I learned a lot that first day. Again and again, I form paper from nothing, pouring words down into the pages. Apples, each one more detailed and solid from the last, are offered to me, until I'm satisfied with my handiwork. There seems to be no distinction between the trees; all the progress I gain with one specimen is carried over to another when I engage with it.

I am pleasantly surprised when LeafLink, after a while, shows signs that it remembers each attempt I make. Eventually, just thinking the word apple elicits a perfect emulation of the real thing. But it's more than that. All the examples I've written about are red apples, like Granny Smiths, or Fujis, but when I ask for a green apple on a whim, the understanding seems to cross over. I'm presented with one that is just as indiscernible as the other attempts, respectively - it even managed to capture the subtle sourness of the green variety.

I don't realize how much time has passed until I turn away from a generator tree and see Sara standing in front of me.

"Jesus Christ!" I clutch my chest, backpedaling. "You came outta nowhere!"

She shakes her head slightly, but I can tell she's amused.

"You've been busy," she says, bending down to pick up one of the many apples littered around us. She brings it closer, letting it catch the light. "I'm very impressed. This truly looks like the real thing."

I'm a bit proud of myself. "It was easy, once I stopped trying to hold everything in my mind." I proceed to explain my process. "Writing seems to really get your intentions across."

Sara's not really listening to me, though. She brushes her hand across a generator-tree, and another perfect apple falls into her lap.

"It understands," she breathes, regarding the apple. "After just a single day."

"Well, it wasn't too hard..." I trail off, once I see her expression.

"The board rejected the idea, initially," she murmurs, "hiring you and the rest of your team, I mean. They were convinced the problem was in the technology. I had to work so very hard to get this approved. Did you know, Mr. Vitalli, that you are the first person to ever write to LeafLink?"

I shrug. "It didn't take too long to figure out."

"Hmm." She regards me. "Why is that?"

"Because..." I think about this. "Because I thought the problem was that it didn't understand me - not with thought alone. I needed something clearer."

"Language."

"What?"

"Language," she repeats herself. "You're teaching LeafLink how to communicate, aren't you?"

I don't say anything; the way she speaks about LeafLink is vaguely unsettling, as though it were something other than the virtual world around us. "Anyway, Mr. Vittali-"

"Call me Anton," I say.

"Okay, Anton - you're shift's over. It's time to open your eyes."

"Aright, Sara." I say.

"Dr. Kaur, please," is the last thing she says before I return to reality.

With a momentary flicker of darkness, the forest is replaced by the white walls of the conference room. I'm dimly aware that the others are still 'uplinked,' as the cashier last night would have put it, but most of my attention is directed towards my aching body and very unhappy bladder. I force muscles that have been stagnant for too long to carry me through the hallway towards the lobby. There, the receptionist directs me to a bathroom, wherein I promptly relieve myself.

The walk back to the conference room is a much more languid experience, and I take my time, stretching out my limbs. Part of me wants to explore the other doorways along the long, curved hallway, but I know better than to stick my nose into unfamiliar territory.

By the time I've returned, the others are moving around, Dr. Kaur included.

"Bathroom's that way," I point, and Alves and Bridget are up and running. Johanna, meanwhile, is speaking to the doctor in low tones, but they both turn to me as I approach.

"How'd it go?' I ask her.

"Very interesting." There's a certain paleness to her face that could be shock, exhaustion, or something completely different. "LeafLink is so much more than I was imagining." I find myself agreeing, but I don't push her for details quite yet.

When the others return, Dr. Kaur dismisses us.

"You're all good to go." The doctor waves us off. "That should be enough for today. Since you can access LeafLink from anywhere, there's no need for you to return to the facility. We'll continue to meet at the same time each morning, before splitting into our respective roles." She explains a little about our schedule, but then we're free to go. Even though it's essentially useless, I still have my phone on me, and I check the clock, surprised to find it already early afternoon.

The four of us leave together. There's not a lot of chatter; I can't speak for the others, but I need some time to just think about what's happened today.

Bridget breaks the silence as we reach the parking lot. "There's a decent-looking bar I saw in the pamphlet they gave us," she says, pulling her bike off a metal rack. "How about we meet up for a drink this evening, get to know each other?"

