Reckoning

Rath Mercury

I watched the clip again: the lifeless body of a white-winged dove entered the shot at the top of my screen and plummeted off the bottom a half second later. Whoever was holding the camera didn’t notice; they stayed focused on a white guy speechifying about City plans for a soccer stadium. A few seconds later, four or five more birds fell behind the guy at the podium. The audio caught a few gasps from the crowd. But most people were too focused on the foreground to notice what was happening in the background. Observation bias is hilarious.

Next, a lot of birds fell all at once. Probably three dozen. The camera jerked to the ground, catching their bodies scattered like popcorn on the pavement. Off-screen, the speaker continued his endless list of thank yous. The doves did not move again.

Birds falling from the sky mean nothing but bad news—we’ve known that since Roman times. But I still didn’t know why a City employee named Heather had sent me this clip in the first place.

I’m Max Herkimer, psychogeographic investigator, or, as I’m more commonly and less charitably called, “that wacko”. Heather said she got my number from one of the letters I have a bad habit of sending to various City departments. That particular letter was about renaming a street to pacify an angry genius loci (I mean, can you blame it? No one wants to be the spirit of Corporate Forest Drive.) All my letters to the City went directly into the shredder, even the normal ones about installing new public bathrooms. Until now.

Heather asked to meet at a nothing bar on the far end of town, to make sure nobody she knew saw us. Of course, Albuquerque’s not that big. The first person she saw let out a big “Heather! What are you doing here?” and I slid into a booth while they hugged.

I’d never been to this particular bar. It had vibes, though. The decor screamed “Be average!” Vinyl beer ads. Peeling laminate bar. TVs mounted on every TV-worthy surface. It smelled like Lysol and fry oil. I’d put money down that the “good bros” in the corner were cheating on their wives with each other. You learn to spot these things in my line of work.

Another part of my work: avoiding notice. Every space has a pattern. Look at churches: you stay quiet. You keep your head down. You don’t wander into the fancy part up front. If you can find that pattern, you have power.

At a bar like this one, the pattern says order a light American lager and get lost in your phone. Heather’s pal walked off without even seeing me. You’re welcome, Heather. Her dark brown eyes were still scanning for acquaintances as she slid into the booth across from me. She was fifty-five, five foot six. An Albuquerque Dukes cap covered her straight black bob.

She eyed me as she swigged her Jack and Diet. “So . . . should I call you Mis—”

“Mx. Herkimer, if you insist, but I prefer just Max.” I had neither time for nor interest in watching her puzzle out my gender.

“Alright, Max.” Heather cleared her throat. “Your letter got my attention. But I’m curious. What exactly is pyschogeographic inquiry?” It rankled, the way she said my name, like an overburdened school teacher scolding a wretched teen. But there was no way I was going to let a City employee slip through my fingers after all this time.

See, Heather worked for the City. I worked for the city. Our jurisdictions just looked identical on a map, but they were two very different entities. I worked for the land, the graffiti, the spirits, the water, the birds, the people. She worked for the buildings, the policies, the infrastructure, the power. Still, a solid connection with the City would help with my more esoteric investigations.

“I solve problems people have with, you know,” I gestured vaguely, “our urban fabric.” I ought to work on the elevator pitch.

She snorted. “Sounds like we have the same job.”

“But I work for myself. You follow the rules.”

“Yeah, about that. Your card said you were licensed, bonded, and insured.” She looked at me with that school teacher’s look again. “Who licenses psychogeographers?”

“I do,” I said. She coughed. I added, “I have very high standards.”

She looked at the door. Maybe it was time to try a different tack.

“I am also bonded and insured. By someone else. And registered with the City as a private investigator. License #94792, if you want to look it up.” Maybe it was just wishful thinking, but it looked to me like her shoulders relaxed. “So tell me, what can I help you with?”

“You watched the video?”

“Several times,” I said.

She surveyed the bar one more time before continuing. “So . . . obviously there’s the birds, right? 47 birds just dropping dead behind a press conference.”

“The news said it was bird flu.”

“It wasn’t bird flu. We tested them.” She took another sip of her drink. Her hands had started to tremble. “Aside from the birds, it’s just weird there. Things go wrong, like, way too often.”

I loved those kinds of spots. “What kind of wrong?”

“It’s not any one thing.” She paused as the server refilled our water, then started counting incidents on her fingers. “The birds aren’t the only dead animals—they turn up constantly. Cats. Dogs. Raccoons. Then there are the floods. This huge trumpet vine pulled down some power lines and electrocuted someone. A dysentery outbreak. The sewer system.” She sighed heavily. “You cannot imagine how bad the sewers have been. Calls to poison control. And the neighbors are convinced there’s a serial arsonist.”

“Where?”

“Romeroville.” Heather pulled out a manila envelope. “There’s this little park—that’s where the video is from.” She showed me maps, newspaper articles, charts of City data from the last two years. She let out a breathy laugh. “Nobody takes me seriously.”

“I know the feeling,” I murmured as I reviewed her documents. Parts of the City develop a bad attitude, a reckless habit, negative vibes, whatever you want to call it. And they don’t always get better on their own. The City had their words for this kind of thing: Condemned. Substandard. Abandoned. Blighted. I preferred mine: Haunted. Cursed. Crossed. Vengeful.

“So what’s the goal here?”

Red crept into her tan, freckled cheeks. Heather took another drink from her Jack & Diet. “I need you to un . . . curse it.”

“Might not be cursed, but I take your point.” I hadn’t expected a City employee to be so direct.

She grimaced and signaled for the check. “Look, I can pay you. But I have to put you down as an exterminator or something.”

