I remember the taste of summer. It was ice cream, vanilla with ribbons of strawberry running through it, and the sound of cicadas singing in the trees. I was seven years old, sitting on the front porch steps, watching the sun paint everything gold. My father was beside me, his hand warm on my shoulder. My mother was in the kitchen, and I could hear her humming through the open window. That memory is worth three months of rent. I've sold it four times now. Each time, the technicians extract a copy, the original stays with me, they promise, just a little faded around the edges, and each time, someone else gets to experience my perfect childhood afternoon. Someone who never had a father's hand on their shoulder. Someone who never heard their mother humming through an open window. I tell myself it's a fair trade. My memories for their money. My surplus joy for their deficit. The Memory Farm has been my workplace for six years. I'm what they call a Premium Provider, someone whose memories consistently rate high on the Authenticity Scale. My childhood recollections are particularly valuable. They're coherent, emotionally resonant, and most importantly, they feel real. That's what the buyers want. Not just the facts of a memory, but the feeling of it. The way the afternoon light made everything glow. The way the ice cream melted faster than I could eat it. The way my father's voice sounded when he told me I was his favorite person in the whole world. I have a lot of memories like that: golden afternoons, birthday parties with cakes shaped like castles, Christmas mornings with mountains of presents. My parents, always smiling, always present, always perfect. I'm lucky. That's what everyone tells me. Most people's childhood memories are fragmented, unreliable, tainted by trauma or neglect. Mine are pristine. Complete. The kind of memories that people pay a fortune to experience. I used to believe I was lucky too. --- The Memory Farm is located in what used to be a hospital, back before the Consolidation. The building still has that institutional feel, white walls, fluorescent lights, the faint smell of antiseptic that never quite fades. But the waiting room has been decorated to look welcoming. Soft chairs. Potted plants. A water feature that trickles soothingly in the corner. I signed in at the reception desk. The attendant, a young woman with a practiced smile, checked my file. "Elena Vance. Premium Provider. Extraction scheduled for 10:00 AM." She looked up at me. "You're right on time, as always." "I like to be punctual." "Your consistency is one of your most valuable assets." The attendant made a note in her tablet. "The buyer for today's extraction is particularly interested in childhood summer memories. Outdoor activities, family bonding, that sort of thing." "I have several options." I settled into one of the soft chairs. "The bicycle lesson. The picnic by the lake. The afternoon with the ice cream." "The ice cream memory has been extracted four times already. Diminishing returns." The attendant tapped her tablet. "The bicycle lesson might be fresher. When was the last time you sold that one?" I thought about it. The bicycle memory was one of my favorites, my father running beside me, his hand on the back of the seat, his voice encouraging me to keep pedaling. I could almost feel the wobble of the wheels, the moment when I finally found my balance, the rush of wind against my face. "I don't think I've sold that one in over a year." "Perfect. That will be today's extraction." The attendant smiled. "The buyer is paying premium rates. You'll receive your usual commission plus a bonus for quality." "Thank you." I sat back and waited. The waiting room was quiet this morning, just me and an older man who was staring at the wall with an expression I couldn't read. He looked like someone who had sold too many memories. There was a hollowness around his eyes, a vacancy that suggested the spaces where experiences used to be. I wondered if I would look like that someday. If the extractions would eventually leave me empty. But I pushed the thought away. I was a Premium Provider. My memories were abundant, high-quality, in constant demand. I had plenty to spare. The extraction chamber was smaller than I expected when I first started working here. Just a chair, comfortable, reclining, with padded armrests, and a machine that looked like a cross between an MRI scanner and a hair dryer. The technicians call it the Harvester. I think the name is supposed to be ironic. "Elena Vance." The technician today was someone I hadn't seen before. Young, professional, with the kind of neutral expression that suggested she'd seen too much to be surprised by anything. "I'm Dr. Okonkwo. I'll be performing your extraction today." "Nice to meet you." "Please have a seat. We'll begin with the standard calibration." I settled into the chair. It was surprisingly comfortable, the Memory Farm invested in comfort, knowing that relaxed subjects produced better extractions. Dr. Okonkwo attached sensors to my temples, my forehead, the base