I come to in the open capsule in the dim light of a narrow metal tunnel. The only light comes from the backlight of the raised lid of my coffin. Not understanding what has happened, I slowly swing my legs over the edge and climb out. What is this? Have we arrived? But why is it so dark? And why is everyone else asleep? In the distance of the ring-shaped tunnel, which I can only walk through by crouching down, there are neat rows of cryocapsules standing in pairs. Two hundred of them. They are the same computerized coffins as mine, but they are closed.
I turn around at the monotonous squeak. It comes from the left, where Barbara's capsule is. The lid is slightly open, but something is wrong. The cryogenic solution has been pumped out, but the girl has not woken up. I forcefully throw back the lid and grab Barbara by the shoulders, shaking her. Of course, she's not asleep, she's unconscious. I turn her over, lifting her up, clearing her lungs of the remaining fluid that pours out of her motionless mouth. I pull the zipper on her jumpsuit, exposing her chest, and several times, as I was taught, I press on her chest, counting the pauses between compressions, performing CPR. But I feel the dead cold with my palms and lips. There is no pulse, and no doubt that Barbara is dead. And has been for a long time. Something has clearly gone wrong.
She's dead. I lower the lid of the capsule and, losing my footing, slide to the floor. My Barbie is dead. The thought drowns in the tears of despair that well up in my eyes and is carried away with a helpless cry into the dark emptiness of the tunnel.