I had a couple rules in my line of work, but the first was I didn’t take clients who were embarrassed to talk to me. Plus, my spidey senses were telling me that something was off with Heather’s story. But here’s the thing: I was going to be in Romeroville ASAP no matter if I formally took the job or not. A neighborhood so fucked up that birds were falling from the sky? I had a professional obligation to uphold and personal curiosity to satisfy. May as well get paid while I was at it.

And besides—I spent so much time trying to get the City to listen, and now the City had finally come knocking. Rules were made to be bent, right?

“Well, Heather,” I said, the same school teacher way she’d said Max earlier. She blinked. “I’ll take the case.”

“Great.” She slid the papers across the table to me. “And don’t call me; I’ll call you.”

I rolled my eyes.

The next day, the bus wheezed to a stop two and a half blocks from the epicenter of the issues and I stepped into the already hot, dry morning air. I tucked my mop of hair (currently green and pink) into a baseball cap and adjusted the hem of my Lobos t-shirt.

My first time in a new area, I tried to be as invisible as possible. To be clear: I love the city. I love being out in the city. I love looking the way I do. But. As a very obviously queer person, and I do mean that in both the rainbow and the oddball sense, acting weird in a new part of town only invited trouble. Invisibility is a prime protection. Once I got comfy, then I’d get weird.

At first glance, Romeroville was a modest residential neighborhood. Public elementary school. Siberian elms and white oaks for shade. Mixed income housing. Nice, wide sidewalks, but not a lot of pedestrians. Dogs barked as I passed. Thunderheads loomed over the volcanoes west of town, promising monsoon rain, but then, they’d been promising that all summer long.

The heart of the trouble was this park. Sometimes what looks supernatural is mundane. But I could tell from two blocks away that this case was not your everyday bit of trouble. If the neighborhood were a mattress, that park was a bowling ball plopped in the middle. All the energy in the area rolled down to that spot.

It wasn’t a park in the way a person might imagine a park. It was more like an oversized alley, a pedestrian thoroughfare connecting two streets. The cement had been colored blue to look like a river. A brown metal sign read Acequia Grande Park. Young honey locusts—what I think of as “new City trees”—shaded the area.

Across the street from the park rose a colorful, fiberglass statue. Sort of a Pietà thing—a man holding a dying woman. They rested on top of a giant hill made of more blue cement, like a mountain or a frozen waterfall. I’m no art critic, but the guy looked bummed out. Beyond the sculpture was a grassy area with a surprising number of informational signs.

I’d read those later. Now that I’d acquired a general lay of the land, I needed to find the more subtle patterns. My methods included talking to strangers, whether human, bird, tree, or other. Observing the swirl of dirt in the wind. Searching the historical record for unusual events. Watching neighborhood cats at work. But the primary tool of a psychogeographer was and always would be the dérive: a walk with no destination beyond knowledge of the place itself. (I subscribed to the Situationist dérive. Earlier versions involved a lot of opium.)

I found a spot a few blocks from the park where I felt no skin crawling, no heebie-jeebies (yes, that’s a technical term). I opened an app to track my path through the neighborhood (Without uploading my location to the cloud. Obviously.)

Then, I began the dérive: I wandered, meandered, crept, rushed, paused. I sniffed and inhaled and sang. I closed my eyes. People are always surprised how much shit they miss because they were too busy looking. This is the part where people will start to call the cops on me if I’m not careful.

As I went, I recorded a cluster of sensations. Anything spooky, strange, or generally interesting got a pin on my app:

• Whiff of spring flowers (lilac?) long out of bloom: Pin.
• Footsteps sound hollow on the sidewalk: Pin.
• Skin crawling on the back of my neck: Pin.
• Seven quarters lined up on a fence, all face down: Pin.
• Cold spots: Pin. Pin. Pin. (Ghosts?)
• Sound of rushing water, no obvious source: Pin. Pin. Pin.
• Intense encounter with a man who shouted, “You and I share a cousin in Pueblo, Colorado, Miss Miller!” at me. Not my name, but whatever: Pin.

And so I went until about 10 am. I was starving and sweaty. I had 73 pins on my map. But no answers.

Time to get a theory going. I found a bench in the shade and pulled out a peanut butter and red chile sandwich. As I ate, I reviewed the map. A rough outline emerged, of where the strangeness was happening, but that just confirmed what I already knew. Next, I coded the pins based on sight, smell, sound, feel. Sound and smell clustered right down the center of the alley and headed west. Interesting. Visual and touch pins were scattered all over the map.

Alright, Herkimer, think: someone could have cursed this intersection. But who and why? The only idea I had was that unhelpful note to myself: Ghosts? I’d seen solo ghosts over the years, of course. But the sheer number of cold spots, the general sense of malevolence in the area, not to mention dropping a bunch of birds out of the sky in the middle of the day . . . it would take a lot of ghosts to do that. Like, piles of ‘em. I’d never seen something like this. Not even in that abandoned hospital.

Seemed unlikely, but maybe there had been some kind of horrific tragedy I’d missed? Amelia would know.

“Special Collections Library, Ms. Collier speaking.”

“Hey, Amelia.”

“Max! Too busy to come in person?” Amelia was head librarian at Special Collections, the archival home of everything about the City and the city. The perfect library—a relic of a different time, full of Albuquerque oddities, and deeply haunted. Plus the librarians loved me. I always had research-y questions instead of “What’s the code for the bathroom?”

“You know I’d rather be there.” I imagined her behind the desk, in a knee-length floral dress, gray cardigan, and chunky Mary Janes. She always looked professional, but I knew for reasons I shall not disclose that she hid a number of excellent tattoos under that sweater.

