E, F P, T O Z ... I repeated to myself over and over. The letters that would save my life. L P E D, P E C F D...

The woman next to me was crying. She was in perfect physical condition, and told me that her genetic history was nearly impeccable. She'd make it through without a problem. But her husband had Parkinson's, and had already been taken in the first sweep that morning. Her children had been taken away and were being tested now.

The pamphlets and announcements had been going out all week, alerting us to the procedures that would be happening soon. Any genetic defect ranging from Down's Syndrome to OCD to needing braces was being purged from the world. This morning marked the first sweep, when they'd take anyone they knew to be defected from information in their medical records. The second sweep was beginning now, when they started filtering out the defective with examinations and tests. More rounds would happen after this, with regular examinations in the coming years to make sure they hadn't missed anyone.

I'd had my same pair of glasses for twelve years, which were now sitting buried in a riverbed somewhere off the highway. I'd felt like dying all morning, just waiting for that knock on the door, but it never came. Whatever records they'd once had of me must have been erased years ago, thank God. All I had to do was get through the eye examination and I'd be fine.

E D F C Z P ...

The woman in front of me was called in. A few minutes later, a cheerful young lady called up the next victim to be tested and I stood. Never squint. Show no fear.

They took my blood and gave me a short physical. So far they seemed pleased with me, which was good. It was amazingly difficult to react to things people were saying when they all looked like blurred mush, but as long as I smiled and laughed they didn't seem to notice.

They sat me in a chair across the eye chart. That dreaded, awful eye chart.

"All right," the frighteningly pleasant doctor said. "The top line?"

"E," I said quickly.

"Good!" He pointed to the second line.

Fuzzy black lines, I thought. "F P."

He pointed to the third line, the fourth, and the fifth, and I recited everything. Never in my life had I ever been so nervous for anything, and never in my life had I ever been so excited to pass a test.

"Excellent," the Nazi doctor said. On his way back to my chair, he grabbed a sheet of large cards off a table and sat down in a chair in front of me. He held the first one up. "What does this say?"

It was a mottled collection of colors with a large number in the center. It was so fuzzy without my glasses, but I had to pass this. Four? "Four." He put the card down and picked the next one up.

It was a blur of nonsense. I tried so hard not to squint, but it was impossible to make out. There was nothing.

"...Three."

The doctor shook his head. "Try again?"

"Five?"

He put the card down and wrote something in my chart.

"Wait, what's going on?"

"Please take the door on your right at the end of the hall."

"What's happening?!"

"I'm sorry, sir, I need to see the next patient." He got up and started walking away.

"Stop! What's going on?"

The doctor sighed and glared at me. "You're color blind, sir. Please take the door on your right. I'm sorry; goodbye."