2048 / Year 35

May

laying on the floor, shag carpet beneath her fingertips, hannah stared at the ceiling for so long that—for a split second—the townhouse had turned upside down. the ceiling fan became a spinning obstruction on a plaster floor. the stairs became a ramp of drywall. the books and lamps and trinkets looked as if they were glued to the shelves so they wouldn't fall.

hannah sat up, blinked hard, and the illusion died. the living room was right-side-up again.

pink beams blasted through the bay window. the fireplace was set to high because—even during the day—the planet was freezing. hannah ran her fingers along the mantle, then wiped the accumulation of dust on her jeans.

something's missing, she thought. the mantel shouldn't be so bare.

she raised her hand, balled her fist, and summoned a menu into the right half of her vision. she selected the "create" button, then the "house" button, then scanned the next series of tabs: "walls," "windows," "doors," "furniture," and "decor." she selected "decor."

the object she needed was too archaic to appear on the list. she selected "vase" instead, and the object appeared floating before her eyes.

the menus were clean and mostly functional, but placing the object inside the environment was cumbersome. digital artifacting around the vase's edge betrayed its reality, but the more hannah focused, the more stable the object became.

"blue," she said, and the vase turned blue.

"smaller," she said, and it shrunk.

when the design and color were as she remembered, hannah plucked the object from the air and placed it on the mantel. nice.

through the room she moved, arms out, feet bare, taking it in and letting it be. the front door—not the same as her memory but close enough—opened when she turned the knob.

she stepped onto the porch and into the arid wasteland of mars. she breathed the ether. she surveyed the rocks, the cinnamon dust, and the rusty-smooth sky.

in an instant, she fashioned a pearl. she pinched it between her fingers, held it at arm's length, closed one eye, and let the tiny sphere cover—completely—the distant sun.

her solitary townhouse was the only sign of life in the frozen landscape. strawberries grew in a patch out back. their scent was too overpowering to be natural... real strawberries didn't smell like cherry cough syrup.

hannah was thirty-five million miles from earth, nearly weightless, and—without an atmosphere—living in absolute silence. (the silence was another illusion; she could still hear the dull pulse of the club's relentless baseline.)

"Twenty seconds remaining," declared an effeminate voice from the sky.

hannah opened the menu and saved her progress on her martian townhouse.

"Five seconds, sweetheart! And three... two... one."

the landscape flickered and dissolved with an abstract flash of pixelated slop. for a split second, the universe turned white, and

* * *

Hannah awoke. She sat up, pinched the bridge of her nose, and squinted with a headache worse than brainfreeze.

Her contacts switched to transparent mode, revealing Amadeus—a pale-faced man with orange eyeliner and rose blush—leering over her and peeling electrodes from her temples.

"That didn't seem like thirty minutes," she said.

"It never does, Strawberry." He patted her cheeks with the clump of bones he called hands. "Stand up, girly. Back to reality. The headache will fade."

"Yeah," she said, then swatted his hand and pushed herself from the chair.

"You're doin' okay, lovely?"

"I'm great."

"Your 'roommate' is treating you okay?"

"Everything's fine."

"Maybe grab a bite before hittin' the dance floor?"

"I'm heading to a tavern now."

"You don't need a breather, girly. You need a steak and a tan."

"Goodbye, Amadeus."

"See you tomorrow, girly."

A woman took Hannah's place and Amadeus attached the electrodes to her head. "Miss Tambourine, my favorite adventurer! Would you like to upload your island? Or are we looking for a new experience?"

"I'm feeling morose tonight," said the woman. "Put me on my island... and make it rain."

"Your wish is my delight." Amadeus faced a bulky cube the size of a toaster and performed a series of hand gestures. "A rainy day in San Cristóbal, coming right up."

Hannah adjusted the mesh lining in her black dress and tightened the sash around her waist. Multi-colored bands on her wrists, three necklaces with silver pearls dangling in her cleavage, braids—natural with red and orange streaks—stuck from her head like frayed rope.