She laughed. “What are you working on this time?”

“I’m in Romeroville.”

“Ooh, nice. Not the oldest neighborhood around, but pretty close. It grew up in Colonial times—should be some signs about it.”

Yes, yes, I know. Everybody always says, “Read the signs!” and I’m over here like, Why do you think I’m staring at this ant colony?

Anyway, it was cool history but way too early. “What about more recently, like the last couple years? I’m looking for something that would,” I paused, failing to think of a different way to say it. “ . . . make a lot of ghosts.” Amelia didn’t really believe in my weird shit, but she also didn’t laugh at me. Usually.

She snorted. But just a little. “Are you talking, like, a mass murder? I thought you didn’t do the whole true crime thing.”

“I don’t, but yeah, something like that. Or a gruesome accident? Old folks’ home burned down? Horrific school bus crash or something?” I sounded stupid, but I was trying to get the scale of the thing across to her.

“Not seeing anything like that.” I could hear her mouse clicking. “It’s a pretty quiet place.”

“Dammit.” I chewed my lip and stared at the alley. Back to square one. Ghosts would have been a hard sell for Heather, but at least I’d had a theory.

“I’ve never known someone to get so morose that an old folks’ home didn’t get burned down,” Amelia said.

“Sorry—that’s not it. I just . . . there’s something weird going on here.”

“You know I’m a born skeptic. Not much help with ghosts. But the other thing about that neighborhood is they really—pardon my language—fucking hate the City.”

Huh. Heather hadn’t mentioned that little detail. “Oh, yeah?”

“It’s been a whole thing. The City let the feds put two freeways through it in the 60s. Then in the 70s, the City tried to declare it substandard, so they could put in some government buildings, and Romeroville organized themselves to stop all that. Then there was a Superfund site that was ‘cleaned up’ in the 90s. Anyway, probably nothing to do with your ghosts, but figured I’d mention.” I could hear her addressing a patron. “Hey, Max, sorry—gotta go. Call me back later?”

“No worries. Tell you about it over drinks on Friday.”

Was this City nonsense related to the birds dying? Unclear. But was it fishy as hell that Heather hadn’t mentioned it? Absolutely.

Heather answered my third call, her voice low. “I told you not to call me.”

“Hi, Heather,” I said. “Curious if you were planning to tell me about the whole Romeroville hates the City angle of the case.”

“Let me get outside.” Her footsteps echoed down a stairwell.

I skimmed the informational signs as I waited. These people were serious. They had a committee. A crest for their committee. A timeline of their protests. I let out a low whistle. “Man, they really do hate you guys. Sounds like maybe you earned it though.”

She huffed. “Yes, there have been . . . tensions. Obviously. But that was a long time ago. Are you saying you think this is our fault?”

“Do you think it’s your fault?”

“I didn’t think all that was relevant.”

I took a deep breath. Where to start. “Heather, you mean well. But there are things in this world you don’t know much about. Shit can get weird. Right now, things are getting bad in Romeroville.” And I was getting angry. “So is there any other information you’re withholding?”

An indignant breath came over the phone. “Okay, fine. There are plans to build a soccer stadium there. They asked me to find out about the neighborhood. See if I could make the neighbors a little more receptive to our plans. Like, in a good way, you know.”

“Everybody loves being made more receptive,” I muttered.

“Point is I noticed all this bad shit happening there. But the funders didn’t care. If anything, it made them more excited. They thought if the neighqbors got spooked, they’d let the City have the land.” She huffed again. “Well, it worked, for what that’s worth. A little too well. Some of the local funders got spooked, too, and now they’re backing out.”

Say what you will about New Mexicans, but I have always loved the way we as a people take weird shit seriously. Still, what did I have to do with any of this? Why had she called me to fix it? Nobody in the City respected me. The only thing calling me would achieve was discredit—Oh. Oh.

“Okay, I get it. You called me because you knew that if I started talking about how it was haunted, nobody would take it seriously. They’d be too embarrassed to be associated with me and my weird theories.” Tears pricked my eyes. “And your stadium would be back in business.”

Heather didn’t say anything. I’d learned to read silences over the years and this one was loud and clear. Goddammit. I’d been so excited they were taking me seriously for once that I’d broken my own rules.

“Even though you hired me for bullshit reasons, you do still have to pay me.” My voice was tight. I hung up.

The sun beat down on me as I stood alone in Romeroville. My instincts had warned me something was off and I was pissed I hadn’t listened. I took a deep breath and listened to the sounds of the city around me: traffic on the major arteries, sure. But also the skittering sound of a lizard in the leaf litter under a golden currant bush. Children shrieking at recess. And a westerly wind blowing the clouds nearer. Beneath it all, that malevolent energy roiled.

I didn’t have to help Heather any more. But I definitely wanted to know what was going on in Romeroville. The neighbors ought to have some insights.

A woman, graying hair pulled into a bun, watered roses in the shade of her yard. She had an eye on me but pretended she didn’t. The piney scent of rosemary wafted through the air. Her garden, ringed by a straw-flecked adobe wall, bordered the Acequia Grande and was exuberant with lavender, blue flax, and orange globe mallow.

“Lovely garden,” I called as I approached. “Can’t get my roses to look like yours no matter how hard I try.” It was the truth. I’d tried everything and they were still scraggly.

“I have my secrets.” She stood several feet from the gate, hands clasped behind her. Not quite ready to trust me. “But if I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

I nodded gravely. “Otherwise my roses might beat yours at the State Fair.”

She smiled. “Couldn’t have that.”

We were both quiet for a moment, but she didn’t move to go inside.

“I heard the City wants to build a soccer stadium here,” I said.