of my skull. "I need you to recall the target memory," she said. "The bicycle lesson. Focus on the sensory details. What you saw, heard, felt. The more vivid the recall, the higher quality the extraction." I closed my eyes. The memory rose to the surface easily, it was one of my clearest, one of my favorites. I was six years old. The bicycle was red, with a white basket on the front and streamers on the handlebars. My father had bought it for my birthday, and I had been desperate to ride it ever since. But every time I tried, I wobbled and fell. On this particular afternoon, my father took me to the park. The path was flat and smooth, perfect for learning. He held the back of the seat while I climbed on. "You can do this," he said. "Just keep pedaling. I've got you." I started to pedal. The bike wobbled. I gripped the handlebars tighter. "Look ahead, not down," my father said. "Find your balance." I looked up. The path stretched before me, lined with trees that cast dappled shadows. I could hear children playing somewhere nearby, the sound of their laughter mixing with the rustle of leaves. And then, suddenly, I was doing it. I was riding. My father's hand was still on the back of the seat, but I could feel that he was barely touching it now. I was balancing on my own. "I'm doing it!" I shouted. "Daddy, I'm doing it!" "I see," he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. "You're doing great, sweetheart. Keep going." I pedaled faster. The wind rushed against my face. The trees blurred past. I felt invincible. "Excellent recall." Dr. Okonkwo's voice cut through the memory. "The extraction is proceeding smoothly. Stay with the feeling. Let it flow." I stayed with it. The joy of riding. The pride of accomplishment. The love I felt for my father, who had believed in me even when I didn't believe in myself. The extraction took seventeen minutes. When it was over, I felt slightly lightheaded, the usual side effect. Dr. Okonkwo helped me to the recovery room, where I sat with a glass of water and waited for the dizziness to pass. "The extraction was clean," she said. "No complications. The memory is now in our catalog, available for purchase." "Thank you." "There is one thing." Dr. Okonkwo hesitated. "During the extraction, I noticed some... irregularities in your recall patterns. Nothing serious. But you might want to consider a memory audit. Just to ensure everything is functioning properly." "Irregularities?" "Small gaps. Missing details. It's common in long-term Providers, but it's worth monitoring." She handed me a card. "If you're interested, you can schedule an appointment with our Memory Health department." I took the card, though I wasn't sure I wanted to know what "irregularities" meant. My memories had always been perfect. That was what made me valuable. That evening, I sat in my apartment and tried to recall the bicycle memory again. It was still there. I could see the red bicycle, the white basket, the streamers on the handlebars. I could feel the wind against my face, the wobble of the wheels, the moment when I found my balance. But something was different. I tried to picture my father's face. The man who had taught me to ride. The man who had told me I could do anything. I couldn't see him. I could hear his voice. I could feel his hand on the back of the seat. I could remember the words he had said. But his face was a blur, a collection of features that wouldn't resolve into a coherent image. I closed my eyes and concentrated harder. I thought about other memories. The ice cream afternoon. The birthday parties. The Christmas mornings. In every memory, my parents were present. I could hear their voices, feel their touch, remember the things they had said. But their faces were gone. All of them. Replaced by vague shapes that might have been anyone. I sat in the darkness of my apartment, trying to remember what my mother looked like. The woman who had hummed through the open window. The woman who had baked castle-shaped cakes. The woman who had smiled at me every morning for my entire childhood. I couldn't see her. I had sold dozens of memories over the past six years. Each extraction was supposed to leave the original intact, just slightly faded. But what if the fading was cumulative? What if each extraction took a little more than the technicians claimed? What if I was slowly losing the people I loved? I stared at the wall, trying to summon an image of my father's face. Any image. A photograph, a sketch, anything. Nothing came. I had a perfect childhood. Golden light, laughter, love. The kind of childhood that people paid fortunes to experience. But I couldn't remember what my parents looked like. In the back of my mind, a small voice asked a question I didn't want to answer: If my childhood was so perfect, why couldn't I remember the people who made it that way?
