The Pollution Machine must run at all times and I’m the one who runs it. I’m the one who runs it because I have four arms.

The machine is an internal combustion engine on a waist-high platform. A tube connects to the exhaust pipe so the pollution runs up the tube, through the ceiling, and into the air. There are lots of other people and machines in this warehouse, but I’m the one most qualified to run The Pollution Machine, except for Lefty, the only other person on Earth with four arms. He takes over for me when my twelve-hour shifts end. He prefers his left hands. I prefer my rights.

While I’m running the machine, one arm constantly feeds it gasoline. One arm oils it. One arm fixes any problems that arise. And one arm takes care of my bodily functions and needs. This system is in place to prevent me from having to leave my station for the duration of my shift, which is twelve hours per day, seven days per week. I live in this warehouse and I’m not permitted to leave.

According to my supervisor, if The Pollution Machine stops, we will be punished by being killed. On my first day, many years ago, I asked my supervisor why we had to run the machine.

Population control, he said.

I do not understand, I said.

If the air is polluted, people won’t live as long. There are too many people on this planet. We’re running out of water, food, and land. We’ve been ordered to spread pollution in the poorest cities, in secret. Be glad you live in here and breathe good clean air.

—

My mother, who I love very much, considered having two of my arms amputated when I was a newborn. She told me I looked perfectly normal otherwise. When I was a child yet old enough to fully understand my condition—that other people had two arms and I had four—my mother took me to visit a doctor so he could explain it.

You have evolved faster than the rest of us, he told me. We were in his office. There were stacks of paper on his desk, as well as a computer and some framed pictures. I couldn’t see the pictures because they were facing away from me. He took a slab of white cardboard off his desk and turned it around. It was a drawing of the evolutionary chart, illustrating the steps it took for man to evolve from the apes. He continued, I’ve seen your kind before Christopher. Not your kind exactly but people who have extraordinary abilities the rest of us don’t. Do you know where Honduras is?

No, I said.

It’s far away from here. It’s another country. There I met a boy who could regulate his body temperature. Do you know what regulate means?

It means he could make it go up or down, I said. My four hands were folded in my lap.
That’s right. Very good. No one else in the world can do that.

—

I told my supervisor: Don’t let anyone touch me because I don’t like to be touched.
This was when I began running The Pollution Machine. We were up in the part of the warehouse that overlooks the whole place. It has a lot of windows and it’s much quieter in there than down on the floor.

My supervisor picked up the intercom mic and said, This man is not to be touched. If you touch him you will be shot on site.

Everyone looked up at us.

Thank you, I told him. I stretched out my hand—my top right one—and shook his right hand. He had glasses, a paunch, and male pattern baldness, but I liked him anyway.

—

Do you know where India is, Christopher? the doctor asked. He was leaning back in his chair, still behind his desk.

No, I said.

It’s another country too, he said, in Asia. There’s a boy—a teenager—who can run faster than any human alive today.

Is he as fast as a cheetah? I asked. I was curious, but naturally uneducated about such matters.

Not quite. A cheetah can run up to seventy-five miles per hour, while this boy can only run up to thirty-five miles per hour. The fastest humans can reach near thirty miles per hour, so he’s certainly advanced. We may be a long way from reaching the speed of the cheetah, but we’re getting there.

Where’s there?

Why, the next stage of evolution. It’s an exciting time, Christopher.

—

The other workers have started throwing things at me—pebbles, coins, small things the cameras can’t detect. This distracts me from running The Pollution Machine, but at least they aren’t touching me. Touching reminds me of the doctor, the experiments, the needles, the pain.

Under the glass enclosure in the warehouse is a banner that says, DO NOT UTILIZE TWO PEOPLE WHEN ONE WILL SUFFICE. The banner is referring to me. There will be consequences for the warehouse workers if I’m injured and forced to hand over my job to two people.

I do not want to run The Pollution Machine any longer. I have decided that I will cut off one of my hands when I’m supposed to be sleeping. I have not decided which hand I will cut off, but I know I will not miss it.

Can I go now? I asked the doctor.

Sure Christopher, he said. I don’t mean to keep you. We’ll be running more tests in the coming weeks, so be sure you listen to your mother. You can go to her now.

Thank you, I said and walked out his door. I walked down the hallway and back into the waiting room where I hugged my mother with all my arms and said, I don’t want these anymore.

Story by Jason Jordan
Photography by Sarah Small