Alves just shrugs amicably, and Johnna and I voice our agreement.

"Not gonna invite the good doctor?" I ask.

"Who? Our supervisor?" Bridget finds the idea funny, scoffing at me.

"She's a bit... creepy." Johanna ventures, and this actually elicits a true laugh from the other woman.

"Never call your boss a creep!" She says, and I chime in, wagging a finger at Johanna.

She cracks a smile, but the lines furrowed into her brows don't disappear.

...

The bar is part of a strip mall in the heart of the Valley's downtown area. Wedged between a clothing store and a sandwich shop, it is part of the increasingly obvious latter category of 'still open.' I could see the signs of abandonment along the way; shuttered restaurants, desolate streets. There was still life here, but it was muted, emptier than it used to be.

The bar itself is a classic staple of Long Island hospitality. Vaguely Italian, the room is dark, wood-paneled, and thick with the scent of herbs. Tables boast white napkins, and silver cutlery, tall, thin-necked wine glasses.

We choose to arrange ourselves along the bar, a dark granite monstrosity, and distribute beer and fried calamari amongst ourselves.

I'd been dying to ask the others what they'd been up to all day, and so I can't stop myself from blurting out questions the moment we all arrive.

"It was really fascinating, actually," Johanna was the most eager to share. "She gave me this list of architectural styles, and told me to make scale models of each of them, as detailed as possible. It was pretty hard, initially, but then I had the idea of using sketches and concept drawings, like the assignments I did back in school."

Then Bridget tells us how she was given a list of basic items, just like me. Instead of writing things out like I had, however, Sara had pointed her in a different direction, suggesting she use her talents as a visual artist. For her, drawing out her intention had been the key to success.

Alves was the last to go. He speaks slowly, working around mouthfuls of octopus. "I'm a designer," he says, "used to work for a big retailer. She had me 'making' different kinds of clothes from a list." He inclines his head towards the two women. "Like you two, I found it a much easier task when I used visual art as a medium."

"It's interesting," I muse aloud, hoping to prompt something from the others. I want to see if Sara told them any more details then what she'd shared with me.

Language, she had said, as though LeafLink was something even remotely capable of understanding me.

"Didn't it feel a little too... simple?" I say, "I'm sure your skills certainly helped, but the way Sara acted towards me at least, it was like I invented the wheel."

"I'm not surprised." Bridget's voice rises in volume. "We're all creatives here, right? You think anyone in there approached it like we did?" She sighs, leaning back in her chair. "It's so frustrating, you know? They need us, but I all I cant think about is how we're contributing to the death of the arts by training this thing."

"What do you mean?" Johanna asks.

"Well, it's using our talents to learn. So eventually, I'm sure anyone could hop into LeafLink and create the dress of their dreams that you-" she points at Alves, "-helped it figure out how to make. Or some contractor turns to LeafLink for building plans, since it's soaked up all that knowledge from real architects."

Johanna fidgets in her seat, but Alves is impassive.

"Well, you knew what you were getting yourself into, right?" I'm trying to defuse the tension, end the topic short so I can steer the conversation my way again. "I'm sure the application had a metaphorical skull and crossbones plastered across it."

Briget's reaction is not what I'm expecting. She looks away, hesitates for a moment before speaking.

"Well, I'd been laid off, and I didn't know what to do. An old friend reached out, said his company was looking for visual artists to help build up LeafLink. I knew he was being vague, and I hated myself for taking it, but..." She sighs, looks at me fully. "Sometimes you feel one way, but the world makes you act another."

Silence falls across the four of us for a moment.

Then Johanna speaks up, her voice small, "They reached out to me through my alumni network. I barely asked a question - I was just so excited to be starting out with a high-paying job."

"My uncle's an investor for BioLink," I admit. "He connected me."

"Kaur's my cousin," Alves said.

We can only gape at him.

"I'm kidding!" He cracks a smile, the first real one I've seen from him since we've met.

