila folder back through the narrow slot running along the base of the thick glass barrier.
“Mr. de Montes,” she said, “the Mexico City office is responsible for administrating the Methuselah Treatment for the entire southwest region, from Panama City to the Colorado River. That area encompasses hundreds of millions of citizens, and we are authorized to select just twenty recipients per calendar year. That means we can only consider applicants with truly extraordinary qualifications, skills, or merit. Please tell me briefly why you believe your daughter deserves this privilege?”
She’s my little girl. She’s dying. And I can’t live without her.
“Estrella is a very intelligent child,” he said. “She loves reading stories. She started young, age three.”
It’s because of how proud she was that first time she baked chocolate chip cookies with her mother. And the smile on her face when I asked for a second.
“Except for math, she consistently received high marks. A book report she wrote in the fifth grade received an honorable mention in a statewide contest.”
It’s how her cheeks flush when she’s embarrassed, like when I joked that she had a crush on her classmate Tomás, and she yelled at me to get out of her room, slamming the door shut. Just as feisty as Rosa.
“Estrella is not only highly intelligent, but will one day be a great beauty. All of the boys in her grade already have a crush on her.”
It’s when she was young, before words. When she slept in my arms and I kissed her smooth forehead and promised to protect her forever.
Luisa frowned. “I see. I’m afraid that’s not—”
“Wait. Don’t just think about who she is today. Try to see who she will be. When she grows up, she’s going to be a very special woman, and I know she’ll help a great many people. That’s why I cannot—why we cannot—allow her to die.”
The woman sighed. “Look, Mr. de Montes, I understand. You love your daughter. But the Methuselah Treatment can only be used as a last resort for diseases incurable by conventional medicine. You left the illness space blank on the application. Why is that?”
“The doctors don’t know what’s wrong with her. That’s why I’m here. We’ve taken Estrella to every specialist there is and we’re running out of time. If you could only see her for yourself…so small…so helpless.”
Luisa sighed again. “I wish I could help. I really do—”
“Please—”
“The Methuselah Treatment isn’t a good fit for Estrella. To be honest, I’ve never heard of an approval for anyone younger than twenty.”
“You don’t understand!”
“Please, Mr. de Montes, not so loud,” she said. Luisa still smiled, but there was a hint of fear in her eyes.
“I’ve tried everything. They told me to take her to Seattle, and we went. Others said Veracruz, and we pulled up stakes. We’ve packed and moved five times in the last two years, but Estrella has only gotten worse. She sleeps twelve, fourteen hours a day, and coughs all the time. You have the ability to cure her. It’s back there, hidden behind your metal doors!”
“Please lower your voice,” she said, her eyes darting around.
“Or what?”
Daniel felt a hand on his shoulder and forced back an urge to swing around with a right hook. When he turned, he found a broad-shouldered Asian man in a suit. “Or you won’t be able to help your daughter anymore.” The man’s voice was calm, cultured, and absolutely correct.
“I can’t seem to help her no matter what,” Daniel said, deflated. “It’s hopeless.”
The Asian man cocked his head. “That might not be entirely true.”