Finnegan braced herself against the edge of the vat and reached down into the viscous goo to take Joe by his arm and pull him upward. He surfaced like a painful memory–slow, hazy, then all too sharp; his spindly limbs and liver-spotted body struggling weakly. She helped him sit up and unstrapped his breathing mask. She peeled back his eyelids and checked his pupils with a pen light. The left was still blown out, dilated and frozen, iris swallowed by blackness.

“Grandpa?” she asked, grabbing his knobby shoulder and giving him a shake. “Can you hear me?”

Startled, he farted, bubbles rising from the goo and breaking. His breastmilk diet had given him even worse gas than normal and the transfusions of blood had turned his feces to meconium. His body was covered in lanugo that came off as she rubbed him with a rough towel to stimulate blood flow.

“How long was I out?” he muttered, not opening his eyes.

“I need you to stand up,” she said.

“How long was I out?” he asked again, his voice rising. “What year is it?”

“It’s 2022, Grandpa,” she said. She lifted under his armpits and he stood.

“2022?” he asked. “My god, I’ve been asleep for thirty years! It’s the future!”

“You’ve been in the amniotic tank for a day, Grandpa,” Finnegan said, pushing the goo off of him and back intot he vat. “Step out when you’re ready.”

“Thirty years,” he said wonderingly. “And it seemed to pass in only a day.”

“It’s only been a day,” Finnegan said. “We had to put you in the tank on your way back from the Middle East. That place is filthy. We had to strip off your outer layer of skin and force it to grow back.”

“There’s still a Middle East?” Joe asked as she helped him out of the vat. His penis dripped amniotic fluid on the floor with a series of faint plops.

She finished drying him as he looked around the medical suite in wonder.

“Thank you, young lady,” Joe said absently.

“I’m Finnegan. I’m your Granddaughter.”

“Beau has children already?” Joe asked excitedly.

“Uh, I’m, uh, Hunter’s daughter.”

“Hunter has children?” Joe asked as she finally got him to slip on the robe she was holding out. “How many?”

“Six or seven, I think?” Finnegan said, shrugging. “It’s hard to keep up.”

“The future!” Joe said.

Finnegan backed away and hit the big red Medical Emergency button. A low alarm began to cycle.

“What’s that?” Joe asked.

“I’ve called for your doctor,” Finnegan said.

“Why? I feel great! I’m only fifty years old!” Joe said. “I want to go outside. I want to see the wonders of the future!”

“She’s just going to make sure the, uh, process didn’t hurt you. Just a precaution.”

“She? A woman doctor? Wow! It really is the future!” Joe said.

There was a heavy knock on the door. “Come in, Rachel,” Finnegan called.

“Hello, Mr. President,” she said as she stepped into the room, her craggy teeth showing in a Jack Kirby smile.

“What the fuck it that?!?” Joe screamed, pointing a shaking hand at the doctor.

“This is Admiral Rachel Levine,” Finnegan said. “Your doctor.”

“No! Get it away! What is it?”

“Rachel is a transwoman, Grandpa. Don’t be a J. K. Rowling.”

“That is not a woman! It’s an atomic mutant! What the fuck is a J. K. Rowling?”

Rachel’s smile became progressively more strained.

“Don’t misgender her!” Finnegan snapped.

“That’s not a fucking word!” Joe screamed, backing into the far corner of the suite.

“Rachel, maybe you should go.”

The Admiral walked out heavily, her huge feet making the floor creak.

Joe sank into a chair and covered his face in his hands.

“The future,” he sobbed. “The future is a nightmare! Send me back! Send me back!”