The night only had one objective: to buy a Crimson breather before she died from withdrawals.

She peered out from the clear cube and into the heart of the MidNite Rave. The silence in the glass oasis was deafening compared to the pandemonium on the other side. She stepped forward, a seamless pane slid open, and a force of deep bass thumped against her chest like a battering ram, rattling her senses and prepping her body for the remainder of the night. With a confident strut, Hannah stepped into the party.

The MidNite Rave was the Lasker's Department Store of nightclubs... literally. Two years ago, the Los Angeles chain purchased one of Lasker's abandoned retail locations, stripped it bare, and turned it into its twentieth franchise. It wasn't surprising that Joseph hated the Midnite Raves.

Below her, Level One held the main dance floor strobing orange and white to the beat of inexorable music, embracing the dancers as a single, gyrating mass. Synthetic trees lined the outskirts of the party with branches that extended past all three balconies that encircled the entire building. A patch of fake laid at the base of each tree where sexless groups could share Pinkberry breathers, frolic and fondle with altered sex organs like cucumbers and Cheerios. All four levels pulsated with different colors to the same beat, creating a flickering rainbow effect that scaled from the main dance floor to the Los Angeles sky.

Level Two—where Hannah was standing—housed a dozen glass cubes, each with a different vendor. Most vendors were a competing variation of interactive environments similar to the PEC system that brought her to Mars.

"Forget breathers!" declared the hologram outside the God Pod cube. "God Pods are cheap, pure, and limitless... and withdrawal symptoms are gone in minutes instead of days!"

The PECs and God Pods were the most popular brands, though the Pleasure Pod Corporation was a notable competitor. Hannah was forced into a Pleasure Pod on a dare from Cherry. The padded bed and forehead electrodes were similar to the PECs, but the Pleasure Pods focused on exotic sex instead of exotic locations. Hannah could create her ideal partner and customize every conceivable act. Flipping through thirty pubic styles and twelve erections turned out to be more disturbing than sexy, and she ended up laughing so hard that she couldn't go through with the experience.

One of Hannah's favorite cubes housed six full grown tigers. For fifty bucks she could spend ten minutes with the animals, petting their fur, pressing her ear to their chests, and listening to their guttural purrs. The advertisements read "Danger: The Final Frontier." Of course, the tigers were not only tame, but completely impotent, stripped of their basic instincts with a chip drilled into the back of their skull. Hannah felt bad for the creatures, but still enjoyed the tangibility of the fur, stripes, teeth, and claws.

Level Three housed a series of darker experiences; the Purgatory Room being the most controversial. Inside, humans and machines were armed with every conceivable method of torture and trained to find patches of skin that hurt most and healed quickest. Yet another reason the MidNite Rave was a "no morties" adventure.

Level Four consisted of several smaller dance floors between an endless ring of bars and breather taverns. Liquor's affect on the body was hardly substantial, so new methods of mind alteration were concocted. Lungs had become the gateway to the brain.

Cherry's photo popped up in the corner of Hannah's vision followed by a mental prodding that said, ["Giiirl, where you at?"] A map of the club appeared below Cherry's pic, indicating that she was at their usual booth on Level Four.

Hannah pushed her way through the clog of smoke, booze, and perspiration until she found an open lift. She stepped on the platform, ignored the safety bar, and thought, ["Level Four."] The hexagonal slab rose high above the dance floor and dropped her off at her usual tavern.

"Big legislation changes last night," Ben said, his face glowing above the counter of colorful breathers.

"Anything to get excited about?" she asked.

"Antidepressants were decriminalized. Canary, Sunlight—"

"What else?"

"Lilac is the third Purple to get axed. The big guys really hate forget-me-nows."

"Crimson?"

"Baby," Ben smirked, "your shade's never gonna be legal."

She formed her fingers into a fake gun, put it to her temple, and pulled the trigger. "I'll take one anyway. Give me the back-room special."