I spent the entire night trying to remember. I sat at my kitchen table, surrounded by photographs I had collected over the years, snapshots of birthdays and holidays and ordinary days that had seemed worth capturing. In every photograph, my parents were there. My father, tall and broad-shouldered, with a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. My mother, smaller and softer, with hair the color of autumn leaves. I could see their faces in the photographs. I could see the evidence of their existence. But when I closed my eyes and tried to recall them from memory, there was nothing. It wasn't like the memories were gone. I could still remember the sound of my father's laugh, the way my mother's voice rose when she was excited. I could remember the weight of my father's hand on my shoulder, the smell of my mother's perfume, lavender and something sweeter, something I had never been able to identify. But their faces were gone. Not just faded, completely absent. As if someone had erased them from every memory I possessed. By morning, I had made a decision. I would go to the Memory Farm's archives and examine my extraction records. If something was wrong with my memories, the records would show it. --- The Memory Farm's archives were located in the basement of the building, a vast, climate-controlled space filled with servers and storage units. Access was restricted to authorized personnel, but as a Premium Provider, I had clearance to view my own files. The archive technician was a thin man with nervous hands and a tendency to push his glasses up his nose every few seconds. He led me to a terminal in the corner of the room. "Elena Vance," he said, typing my name into the system. "Premium Provider. Extraction history: six years, forty-seven extractions. Memory quality rating: 9.2 out of 10. Very impressive." "Thank you. I'd like to see my extraction records. Specifically, any notes about memory degradation or anomalies." The technician frowned. "Degradation? Your records show no degradation. Your quality ratings have been consistent throughout your tenure." "I know. But I've been experiencing some... gaps. In my recall." The technician's fingers paused over the keyboard. "Gaps?" "I can't remember my parents' faces. In any of my memories." "That's..." The technician pushed his glasses up. "That's unusual. But not impossible. Memory gaps can occur naturally. Stress, age, trauma, there are many factors that affect recall." "I'm twenty-eight. I'm not stressed. And I've never experienced trauma." At least, I didn't think I had. "I want to see my records." The technician hesitated, then pulled up my files. The screen filled with data, extraction dates, memory categories, quality ratings, buyer information. Everything looked normal. Clean. Professional. "Your extraction records show no anomalies," the technician said. "Each procedure was performed according to protocol. No complications, no errors, no unexpected side effects." "What about the memories themselves? Can I see what was extracted?" "That information is confidential. Buyer privacy." "These are my memories." "Extracted memories become property of the Memory Farm once the transaction is complete." The technician's voice was apologetic but firm. "I can show you the categories and quality ratings, but not the content." I scanned the categories. Childhood memories, twelve extractions. Family bonding, eight. Holiday celebrations, six. Birthday parties, five. The list went on, each category representing a piece of my past that I had sold to strangers. "Is it possible," I said slowly, "that the extractions are causing the gaps? That each extraction removes more than just a copy?" "The extraction process is designed to preserve the original memory. The technical term is 'non-destructive replication.' Think of it like... photocopying a photograph. The original remains intact." "But what if the photocopying process damages the original? Even slightly?" The technician pushed his glasses up again. "There is some theoretical research suggesting that repeated extractions may cause minor degradation over time. But the effect is minimal. Barely measurable." "How many extractions would it take to cause noticeable degradation?" "I don't know. It's never been documented in a Provider with your extraction history. Forty-seven extractions over six years is well within safe parameters." But I wasn't satisfied. The numbers said everything was fine. My own experience said something was wrong. I spent the afternoon in the Memory Farm's public library, researching memory extraction and its effects. The official literature was reassuring, extractions were safe, non-destructive, and thoroughly tested. But the unofficial sources told a different story. There were forums where Providers shared their experiences. Stories of memories that had faded faster than expected. Stories of gaps that appeared without warning. Stories of people who had sold so many memories that they could barely remember their own names. Most of these stories were dismissed as anecdotal. The Memory Farm's medical team had conducted extensive studies, they said, and found no evidence of significant degradation. The forums were full of paranoid people who didn't understand the science. But some of the stories