The Harvest Floor (Chapter One)

PART ONE: THE MATH

Chapter 1

The woman in Pod 23 has been crying for six hours.

Marcus Tate marks it on his clipboard—0600 to 1200, continuous lacrimation, bandwidth holding steady at 67%—and moves to the next station. Pod 24: stable. Pod 25: stable. Pod 26: the man is sleeping, drool pooling on the padded headrest, his bandwidth monitor pulsing a healthy green at 71%.

The harvest floor hums. Two hundred machines pulling pieces of human consciousness through calibrated IV lines, processing grief and joy and rage into something Empathica Solutions can bottle and sell. The air smells like saline and recycled ventilation. Marcus has worked here eighteen months and no longer notices.

“Chen’s been going since shift change,” Carl Weaver says, appearing at Marcus’s elbow. Carl’s been here three years, long enough that his supervisor badge has a scratch across the photo. “That normal?”

Marcus checks his tablet. Laura Chen, 34, Profile 7, bandwidth 67%. Well above the threshold. She came in at 52% six months ago, desperate for the $2,000 monthly stipend. Now she donates three times a week.

“She’s cleared for extraction.”

“Yeah, but—” Carl shifts his weight. “Six hours, man.”

Marcus looks at Pod 23 again. The woman’s face is slack, eyes open but unfocused, tears running steady tracks down her cheeks. The machine reads her sadness, catalogs it, pulls it through the neural interface like water through a pump.

In the break room later, Marcus will see the catalog someone left on the table. OptiEmotions Premium Grief Extract—Ideal for memorial services, reconciliation therapy, authentic wedding toasts. 50 ml bottle, $4,200. A grief sample pack (3×25 ml) for $8,500. Volume discounts available.

“Monitor her,” Marcus says. “If she drops below threshold, pull her.”

“What’s threshold?”

“Fifty-one percent.”

Carl stares at him. “That’s it? Fifty-one?”

“That’s when cognitive function starts declining. Company policy.”

“What happens at fifty?”

Marcus doesn’t answer. He’s seen fifty. He’s seen forty-three. He walks to Pod 27.

At lunch, Marcus sits in his truck in the parking lot and eats a gas station sandwich. His phone buzzes. Simone: Dad can u send $40 for cleats coach says I need them by Friday.

He checks his bank account. $847 until payday. Rent is $1,100. Truck payment is $380. Child support is $650, due in six days.

The math is simple.

He texts back: cant this week, ask your mom.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

Simone: she already said no

Marcus closes his eyes. His daughter is twelve and plays travel soccer and lives with his ex-wife in a townhouse Marcus helped buy before the divorce. He sees Simone every other weekend when he can afford gas.

He types: ill figure something out.

The dots don’t return.

The afternoon is stable until 1437, when the man in Pod 47 starts thrashing.

Marcus is across the floor when the alarm sounds—a sharp electronic chirp that cuts through the machinery hum. He runs. Carl is already there, hands hovering over the emergency release.

“Don’t touch it,” Marcus snaps. He checks the monitor.

David Martinez, 28, Profile 4, bandwidth 53%. The number flickers. 52%. 51%.

“He’s dropping,” Carl says.

Marcus pulls up the session log. Martinez has been extracting for four hours, sustained high-emotion pull, no breaks. His neural readings show stress markers spiking into the red.

50%.

“Pull him,” Marcus says.

Carl hits the release. The machine whines down. The IV retracts. Martinez’s thrashing slows, then stops. His eyes focus gradually, pupils contracting.

“Hey,” Marcus says, leaning close. “You’re okay. Can you tell me your name?”

Martinez blinks. His mouth works silently.

“Name,” Marcus repeats.

“…David.”

“Good. What year is it?”

Martinez’s forehead creases. His eyes struggle to focus. “I… don’t…”

“It’s okay. You’re okay.” Marcus makes notes. Session terminated, bandwidth recovered to 54% within two minutes, cognitive response delayed but present. “You’re done for the week. Go home. Rest.”

Martinez nods slowly. He doesn’t move.

“You need help standing?”

“I’m okay.” But Martinez sits there another three minutes before his legs remember how to work.

After he’s gone, Carl says, “What happens if they don’t come back up?”

“They always come back up.”

“But if they don’t?”

Marcus looks at Pod 47, at the empty chair and the coiled IV line and the monitor screen blank and waiting.

“We send them to the fourth floor.”

At 1700, Marcus’s shift ends. He drives home to his apartment in a complex off Highway 311, one bedroom, $950 a month, neighbors he’s never met. He microwaves a burrito and eats it standing at the kitchen counter while scrolling through his phone.

The Empathica employee portal shows his pay stub: $42,000 annual salary, $1,615.38 per paycheck after taxes. He’s been here eighteen months. Before that, he spent two years unemployed after the furniture factory closed. Before that, he made $38,000 managing a warehouse crew for a company that went bankrupt.

He’s 41 years old. He has $3,200 in savings and a degree in business management from a community college that doesn’t exist anymore.

His phone buzzes. Unknown number.

“This is Marcus.”

“Mr. Tate, this is Diane Foster, Director of Operations. Do you have a moment?”

Marcus sets down the burrito. “Yes, ma’am.”

“I’ve been reviewing your performance metrics. You’ve had zero safety incidents, your floor runs at 97% efficiency, and your donor retention rate is the highest in the facility. That’s excellent work.”

“Thank you.”

“We’re opening a new position. Night shift supervisor, 6 PM to 6 AM, four days a week. Fifty-eight thousand starting, full benefits, and you’d oversee three floors instead of one. Are you interested?”

Marcus does the math automatically. $58,000 is $2,230.77 per paycheck. That’s $615 more than he makes now. That’s Simone’s cleats and groceries and maybe, eventually, a better apartment.

“What about my daughter? I have her every other weekend.”

“Night shift runs Friday through Monday. You’d be off Tuesday through Thursday. Plenty of time for custody arrangements.”

“When would I start?”

“Two weeks. Think about it. Let me know by Friday.”

After she hangs up, Marcus sits on his couch and stares at the wall. Somewhere in the building where he works, there’s a fourth floor. He’s never been there. He doesn’t know what happens to donors who don’t come back up.

He texts Simone: ill have the $ for cleats by Friday.

She sends back a heart emoji.

Marcus closes his eyes.

The math is simple.