He lowered his voice. "Sorry, Strawberry. New supply won't be here 'til Thursday."

She scowled. If she was going to stomach Cherry's nonsense and contribute to her art, she needed Crimson.

"I've got Ruby or AuBurn," Ben said. "I know they lack a certain sting..."

"They're worthless." Hannah ditched the tavern and found Cherry at their usual table, sipping something yellow, tapping her tumbler with blood-red nails, and itching her dreadlock doo, wrapped and curled and held in place like the head of Medusa's slutty cousin. Her tattoo—an abstract butterfly spread from shoulder to shoulder—gleamed gold, proclaiming to the rave that Cherry was in a particularly good mood. She yelled something to Hannah but the music was too loud.

"Wha'd you say?" Hannah shouted and slipped into the booth.

"I said there's a man lookin' for you!"

"Who?"

"Brock Foster! Two tables down!"

"Who?"

"Brock Foster!" she said louder.

"Who's that?"

"What?"

"Who is he!"

"Holy god, Hannah, he's pure celebrity! Turn your head and check it out!"

Hannah wasn't looking for love or lust, but she decided to humor her friend. Over her shoulder she found a boy too beautiful to ignore, surrounded by friends, laughing and chatting and reveling in his position as the center of the earth's attention.

Brock was probably young. Young meant obnoxious. Young meant substituting elaborate intellectual displays in place of perspective. Young meant talking down to Hannah as if they could offer her something she hadn't heard or conceived a thousand times before they were born. Sometimes she played dumb so she could exist for one second on the same plane as another human. She often used this technique with Cherry... pretending to be interested in mind-numbing gossip so she could maintain the interest of at least one friend. "Why is he famous?" she asked.

"He was the first American to get T4! He was studying in Japan in Year 0! Says he saw you here last week!"

"Great!"

Even shouting, Cherry must have picked up on Hannah's sarcasm. Her tattoo dissolved from gold to grey. "Uhg!" she said. "Why do you have to be like that?"

"If he's interested, why didn't he message me?"

"He's old school like you!" Her tat turned yellow again. "I told him about your art!"

"You told him about my current piece?"

"He's famous! And I was high!"

"That's the last time I tell you anything!"

"Why don't you say hi? See what else you have in common!"

"I need a breather, not a boy!"

"Want a Sapphire?"

Hannah scoffed. "It's basically weed, Cherry!"

"Cerulean, then?"

She shook her head. Blues just made things worse.

"Let me buy you a Tangerine!"

"I don't need a stimulant!"

"I think you do!"

"You know what I need..."

"I can't hear you!"

["I said, 'you know what I need.'"]

Cherry shook her head. Her dreads shimmied like a dead squid. ["It's not healthy, Hannah."]

["You think it'll hurt me?"]

["Not your body..."]

Suddenly, Brock appeared behind Cherry, hands in his pockets and swaying on the balls of his feet. "I think I've got what you need."

His presence caught Hannah off guard and she instinctively scanned his bio: "23/56. No known arrests. Popularity status of 957," the highest she'd seen outside Joseph.

Brock removed his hand from his pocket and casually removed a Crimson breather. "Come talk to me."

* * *

The lure of the apparently infamous Brock Foster (and the narcotic in his hand) dragged Hannah to an enclosed booth that looked like a flamboyant cocoon. The walls folded around them, forcing their bodies closer until their knees touched. "Sorry about the pod," he said. "Sometimes I just need to get away." He eased himself into the heated cushions. "So... what do you do, Strawberry?"

"I'm a professional golfer," she replied.

"Do you have a boyfriend?"

"Six, actually."

"How long have you lived in LA?"

She shifted her weight and pulled her knees away from his. "Why don't you read my profile?"

"I prefer talking. Is that a problem?"

Hannah relaxed. She once boycotted lenses in favor of "real human connection," and just because she wasn't in the mood for interaction didn't mean she could fault Brock for his values. "I'm an artist," she said. "I'm single, and I live in Masdar Gardens."