resonated with me. One Provider described losing the ability to visualize faces, not just the faces of people she had known, but faces in general. Another talked about memories that felt "flat," as if the emotional content had been drained away. A third mentioned gaps that appeared in clusters, as if one missing memory had created a hole that others fell into. I closed the terminal and sat in the library's silence, trying to process what I had learned. The gaps in my memory weren't supposed to happen. The extraction process was supposed to be safe. But clearly, something was wrong. That evening, I tried an experiment. I sat in my apartment with a pen and paper, and I tried to write down everything I could remember about my childhood. Not just the big events, the birthdays and holidays and special occasions, but the small things. The ordinary days. The moments that should have been too insignificant to sell. I started with my first day of school. I could remember the building, a brick structure with a green door. I could remember my teacher, Mrs. Patterson, who had gray hair and wore cardigans in bright colors. I could remember the smell of chalk and the sound of children laughing. But I couldn't remember walking to school that morning. I couldn't remember my mother's face when she dropped me off. I couldn't remember the other children in my class, or what we did that day, or how I felt when it was over. I tried another memory. My best friend from childhood, a girl named Sarah, who lived three houses down. I could remember playing with her in her backyard. I could remember her swing set, painted bright yellow. I could remember the sound of her laugh. But I couldn't remember what Sarah looked like. I couldn't remember the games we played, or the secrets we shared, or the day she moved away. I couldn't even remember if she had moved away, or if something else had happened. The gaps were everywhere. In every memory I examined, there were holes. Missing pieces. Details that should have been there but weren't. I looked at the list I had made. It was full of fragments, partial memories, incomplete images, sensations without context. The story of my childhood, reduced to a collection of disconnected moments. The next morning, I returned to the Memory Farm for another scheduled extraction. The buyer had requested a birthday party memory, any birthday, any age, as long as it was happy. I should have canceled. I should have told them I needed time to investigate what was happening to my memories. But I needed the money. And part of me was afraid that if I stopped, if I admitted something was wrong, they would take away my Provider status. I would lose the income that kept my apartment, my food, my life. So I went through with it. The extraction was routine. The technician, Dr. Okonkwo again, attached the sensors and asked me to recall a birthday memory. I chose my eighth birthday, the one with the castle cake. I remembered the candles flickering, the sound of my parents singing, the wish I had made before blowing them out. But even as I recalled the memory, I noticed the gaps. I couldn't see my parents' faces as they sang. I couldn't remember what presents I had received. I couldn't remember what I had wished for. The extraction proceeded anyway. The machine hummed, the sensors recorded, and another piece of my past was copied and sold. When it was over, Dr. Okonkwo handed me the standard post-extraction report. "Clean extraction. No complications. Your commission has been deposited." "Dr. Okonkwo." I hesitated. "Can I ask you something?" "Of course." "Have you ever seen a Provider lose the ability to recall faces? Specifically, the faces of people they loved?" Dr. Okonkwo's expression was carefully neutral. "Memory extraction is a complex process. Individual experiences can vary. If you're concerned about your recall, I recommend scheduling a memory audit with our Health department." "I've been told my records show no anomalies." "Then there's likely nothing to worry about." Dr. Okonkwo smiled professionally. "Memory gaps can occur for many reasons. Stress. Poor sleep. Normal aging. It doesn't necessarily mean the extractions are responsible." But I could tell she was choosing her words carefully. There was something she wasn't saying. That night, I made another decision. I would investigate. Not through the official channels, they had already told me everything was fine. But through other means. I would find other Providers who had experienced similar gaps. I would research the extraction process in depth. I would figure out what was happening to my memories. And if I discovered that the Memory Farm was responsible, that the extractions were causing more damage than they admitted, I would find a way to stop it. I looked at the photographs on my kitchen table. My parents, frozen in moments I could no longer fully recall. Their faces were there, in the images, but they were disappearing from my mind. I wouldn't let them disappear completely. I would find out what was happening. And I would find a way to remember.