“They do.” I could see her clocking my outfit, deciding which side I was on. I was real glad I’d chosen the university t-shirt and not the soccer team t-shirt for today’s invisibility drag.

“Do you know where, exactly?”

She gestured broadly, a furrow in her brow. I frowned sympathetically.

“Sorry for all the questions, but have you noticed anything strange lately?” It can be awkward, trying to explain what a psychogeographic investigator does, but I’ve learned that, at least in New Mexico, if you ask the weird question first, you get a lot of information. Some of it is even useful. “I heard about all those birds that died. Stuff like that?”

She gave me another look, and I swear I could almost read her thoughts. But maybe that was just my imagination getting away from me. In place of an answer, she asked, “Would you like some water? Or lemonade? Hot day to be walking around.”

“Lemonade sounds great.” I paused. “My name’s Max.”

“Lupe. Nice to meet you, Max.”

The aggressive atmosphere of the neighborhood dropped away as I crossed into her yard. We sat on her porch as we drank the lemonade, which was sweet and strong. She had sprinkled dried lavender on top. When she spied the colorful hair under my ball cap, she insisted I take the hat off so she could admire my messy mop. A long broomstick skirt colored like red clay pooled around her wrinkled, brown feet, toenails painted sky blue. She told me a little about her gardening secrets and her grandchildren. I told her about my pet squirrel—a rescue. Condensation dripped from my glass and cooled my foot. I wondered if she’d ever answer my question, but I also kind of didn’t mind that she hadn’t. What good is life as a psychogeographic investigator if you can’t have lemonade with strangers on a hot day?

Then she finally turned back to it. “I’ve been here for, oh, forty years. Not quite as long as some. Best place I’ve ever lived. But something in the land isn’t quite right. I do my best with this little patch of dirt. But it’s sad, no?”

Sad. I’d been feeling the vibes all wrong. The air was filled with rage, yes, but it was the rage that comes from grief.

“It is,” I said and we looked at each other. I decided then that I’d figure this out for Lupe’s sake, even if nobody else cared.

“Thanks for the lemonade.” I lifted my empty glass to her in a toast.

Lupe nodded like she, too, had decided something, then disappeared into the house. When she returned, she pressed a book about roses into my hands, the edges frilled with sticky notes. I put the book in my bag, tucked my hair back into my cap, and promised I’d return soon.

Back at Acequia Grande Park, the epicenter, I couldn’t believe I’d missed the grief, the helplessness in the air. I’d been too focused on Heather’s version of events. Now, I paced the length of the park, feeling echoes of my morning observations: cold spots, whispers with no obvious source. Back in the sun, sweat ran down my neck into the channel of my spine. A handful of white-winged doves landed nearby to drink from a puddle. The blue sky had gone grey while we chatted, and the trees worried themselves sick in the wind. I hoped—and could feel everything around me, from the sidewalk to the bumblebees, hoping as well—that today there would be rain.

Okay. Not ghosts. And, though I was pissed at Heather, this didn’t feel like a case of the City neglecting a neighborhood. Yeah, the stadium idea sucked. But this had been going on a lot longer than that.

As I walked, I let my focus go soft. Heat radiated from the blue pavement river, blurring the edges of my vision. I imagined the years peeling away. Back to the 70s when it was declared “substandard.” Back to the agricultural 1800s. Time grew thin. If I squinted, I could see (or imagine?) the area as it had been: sheep grazing. Water flowing where I stood, through the acequia the park was named after: an irrigation channel carrying water from the Rio Grande. These ditches spiderwebbed the area, carrying the green life of the river just a little farther into the surrounding desert.

Acequias were easy to miss. Some were well kept, some less so. And in Romeroville? Paved over. Just then, the drinking doves exploded in flight, breaking the spell. My shoulders tensed.

One small feathered body remained, convulsing on the edge of the water. I walked over to it. The other birds landed overhead on a power line, witnessing me as I picked the creature up. Its body trembled in my palm, so light it was like the air itself was seizing. Before I could think what to do, it stopped shivering and died.

The birds took flight again, noisy and chaotic. I traced the line of their passage. Never ignore the communications of a bird. They landed on the statue, perched on the mass of blue that looked like the headwaters of a spring. A spring capped with a man cradling a dying woman. The water is lost. I realized I was standing right about where they’d had the press conference I’d seen on the video clip.

I looked down at the bird in my hand, at its bright orange, sightless eye. A trash can stood nearby, but putting a messenger in the literal garbage was a quick way to get on nature’s bad side. No. I needed to bury the bird.

I didn’t pay much attention when I heard someone shout, “Him!” It’s not a word I hear applied to me very often, so I kept scanning the ground, searching for a suitable avian burial site,. But then I heard footsteps. A moment later, a heavy hand fell on my shoulder and spun me around.

The man it belonged to snarled at me, red-faced in his rage. My shock garbled his words, mixed them up until I couldn’t put them back together. My shoulders rose along with my hands and forearms, to shield me and the bird, the little thing, lifeless against my thumping heart.

He grabbed the collar of my shirt and pulled me back to that spot where all the bad energy pooled. Did he realize that’s what he was doing? I stumbled after him, and the jumble of noise coming from his mouth resolved into words: “I already called the cops, you prick.”

I had no idea what he thought I’d done but—Ah. He pointed at a car with all four tires slashed.

Something I’ve noticed over the years: I pretty much only ever get identified as a guy when people are pissed at me. I accelerated to match his pace and tucked the point of my elbow into the crook of the arm he was using to drag me. His hand slackened in surprise, and I pressed down with my elbow to twist away from his grasp. Nice move, Herkimer—but I barely had time to preen before he tackled me to the ground. I banged my arm up good as I moved to protect the little feathered body still in my hand.