"Masdar? Really?"

"Really."

"Another killer product of the zero boomers. Is it as Stepford as I imagine?"

She smiled at the reference. Outside of Joseph, no one ever talked about old films. "You know how the women act in that movie? Imagine everything acting that way. Every person, car, table, mirror, note-screen, pet—"

"Even the pets are from Stepford?"

"My neighbor takes her maltese for walks sometimes. It hops around all adorable with those creepy eyes that look dead in the right light."

"Does it take little pretend shits?"

"The shits are real. They're tiny metal pellets, and if you collect enough of them, you can build a new dog."

Brock grinned. "From the mind of an artist."

She shrugged.

"Your friend told you who I am?"

"Uh huh."

"What do you think?"

"Cool."

He chuckled. "Your lack of enthusiasm makes you more attractive."

"Then I must be gorgeous."

"You're the most gorgeous sixty-year-old I've ever seen."

"I thought you didn't read my profile."

"You gave away your age when you said 'cool.'"

"Ah."

"So I was close?"

"Two years off."

"Sixty-two?"

"The other way."

"Tell me about your art."

"What do I need to say to get that?" She nodded to the breather.

"Straight to the point. You're my kind of—"

"I'm not your kind of anything."

He snickered, then tightened his grasp on the breather. "Your friend—"

"Cherry."

"—tells me you're into—"

"Cherry's a Yellow-pushing monophobe. I can assure you I don't derive pleasure from pain."

"Does it bother you that I derive pleasure from watching pain?"

"Get in line behind the other sadists."

"Do the other sadists have what you need?" He held up the Crimson.

Hannah double checked his profile. "No known arrests."

"Have you tried the new Purgatory Room?" he asked.

"I'm not into torture."

"But you're into Red."

"Crimson."

"And Purple."

"Cherry told you that too?"

"What's a gorgeous girl like you trying to forget?"

"Assholes."

"Good. Then you'll remember me."

"I remember all of them. Purple doesn't work."

"Nightshade?"

"Nightshade, Lavender, Merlot, Lilac... I remember everything."

He grinned. "Tell me about your art."

"Haven't we been over this?"

"You didn't answer."

She sighed. "You couldn't handle my art."

"Try me."

"It's not something I can explain."

"Then show me."

"When it's finished."

"When will that be?"

"Depends on the Crimson."

"Why?"

She shrugged. "Sometimes I need an extra... kick." She emphasized the second "k" and found herself stumbling into full-blown seduction mode.

"Have you heard of Mantis?"

"I'm not a connoisseur."

"It's a new shade. Stimulates the amygdala, the insula, and the pituitary while temporarily weakening the muscles. From what I hear, it'll amplify my desire and pleasure while preventing me from inflicting pain."

"Cool."

"That word again."

"The Mantis—"

"I have one canister. I've been waiting for the right time."

Hannah opened her GPS to make sure Joseph was still at work. He was.

Again, Brock held out the Crimson. "One puff now... and the rest when I take the Mantis."

Hannah reached for the breather.

He pulled it away. "One more request."

"What?"

"Take Tangerine with me."

"I don't mix."

Brock's lips curled into a grin both seductive and menacing. "You mix tonight."

"Red first?"

He tossed her the canister.

Hannah ignored the blasé gaze of the cocky superstar as she unlocked the breather and held it to her lips. She closed her eyes, pressed down, inhaled, then clasped her chest as the venom webbed through her body, burning from the inside out with a shockwave of profound euphoria. Her spine convulsed and she fell forward—almost into Brock's lap—holding her arms under her legs in a half-fetal position and savoring every movement of liquid fire as it slithered from her lungs to her extremities and poked thumbtacks into her fingers and toes.

As fast as the Crimson tore her apart, the T4 stitched her back together. (One dose, she knew, would kill a mortie.)

