Clementines, by Yasmina Din Madden

But for the mechanized bed, the series of beeps and clicks, and the whoosh of the H.E.P.A.-filtered air, they could be in an expensive hotel room. A view of a vast blue lake below them, the wood-paneled window seat, the aggressively boring landscape painting. The unit is a ‘scent-free’ zone, since perfumes and cologne add to the nausea, but she always snacks on Clementine oranges, if only to puncture the room’s sterility with the sweet smell of sunlight and sugar. He pulls his paper mask down a bit, and breathes deeply, nostrils flared wide; it smells so good, he says.

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