The hot concrete scraped my cheek as he held my head down. Pulsing rage flooded me. I wanted to fuck this guy up. But that feeling wasn’t mine: it was the land, the water, the very earth rising up and egging us on. This guy had 30 pounds on me and (what the hell was I going to do with this bird) I was down a hand. I don’t like making a scene but, goddammit. I was going to have to.

“Help!” I shouted. I could have pitched my voice up to be more audible, sound more vulnerable, but it felt wrong. “Lupe!”

He was still screaming at me, but I couldn’t make sense of the words. I wondered if this rage was as foreign to him as it was to me. A rumble of thunder, low and easy, joined the excitement.

Neighbors were already out in their yards, staring at us. Not every oddball is the center of attention type, no matter how we dress. My cheeks flushed. Tears filled my eyes. My mouth tasted sour. A mineral smell rose from the ground.

I called again. “Lupe! Somebody. Help!” He pushed down, shuddering, and pain throbbed through my temples, my cheek, my jaw. I bucked against him hard, but he didn’t move. Still he could have—should have—been hitting me and he wasn’t. Something was up.

Everyone, human or otherwise, was in thrall to us—or whatever was using us. Time seemed to flow downhill, pooling around our tableau. The birds moved in closer, knowing I held their kin. The trees grew still and even the sky had gathered itself up. A hot drop of moisture landed on my cheek and ran into my mouth. The water is lost. It tasted salty. Sweat? Tears?

Then the rain came. Fat, ice-cold raindrops slapped against leaves, against skin, drumming on cars and roofs. With my face this close to the pavement, my nostrils filled with the smell of evaporating rain water—that mineral smell I’d noticed earlier.

The hammer of rain drops broke the spell; the entire neighborhood seemed to exhale. Time resumed its normal flow as people started to scatter. Another hot drop of moisture—tears, I was pretty sure this time—landed amid the cold ones. The pressure on my head lessened as he sagged off to one side. I rolled away, landing in a cold stream of storm run-off.

The man’s rage-torn face was slack now, as if he’d just woken up. I opened my mouth to speak, but a chunk of hail pinged him on the head. Larger and larger pieces of ice bounced on every surface. He shook his head and stumbled away.

I took shelter under the nearest tree, one hand cradling the bird and the other touching the abrasions on my face. I was no stranger to the way rain would lighten the city’s mood, but I’d never seen anything like this. The doves rustled and cooed in the tree above me. I tried and failed to calm the shivers that had taken over my body.

Lupe’s gentle voice called out to me. “Max!”

She waved from her front porch. I curled my body over the bird and ran to her.

“Are you okay?” She reached for my face. I flinched.

“Yes. No. Sorry. Yes. I was thinking I’d—” I wiped my eyes with my empty hand and held the bird out, feathers mussed. The sight of the feathers out of place turned the shivers into tears. “I was planning to bury this bird, I guess. Before.”

She nodded. “What about here, once the rain ends?” She gestured at a tiled nicho in her adobe wall. It enclosed a statue of the Virgin Mary, a rosebush flourishing at her feet. People often assume someone like me doesn’t go in for Christianity, and for the most part, I don’t. But sacred is sacred.

I looked for signs of mockery in her face, but found none. The pressure eased in my heart. At least I’d get one thing right today.

Lupe fetched a compress for my face. I straightened the errant feathers and laid the dove on her porch. We sat in silence as the storm poured off her porch, raindrops illuminated in gold by the coming sunset. Water flooded down that big fiberglass pietà. Both figures wept, and the blue mountain they sat on turned into a waterfall.

Lupe clicked her tongue. “It’s gonna be a mess to clean this one up.”

I didn’t understand at first, but—right. Heather had given me flood records. Hmm. I remembered the sensation from earlier, like the Acequia Grande was a bowling ball sitting on a mattress. The park must catch all the storm water for the neighborhood. And probably a few neighborhoods beyond.

I stepped off the porch into the drizzle. The water is lost. That phrase came back to me as I watched the rain fill the gutters, sheet across the street—and head to the Acequia Grande. I remembered the way that man’s pressure on my face had slackened with the first drops of water.

The water is lost. This water shouldn’t be flowing over concrete to the sewers. I turned to Lupe. “The way it changed when the rains came. You felt it, too. I know you did.”

She held my eyes with a long, level gaze, then nodded. I looked out at the flat pavement of the park, water rushing down it in a pattern that told us everything we needed to know: fast, flat, unnatural. I imagined earth instead of blue-tinted concrete. Natural dips and rises to slow the water, let it soak into the ground. Instead of a few trees trapped in concrete rings, we would have yucca, desert willow, horsetail, screwbean mesquite, and goldenrod thriving where the water collected.

Or: the City could build a stadium. Instead of this small park, we would have acres of blacktop, no shade, and the land disconnected from water and life for good.

Wait. Wasn’t that what the press conference had been about in the first place? The stadium? I should have seen it sooner. To fix this one, I was going to have to talk to Heather again. Gross.

The rain stopped and Lupe turned to me. “Shall we? The ground will be soft.”

She watched in silence as I tucked the bird’s fragile body into the earth, then covered it in soil and bark.

“Most people don’t care enough to bury a city bird.” Lupe held up her garden hose. “Want a rinse?”

I stuck my hands out. She hit the trigger on the sprayer, gently, and cool water rinsed the dirt from my hands. The flock of white-winged doves cooed mournfully from their nearby post.