"I'm actually from the area, so I saw firsthand what was happening," he explains. "I joined all the way back when they started this up, in administration, but when rumors started flying about Sara assembling a creative team, I reached out to her. Now, here I am. It's funny," he added. "I was surprised when things actually fell into place. Sara's a chief scientist, doesn't really rub with the stakeholders much... I think it's the first time she's ever pushed for a program like this before."

We all look at him then with a new sense of appreciation. This was someone who chose to stay, to work for BioLink - someone who had inside information about the company's landscape. It renewed my sense of curiosity.

"So wait..." I try, once again, to bring our conversation around, pushing a little more. "Did Sara say anything to you guys-" I pause for a moment, letting the bartender pass out of earshot. "-sorry, say anything that seemed off?" I struggle for the right words. "Anything about LeafLink?"

"Not really." Bridget brushes me off, turns to face Alves. "You've been here the whole time. Must have been wild, watching this all come up."

The others chime in, peppering him with questions about his time at BioLink prior. None of them seem particularly interested in my question.

Was I just imagining things, acting paranoid? Johanna had said she'd gotten a strange vibe from the woman, but maybe that had just been first-day nerves. Maybe I was looking to much into the semantics of a throw-away comment-

"So none of us were formally hired?" Bridget poses the question to all of us, dragging me out of my thoughts.

"Looks like she pulled from people with connections to the company," Alves says.

"People that were desperate for work," Johanna adds.

"Can't say I'm complaining," I chime in, trying to shake my unease. I lift my glass of dark, foamy ale, pinning a smile to my face. "Here's to LeafLink and making money!"

...

There was a lot for me to think about. So much, in fact, that sleep eluded me as I stared up at the cabin's vaulted wooden ceiling.

I thought I'd been the only one, but it looked like all of us had been hired on through untraditional means. It seemed odd to have circumvented the normal job process, but my conversation with Sara, back in LeafLink, had made it seem like she was a bit of a black sheep, especially with me and the others thrown in. Alves had mentioned that she was on the developmental side of things, and Sara herself had told me that she disagreed with BioLink's board. To what extent, I had no idea, but it was clear the creative team was a part of it.

I find myself overcome by a sudden bout of mirth. I'd been so focused on the strangeness of my job that LeafLink itself had drifted to the rear of my thoughts. It had been exciting, and incredible, but also a bit of a letdown, in some ways. Sara had acted as though what I'd done today was revolutionary, but to me, moving past the fallibility of thought alone just seemed like common sense. But then again, my logic there wasn't exactly scientific in nature. I'd treated the problem as though LeafLink was someone I was trying to have a conversation with, not a complex algorithm that could create your heart's desire.

There would be no answers for me tonight, so I close my eyes and let my mind wonder until reality fades around me.

...

I stand within a copse of trees unlike anything I've seen before, in real-life or otherwise. Tall, delicate filaments waver in an invisible current all around me, their movements like the grasping tendrils of a man o' war. There is a uniformity to the pale light around me, as though it were being emitted from every possible angle.

I am not alone here. There is a child, maybe about four or five years in age, that stands a few paces away. It is naked, but there are no identifying sex characteristics - its skin is as smooth and featureless as a mannequin. I am drawn to the pale, lime-tinted color of their skin, its hairlessness. Veins of a darker green spiderweb beneath its flesh.

Its features are unremarkable, but shockingly symmetrical. It lifts its hands, holding them aloft. Suddenly there is an offering to me, cupped within its palms.

"Apple," it says, in a thin, reedy voice that is vaguely unpleasent, like someone scratching their nails against a blackboard. "Sweet and juicy."

I take it from the child with shaking fingers, and I feel an intense warmth when my fingers brush against its skin.

It is the perfect apple. I don't taste it, but I know, somehow, that it would offer the ideal balance of tart sweetness.

"Who are you?" I ask.

Its face furrows in apparent concentration, but it doesn't answer. Instead, it creates another apple from nothing. This time, when it holds it out to me, it's almost plaintive in its movement.

"No, no." I say. "I don't want an apple."

Its expression grows to one of frustration when I don't move. Scowling, it opens its mouth, then closes it again, as though it cannot make up its mind. But then, just as quickly as it arrived, its face clears of emotion. Then it turns away, and the world dissolves around me as I stare, transfixed, at the child's retreating form.