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THE STORY
What if you could place your newborn into cryo-suspension until it was more convenient to bring him or her home?
How much time would you need? One year, five years, longer?
Nora Collins expedites the cryonic preservation of newborn babies for the convenience of their parents. Her job as a successful client liaison at the for-profit, privately operated Postponement Center, requires routine confrontation with outraged protestors voicing disagreement with the chilling reproductive choice now deemed legal by the Supreme Court.
Past child-bearing years herself, Nora inwardly atones for old secrets by living a solitary life. Instead, she develops a questionable, borderline addictive, relationship with the frozen neonates, frequently watching them and communicating with them in their crypod units.
Nora navigates the ethical minefield and morale dichotomy of the postponement practice, which occurs for medical reasons, but mostly because of career or educational obligations, financial aspirations, or due to parental immaturity.
She staunchly believes parents should choose for themselves when the time is right to bring their baby home—until she doesn’t.
After one mother decides to pre-maturely reanimate her son, forcing him into a life-threatening position, Nora struggles with her own dangerous choice—honor the desire of the new mother or save the innocent child.
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Blaring sirens forced morning rush hour commuters to the sides of the frontage road running along the busy interstate. Neither the passenger nor the attending paramedic noticed the rays of light reflecting off Lady Bird Lake. Morning joggers and cyclists were fulfilling their passions for exercise before the heat of the summer day set in.
"Almost there, Yvonne, almost," Mo said, placing a cool hand on her sweating shoulder, attempting to calm the groaning woman.
"Please hurry," came her breathless voice as she squirmed on the thin mattress.
They flew past the University Medical Center and continued to the highway entrance. A scratchy voice crackled from the radio, "Six-fifty-seven, what's your status?"
"Seven minutes out," said Kevin, the emergency medical tech, weaving in and out of hurried morning drivers. He smirked. "Have I said lately that traffic sucks in this town?" Even with the siren's rise-and-fall resound, people took their time figuring out how to give the ambulance passage over to the fast lane of the roadway.
"Copy that. FYI. Destination reports demonstrators in the area. Proceed with caution," came the dispatcher’s reply.
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