It was a little past 4 A.M. when they came into our hospital room. I remember because Meghan had just finished nursing and had laid our newborn girl, Iris, in the hospital-provided bassinet. We had just about settled down for our final catnap before the new shift of nurses would come on duty—Meghan in the bed and I on the guest sofa—when the door swung open.

There were two of them, one quite a bit taller than the other. The shorter one was pushing a covered cart. I couldn’t see their faces that well, on account of the low lighting and surgical masks.

“What? What is it?” The exhaustion was apparent in Meghan’s voice. She’d just gone through nearly two days of excruciating “back labor” for Iris. 

The taller one—without any introductions—then launched into a spiel that I can’t fully remember for the life of me, although it was only a year ago. Basically, it was about how electronic screens have such a negative impact on the developing eyes of young children, how they are nearly impossible to avoid, and how much more prevalent they will be in the future. The new, highly-recommended procedure would only take a few minutes and would save us tons of time and money dealing with future vision-correction. Oh, and did they mention it was highly-recommended?

“Shall we begin?” the short one asked, after…its…partner finished.

No! Absolutely not! Do not touch our child! I wanted to scream, but I felt frozen; unable to speak, move, or anything. I recall there was a strong smell of cinnamon. 

“Yes.” Meghan’s voice seemed to come from somewhere else.

My memory is scant with details, but I remember the little one wheeled the cart beside the bassinet and removed the cloth cover. A moment later, Iris was laid upon it, wriggling and crying. There were an array of sharp, surgical instruments involved. It only took a few moments for them to slice/cut/gouge out her eyes. The new bionic eyes were then tapped into place with a small hammer. 

Then I knew nothing.

Several hours later, the moment I awoke, I rushed to Iris’ bassinet. She looked perfect; there were no indications of surgery. In fact, the nurse explained that there is no such eye replacement procedure for newborns, and—if there was—they would never perform it that way.

“You just had a bad dream, Mr. Fields,” the nurse said. Meghan had no recollection of the event, either. 

But if it was a dream, why do I have such a vivid memory of it? As I sit and feed Iris mashed sweet potatoes and stare into her perfectly blue orbs, I wonder: was it all a dream? I wonder as Iris’ pupils mechanically contract, accompanied by barely-audible sounds of mechanical whirring and electronic whining; digitally recording my every move. 

But not for long. I’ve made up my mind: they’re coming out. 

Metal spoon in tightly-clenched fist, I watch patiently as Meghan heads to the store…