[ WP ] Science has allowed humans to `` give '' another person some of their years of life , and soon after , this process became cheap enough that it has been commercialized and accepted to be as normal as giving another person your kidney .

No one stays in the business of reaping very long. Well, almost no one; I guess I'm an exception. I've seen the most hardened, gangster thugs break down crying after only a few days of this. How did I stay in it for years? Maybe I'm just a naturally heartless person. But it was drugs, mostly. Anything I could get my hands on. It's not like money was an issue; do you *know* how much a year goes for on the black market? The drugs always drew the police, but they crack down on us reapers whenever they can anyway. Luckily they have no jurisdiction in international waters. 
 
 Another key to staying in the biz for this long was a steady supply. I had a few regulars, taking up residence on the ship and producing regularly every 9 months. Those are always hard to find; that job will burn a hole through your soul. Most suppliers quit after their third or fourth. Some of them just commit suicide. The regulars became burnt out husks, numb to the world. Hardly even human anymore. Their addictions were so bad that coming down from a high would probably kill them. And it's not like they needed to be sober to get pregnant, right? Sure, the drugs would limit the number of years we'd get from the product, but it was a small price to pay. 
 
 The regulars were n't the hard cases, though. The hard cases would be some bright, fresh country girl, down on her luck, showing up at the harbor. `` Free range,'' we called these. `` My mother is dying,'' she'd say, rubbing her swollen belly. `` She needs the years.'' I'd nod understandingly, sympathetically, and direct her to a room below deck to wait for the birth. The baby would be born, squawking and filthy and covered in all sorts of bodily fluids. The mother would want to hold it; we never let them. They'd only get attached. 
 
 Then we'd divvy up the years. `` Here's fifty for your mom,'' we'd tell her, and send her packing back home with a `` I went to the reaper ship and all I got was this lifetime of guilt'' T-shirt. We'd all skim a year or two off the top, and the remaining 20 or so would be sold, usually to some banker or CEO. Quick, painless, profitable, and soul-killing.