I met Heather for the second time at a bar of my choosing: a windowless poolhall in the heart of downtown. It smelled of stale beer and incense. The music on the jukebox was loud and aggressive. I hadn’t forgiven her for using me to discredit her opponents and I wasn’t going to put up with her shitty bar this time.

Once again, Heather carried a Jack and Diet from the bar.

“What happened to your face?” she asked.

“Not your business,” I answered. “Speaking of business, though, I found your culprit.”

I walked her through it: the acequia was abandoned in 1976. The earliest sign of weirdness was in 1977, when the neighborhood finally had access to the City’s drinking water and didn’t want to bother with irrigation any longer. The land was lonely, heartbroken for water. But that probably would have been fine. It was when the City announced plans to build a soccer stadium that shit had gotten real. Whatever spirit animated that place didn’t want to be buried in a parking lot. And it wasn’t going down without a fight.

To Heather’s credit, her first question wasn’t “Are you stupid?” It was “What are my options?”

“Either way you’re gonna have to find somewhere else for the stadium. But, since you asked. Option one: rebuild the old acequia. But there’s a lot more city between Romeroville and the river these days. Even if you took it underground . . . . ” I sucked air through my teeth. “It’s gonna cost.”

Heather blanched. I had to guess she was imagining the many, many, many buildings, properties, roads, and parks involved. Precisely the feeling I wanted her to have so my idea didn’t sound so hard.

“Option two: turn the Acequia Grande park into a rain garden. You’ll stop having all these weird incidents, which is what I care about. The flooding will stop, which is what the neighbors care about.”

She gave me a flat look. “What am I supposed to tell the people who want the stadium? The thirsty land is killing people?”

“Obviously not. That’s the kind of shit I say. You get an engineer to say you need higher ground. The monsoons happen at the height of the United season. Blah blah blah.”

She looked at me for a long time, then the corners of her mouth curled up. “Putting in a rain garden would be a big PR win.”

As if I cared. I checked my watch. Just enough time to walk to the bar where I was meeting Amelia. “Done and dusted. Can’t say it’s been a pleasure. You’ll get my bill this week.”

I headed out into the twilight: a couple hurried into a ramen joint. A lowrider cruised past, done up in rose gold and purple. Heat rose from the sidewalk. The stars were beginning to shine and Amelia was waiting for me. A perfect night in my city.

One year later, almost to the day, I was back in Romeroville in the pink light of dawn. The park didn’t look so different: the same shape, trees, benches. But now instead of broad swathes of blue cement, the paths were narrowed, made of water-permeable materials. The ground was shaped and carved, not so differently than I’d imagined, and the plantings Lupe and I had done were starting to look hearty.

Two cottontails darted under a bush as Lupe, Amelia, and I approached. The City would have their opening ceremony later that day. I wanted to do a ceremony of our own first.

I closed my eyes, felt for that bowling ball on a mattress sensation. It had changed; the energy in the neighborhood flowed easily through the park. We had all collected rainwater, a gallon or so each, just for this. I opened my eyes and found Amelia looking at me with an arched eyebrow and a smile. I directed her and Lupe to opposite corners of the park, and we poured out our rain water with all the solemnity we could muster. I watched it sheet across the ground and soak in as the first rays of sun broke over the mountain. I whooped and the other two joined me, raucous and loud as roosters.

Wasn’t much, but it felt right. As for what the land thought, I had to trust we’d done okay.

We watched the City ceremony from Lupe’s porch. Well, sort of. The speeches were quite boring and I wanted to show Amelia an antlion in Lupe’s yard.

Heather came over after the fuss was done. “I know I messed up. But if you’re looking for work . . . . ” She handed me a thumbdrive. “Give me a call.”

Would you look at that? Heather talking to Max Herkimer in public. Could I trust her? Probably not. But I have always loved a good mystery. I dropped the thumbdrive in my pocket and headed back toward the house.

A roadrunner, all punk rock eyeliner and jagged crest, ran along the fence beside me and hopped into a willow tree. A blue whiptail lizard dangled from its beak. Storm clouds, ripe and dark, ambled in from the west. The scent of water hung in the air.

J.L. Rifkin

“Your shuttle will arrive in—four!—minutes. Please proceed to—Caladan Avenue.”

Benny tapped the air above the “Dismiss notification” button on her HUD. She’d been at the shuttle stop for twelve minutes already, and wished she’d taken the time to pee before she left.

Her leg, both where it was and where it wasn’t, felt weird.

She flipped through her notifications. “Reminder—two!—overdue assignments in Reentry Journal. You can do it! To access writing coach, press—”

She dismissed it and loaded the block puzzle game.

The shuttle chimed an arpeggio when it stopped. The lift extended automatically when it detected her ID. She held the handrest—“Please hold handrest securely! Lifting!”—and slipped into the first empty pod.

She was actually supposed to be practicing with stairs. Maybe the shuttle software didn’t get the memo.

She tabbed back to the block game.

Benny waited until everyone else was off to leave her pod. She didn’t want people watching while the lift beeped its excruciating way down.

Outside, a blue and white sign read “Puente Hills Reclamation Facility: Treasure For Tomorrow.” Around the sign, her HUD displayed a wheel of floating menu buttons: “Book a Tour,” “Careers,” “Materials Reclaimed,” “For Kids!”

Graeme was waiting at the gates, a sturdy block of a woman with gray in her ponytail.

“Benny! You made it! Welcome. We’ll do HR first and then I’ll give you the tour. Sound good?”

Benny’s new access badge looked just like Graeme’s. Kinda nice, Benny thought. Retro.