Before Hannah realized she was sitting up again, she felt another breather in her mouth, the Tangerine, "One, two, three," said the man and she inhaled.

The Orange rushed to her organs instead of her limbs, taking hold of her heart, driving it to wild palpitations, thrusting blood to her head and crotch while blending with the Red to crystalize and deepen the pain.

Brock huffed. His eyes widened like two flying saucers and Hannah knew his intent but didn't care. She was outside herself, standing by Cherry, watching this pseudo-celebrity lead a weak little girl from the safety of the chrysalis through the jungle of the MidNite Rave, a tear rolling down her cheek, the agony and the orgasm still surging through her body.

* * *

On the floor, nude apart from her unclasped bra, writhing on the clear plastic tarpaulin crinkling between clenched fist; a bucket on her right (splattered with blood from this night and others), Hannah held her wrist and relished the gore as her arteries leaked into the pail and her body struggled to repair itself. An antique tube grew from a needle in her ankle, looping even more blood into the unholy container.

A satchel of knives was unrolled at her feet beside a sheathe of brushes.

The psychotic smell of iron. Empty canisters of Crimson and Mantis. The naked man on her bed, limp-limbed with open, atrophied thighs; the only ridged part of his body buried deep inside his fist. Eyelids stretched, pupils trained on her; she throbbed with all the wrath of a jackal in heat.

Hannah's art—usually rolled up and hidden—had been unleashed for its very first spectator. The picture was of a curled human fetus torn from her unquenchable imagination, painted in her own blood; possibly inside a womb, possibly on the slab (she still wasn't sure).

The psychedelic mania of Mantis and Orange treated the man's body to another series of spasms, bestowing his senses with his own twisted breed of delight.

At that moment, another man entered, pathetic and oblivious, heartbroken and traumatized at the sight splayed before him.

"Joe!" Hannah screamed.

"Who the fuck is Joe?" cried the boy with a voice like a schoolgirl.

"Get out!" Hannah screamed, yanking a needle from her foot and wiping her wrist with a sopping red towel.

"Me?" Brock asked.

"Both of you!"

The boy flopped to the ground, kicked the bucket, and sloshed blood across the plastic where it puddled and pooled. He bypassed his underwear and went straight for his pants, using every ounce of strength to pull them over his wobbling legs.

"Get out!" she screamed. "Get out! Get out! Get out!"

* * *

When the madness passed, Hannah saw Joe walking circles in the dark living room.

He hates me. She thought.

Curled in a ball beneath familiar blankets—mirroring the pose of her unborn subject on the wall above her—she longed for Joe to either come or go. Either quit watching me or come to bed.

Truthfully, she wanted him to hold her... and a moment later, he was. The lights were out so she poked her head from the covers. His arm around her back... his warmth... she squeezed her eyes shut and savored the remains of her dwindling high.

* * *

"Don't come in."

"I won't. I've tried to be conscious of your boundaries since—"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"I know, Hannah, but I'm your father—"

"Is that the word we're using?"

"Yes."

"I'm fifty-eight years old, Joe. I don't need a dad."

"Princess, you need me now more than—"

"Please don't call me that."

"Talk to me, sweetie. You don't have to look up from your painting... but talk to me."

"What do you want me to say?"

"Tell me about your piece."

"It's a fetus made from—"

"I know what it is. What does it mean?"

"If I tell you what it means, it'll be ruined."

"Why?"

"It's like explaining the punchline to a joke."

"I see."

"Explanations cheapen the meaning. It's supposed to be subtle, something people can read into if they're patient."

"You're right. I should have tried to figure it out on my own."

"It's just... frustrating."

"What's frustrating?"

"The monotony. The competition. The human hivemind leading to inevitable behavioral sink."

"What's behavioral sink?"

"Twelve billion people and we all want to succeed, to make a difference, to stand out, to be remembered. We finally live in a world where creativity is a commodity, where originality is valuable... but how many billions of people burn with that creative desire?"

