This story originally appeared in Writers of the Future Vol. 35 I’m Dixie. I’m twelve. Well, almost. My birthday is coming up, so close enough. I wear red. God gave me red hair, but I picked the rest, from my red space Keds—Mom hates them—to my matching silk cape—Dad loves it—because capes are cool, and when you drape them right, they hide the tubes. I have a dog. He’s a MedGen robodog, looks like a chrome Doberman pinscher. He breathes for both of us, and he juices up my air with higher oxy.