“Okay! Next stop, locker room. There’s bathrooms there too, if you need them. We shower in, we shower out. Inside, you wear scrubs. No outside clothes in the containment zone, no scrubs outside the containment zone. Got it?” She waited for Benny’s nod before continuing, “Anything metal, you can keep on. There’ll be scrubs and booties when you come out. Everything fits weird. Oh, and put your leg through on the tool cycle—that’s what I do with my hand.”

Graeme waved her right hand, and Benny finally noticed that it was printed plastic, its phalanges and metacarpals articulated in black, silver, and hot pink.

Her new leg was gray. That was the default when you didn’t enter color choices.

Graeme kept smiling until Benny closed the shower cubicle door behind her. It was a narrow room with labeled panels on the wall. Too narrow—she couldn’t stretch her arms—couldn’t move—her pulse sped up—she couldn’t move! Shit! No—come on—she closed her eyes and did one of the stupid HomeboundHero breathing exercises until the taste of metal cleared her mouth.

This better not make her late.

She opened her eyes again. She was fine. This was fine. There were even handrails. Benny stripped efficiently to her leg and dog tags, then unbuckled the leg. Balancing awkwardly, she nestled it in the Tools (inbound) bin—a shallow, slatted metal box that reminded her of the utensil baskets from KP duty—and tapped it shut.

She’d get used to it. She’d have to.

The promised scrubs were in a matching cramped chamber on the other side, along with cushioned booties and flimsy compostable mycelial-web underwear. Graeme was waiting in the hall, doing something Benny couldn’t see on her HUD. Whatever it was, she was moving fast, swinging her arms and pivoting her body. Benny waited to be noticed.

“Just a second,” Graeme muttered. “There we go.”

She dismissed whatever she was looking at with a gesture Benny didn’t recognize from the standard interface. But of course, Graeme needed modified commands.

And now, Benny did too.

Graeme’s lined face folded back into her usual smile.

“Sorry about that. Minor bot-cleaning kerfuffle in sector C. Nothing serious. Let’s get you settled.”

Benny’s cubicle was spacious, with a round bubble window and room to work sitting or standing, and yet more interactive panels on the wall.

“Drinks come out there. Conveyor bots bring your lunch order. Anything you like as long as it’s synth-protein and flavor powder.”

“I do love flavor powder,” Benny tried. After her tour, that wasn’t even really a joke.

Graeme laughed anyway.

“Who doesn’t? And out there . . . that’s where the magic happens.”

The window overlooked a terraced hillside furred with trees too sparse to hide infantry. Off to the right, orderly lines of bots marched in and out, like trails of foraging ants.

“So we’re starting you off over there on G44, crew of ten bots.” Graeme gestured to an indistinguishable section of hillside. “Three survey-patrol, two for e-waste and complex composites, and one each on metals, silicates, basic organics, complex hydrocarbons including biohazards and inorganic hazmat—heavy metals and radiation, mostly.”

The bots were all the same shape, like pointed eggs, but came in a range of sizes and colors: muddy green, white, candy-apple red, cerulean. The ones coming from the hill were smeared with grime. The ones going out shone like new.

“They’re level four semi-autonomous?”

Graeme wrinkled her nose.

“Well, they boot level four, but they’ve got pretty good learning capability, and we never wipe them if we don’t have to. Don’t be surprised if they exhibit level five or six capacities. Personality, too.”

“Really?” Military autos didn’t have personality. Too unpredictable.

“Oh yeah. That’s where you come in as their handler. It’s not just maintenance; you’re also providing guidance. They have enough battery to go twelve to eighteen hours autonomous, but they usually need us before that.”

Benny leaned her weight on the window ledge. The new leg rubbed, but the outside of her good ankle hurt when she stood too long.

“What kind of guidance?”

“Explosive methane, wildlife, load-bearing furniture, all kinds of stuff. G44 is a fairly old zone, mostly late twentieth and early twenty-first, but because it’s peripheral, it’s still in the first phase of reclamation. So you’re gonna see some, to use the technical term, weird shit.”

“Weird shit,” Benny repeated.

Graeme laughed.

“Don’t worry. Your bots will be on short shifts until you’re adjusted. And for now we’ll just have you run training modules. We’ll go visit decon and recharging later. And speaking of bots needing guidance, friggin’ ORG-B17 wants to eat a skunk, so I better skedaddle. Ping me if you need anything!”

When Graeme had gone, Benny dispensed a bulb of seltzer and activated the panel labeled Chair. Her leg was still rubbing. She’d shoved blister pads in her pocket on her way out, but her pocket was in her pants and her pants were in a locker.

It was fine. She could sit. It would be fine.

She pulled up the first module. The reclamation bots had mostly the same anatomy as search-and-rescue bots—retractable bucket drums, grippers with claws and spines and rubberized pads, fluid receptacles, cargo compartments, sensors of every imaginable kind. She passed that test on the first try.

The next couple of modules took her through lunch (teriyaki spirulina with udon and sesame FungoNuts) and the discovery that it was a good idea to activate the sunshade on the bubble window at around two. Graeme came back in the middle of the module on manual decontamination, which was an annoying mix of easy (acids neutralize bases) and very difficult (fifty-seven strains of organofluorine-degrading bacteria).

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah! Yeah. Good. I didn’t finish the modules but—”

“That’s fine. You have two weeks to do them all. Come check out the decon line and then you can shower out and call it a day.”

Benny followed her boss, trying not to limp too obviously. As they walked, Graeme pointed out maintenance bays and R&D labs, and Benny met too many people.

They ended up on a steel catwalk. Below, bots were trundling in the gate. She could see the grime on their shiny carapaces better from here: brown organic smudges, scraps of paper and fabric, plastic chips. Most of them, according to the training module, were made of aluminum oxynitride with integrated color. Some had scratches, like healed scars.