"Lots."

"And how many can compete with algorithms that predict and manufacture creativity? How many will actually see their dreams come true?"

"Not many."

"The few who do will only make things worse, spurring us faster and faster toward decline. Abnormal behavior. Destructive behavior. Universe 25. Mass extinction."

"It's really that bad?"

"The only way an artist can break free is to devote themselves to shock... to stifle the viewer's need for 'something to happen.' I can try to fight these changes with another boring series of landscapes while standing firm in my bygone convictions, or I can bite the fucking bullet, accept reality, and put something out there that's bold, personal, and exciting enough to appease the masses."

"I see."

"I don't expect you to understand."

"Believe it or not... I think I do."

* * *

The Pacific Ocean churned with smooth, undulating hills that crescendo at the shore, rolled over, and crashed into the bank where Hannah was having another dreaded moment of lucidity.

She picked up her canvas from the sand, held the top edge, and snapped it like a beach blanket. The blood-child faced the sky with eyes closed and arms tight against its chest.

The cold stung Hannah's ankles as she dragged the unfinished piece to the water's edge. It swelled beneath the surface and floundered with the tide. Eventually, salt would corrode the blood and fish would nibble the frays until only a ghost of the forsaken child remained.

["Incoming call from Joseph."]

Go away! She declined the call and wondered why he didn't text like everybody else.

["Incoming call from Joseph."]

I don't want to see you right now!

The third time, Hannah answered the call. "What?"

Joseph's face looked like it had been carved from stone with a shovel. "I need you to come home."

"Why? What's wrong?"

"We'll talk when you're back." He ended the call.

Hannah sighed. She looked once more at her failed endeavor—layers of red seeping into the undulating sea—then turned around and walked to her car.

* * *

Joseph was sitting still and alone on the living room sofa when Hannah arrived. The house seemed confused by his lack of action and tried pummeling him with advertisements for things to do. "It has been seven hours since you've eaten a significant portion of protein..." The refrigerator lit up in the kitchen. "...and three hours since you've had a glass of water." The light turned on above the sink. "Sunlight and exercise are good for the brain." A hologram materialized in the dining room; an old man in shorts and tee juggled a soccer ball between his head and knees.

"Go away," Hannah said, and swiped away the ads. She put her hand on her hip, scowled at Joseph, and said, "What's wrong?"

"Sit down and talk?" he asked.

"We could have talked over the—"

"It's important."

She rolled her eyes and walked to her room. "We talked yesterday."

Suddenly, with a new consummate authority, Joseph commanded, "Hannah Lynn Lasker. Sit down right now."

She peeked from the bedroom door, then—rattled—joined him on the couch. Before he could muster his thoughts, she blurted, "I threw it away."

"The painting?"

She didn't respond.

"You didn't have to do that."

"It made you sick... and I was starting to feel the same way."

"If that's what you think is best—"

"What did you want to talk—"

"I'm dying."

She scoffed. "That's impossible."

"I'm tired, princess. I feel like the oldest person on the planet."

"People love old men. It's practically a fetish."

"I'm going to talk to a real doctor."

"The only real doctors specialize in morties. Where the hell are you gonna find—"

"Living Enterprises. They're the Masdar Gardens of healthcare."

"I know what they are."

"I scheduled an appointment for next Friday."

"I don't understand. What are they going to fix?"

Joseph touched her shoulder. "I've reached all my life's goals, princess. And now..."

"Now what?"

"I'm just..." He smiled weakly. "...existing."

"You want to die."

"I want to discuss my options."

"Fine. Do what you want and tell me what they say."

"Come with me."

"To a holo-conference?"

"I'm visiting Living Enterprises in person."

Hannah's foot began to tremble. "The New York branch?"

"No. Chicago. And I'd love to have you by my side."

* * *

Not only did Joe want to pack up Hannah's life in less than a week and move cross-country to the city she loathed, but he wanted to do it by land.

That was the problem with his generation. They were snagged by a cosmic hook reeling them back to a time when things made sense. Ultimately, it wasn't their fault. They were born in an epoch when humans weren't forced to adapt to new technology. In the twenty most influential years of Joseph's life, the biggest technological advancement was color TV.

Hannah, on the other hand, grew up in the elbow of exponential growth and learned quickly how to adapt to a barrage of new ideas.

Packing for Chicago was a sobering experience. As she consolidated her room into four boxes—clothes, more clothes, junk, and trash—the truth quickly emerged that she didn't actually have a life in California. She had casual acquaintances at the rave and theater... but they probably wouldn't notice she was gone. Clothes and art supplies were about the only physical objects she needed to pack. Everything else was either cheap to replace or stored in a cloud.

Hannah discovered the little blue jar in her bottom drawer. Small strips of duct tape held the lid to the base. She wrapped it in an old dress and placed it in the box labeled "junk."

* * *

And so the trip began, Joseph pretending to drive, Hannah like a ball in the backseat bed, holding her stomach, ignoring the withdrawals, pining for Mars, and aching for one last puff of Red.

They drove past their first mortal community at the Arizona boarder. A faded billboard was the only indication that the village existed. They had seen enough news exposés to know the community was comprised almost entirely of people who refused T4 ("mortal martyrs," Cherry called them).

Inspired by some joyful recollection, Joe broke the quiet with music from his childhood. Buddy Holly, Elvis, Simon and Garfunkel; the beats were mundane, the lyrics were literal, but the songs were human.

"Have you heard of Sam Cooke?" he asked, flipping to a song about a chain gang.

Hannah didn't respond.

"I had a friend who turned me on to his music. I know you can't imagine it, but I was hip back in the day..." His voice disappeared behind the simple tune. "I wish I could remember his name..."

Behind them, the sky turned from red to pink as night dominated the desert. "Dinner in Flagstaff?" Joe asked.

"I've got soylant," Hannah replied. Then she rolled over, held her stomach, covered her eyes with her arm, and ignored the stunning violet horizon painted before them.

* * *

Thankfully, Hannah was able to convince Joe to fly over Iowa. Nebraska had been a nightmare of tedium, and she didn't think the Corn State would be any better. The "flight" button was the only manual button in the car. When Joe pushed it, the vehicle lifted from the street, ascended through wisps of stratus, and soared along its invisible path.

As they crossed the Illinois boarder, she couldn't keep herself from reminiscing. She normally despised sentiment as much as Joseph, but the word "Chicago" was enough to illicit emotion.

From her musings, an idea emerged. It was a long shot, but something prodded her to try anyway. ["Search for Amelía Mendel,"] she thought.

["It has been 12,535 days since you last spoke with Amelía Mendel, now named Amelía Cardella. Would you like to call her? Or would you like more information?"]

["More info."]

["Since you last spoke with Amelía, she has moved three times, changed jobs four times, and divorced once. She is unmarried and without children. She currently resides 113 miles east of your current location."]

Hannah scanned her friend's profile: "32/67. No known arrests. Popularity status of 438." The divorce didn't surprise her... but the fact that Aimee got T4 in Year 0 did.

["Would you like to call Amelía?"]

Somewhere in the haunted sector of Hannah's memory, an inkling whispered, "No."

But the inklings were irrational, steeped in thirty-year-old fears, and dead. Ignore it Hannah, she told herself. Just this once, try to focus on the good.

["Yes,"] she said. ["Call Amelía."]

The Chicagoland grid materialized beneath unpolluted skies. Willis Tower was still a prominent fixture on the skyline, but Living Enterprises had become the true heart of the city. Standing eighty-eight stories taller than Willis, it seemed almost fragile, as if a child could throw a stone at a second story window and topple the whole thing.

Suddenly, a familiar face appeared between Hannah and the city.

"Hannah?" Aimee said. "Is that you?"

END OF CHAPTER SEVEN