“Did you get to the auto decon?”

Benny nodded and recited what she remembered.

“After they drop their payloads, they come here for cleaning. Water with a surfactant, neutralizations for anything the chemical nose IDs, another rinse, then they’re air-dried. The water all gets filtered and repurified between uses. Yeah?”

“Pretty much. There are manual decon stations too. Sooner or later you’ll have to go scrape something off one of your bots. And their charging bays are down below—we should go see your team’s section, show you what I mean about personality.”

Graeme paused, glanced down at Benny’s leg. “If that’s rubbing, my uncle makes really good ointment. Spruce and stuff. I can bring you some.”

“I don’t want to be a bother.”

“No bother. It helped a lot with this old thing, especially when I first got it.” Graeme waved her polychrome hand. “I thought the VA had real state-of-the-art stuff now. Synth-skin, motor-assist, neural hookup.”

Benny shrugged.

“I didn’t want any of that. My mech went down in a cyberattack.”

Said like that, it sounded clean. Like the training exercises, or the bots shining from decontamination. Not like the smell of her own sweat and blood cooking in the sun while her leg burned and Jacko screamed in her ear.

Graeme winced.

“Sorry to hear that. Eastern front?”

“Southern.”

Graeme winced harder.

“My nephew was on the southern.”

Benny nodded.

“Yeah. So . . . I requested an analog leg.”

“Makes sense.”

Benny shrugged.

Graeme turned her head sharply, looking at an alert on her HUD.

“Shit, I gotta go handle this . . . can you find your way back to the showers okay?”

She waited just long enough for Benny’s nod.

Back at her apartment, a package waited in her delivery locker. The return address was in Salmon, Idaho. She’d only ever known one person from Salmon, Idaho. In the elevator, she looked at the ceiling to keep the tears in.

She left the package on the table and sank onto the couch. On her home network, her HUD bristled with notifications.

“Update reentry journal now. You can do it! To access writing coach—”

“Seven missed calls from—Mom! Message from—”

“Reminder—art therapy in—one!—hour and—forty-five!—minutes.”

“Continue your—five!—day physiotherapy streak! Always Getting Stronger! Always Getting Stronger trademark of—”

She dismissed them all, unstrapped her leg, and played the block game until the login for art therapy appeared on her HUD. She tapped it and her efficiency apartment disappeared into the VR.

“Start New Project,” read one pane. “Load asset packs.” “Saved asset packs.”

She didn’t mind art therapy. She’d picked it off a list of options. It reminded her of drawing with Jacko, but in a good way, not too much. The part where they talked about the art sucked, but most of it was just putting together stuff from the asset packs. Some people in the group made fucked up shit, with distorted bodies and darkness and holes oozing blood. Benny just made landscapes. The biggest asset packs, the photorealistic ones, had scans of all kinds of trees and flowers and rocks. She even recognized one of the mountains from a basic training VR sim; it was the same one Jacko had said looked like a pile of turds. Benny had missed half the targets from giggling.

Benny never used that asset pack.

But mostly, landscapes were okay. She made up stupid little games like “an accurate southeastern landscape” or “an extinct landscape” or “a landscape where everything’s blue,” with fescue and forget-me-nots and spruce. Except then she had to make up some bullshit about “the bluebird represents healing” and Amy, the facilitator, would nod her avatar head sympathetically, and that asshole Perry’s avatar would smirk.

Benny’s avatar still had both legs.

Today everything in the landscape was broken. A tree half-killed by lightning, with black bark and green needles around bleach-white wood. A split rock. This weird smeared-sideways flower from one of the asset packs, probably some kind of glitch in the scan, because nothing that freaky could be real. She hesitated over some bugs that reminded her of the bots at work: a shiny round blue-green beetle, a slatey pillbug. Perhaps next week she’d make a round stuff landscape.

She could draw the bots, of course, rather than just relying on what had been scanned into the asset packs.

But there was a lot in the asset packs.

And she hadn’t picked up her pencils since she got back.

At the end of class, she didn’t have to talk because Brett started crying about his dad’s old Mustang—a car, not a horse. That was fine with Benny. She had nothing to say.

It was too late to make dinner, so she ate some seaweed chips and jerky and a granola bar. She didn’t even need to shower, she figured. She showered twice a day at work.

She played the block game for a while and went to bed.

She could open that package tomorrow.

The next morning she overslept and nearly missed the shuttle. At work, there was a jar in her internal mailbox labeled “Uncle Bernie’s Special Salve,” which made her smile.

The rest of the week disappeared into training modules and shadowing other bot handlers. She watched through her HUD while Tark told his gray silicate bot to run a radioactivity scan on some beads, and while Braith guided one of her black survey bots out of a partly collapsed bed frame. Benny passed quizzes and made stilted conversation with her coworkers. Uncle Bernie’s salve seemed to help.

The package sat on the counter. It was a busy week.

The next week, she started running her team for a couple of hours at a time, first with Graeme looking over her shoulder, then with her on call. Each bot had its own panel on her HUD, plus the ones for the other bots in the area and overall status alerts—thunderstorms, gas alerts, wildlife sightings, seemed like there was always something going on. It was almost like piloting the mech, except with nothing locked around her body. Just information flowing through and occasional chatter on her headset. Almost like old times.

She made the “round things” landscape in art therapy, with pillbugs and ladybugs and cacti and beach pebbles and fat winter birds. Snarky Perry said it made no biological sense. Brett thought it was cute, and wondered if roundness represented integrity and wholeness.

“Sure,” Benny told him. Why not?

The following week, all her training modules were done. It was just her and the bots. She had to ping Graeme with a question almost immediately—was this butterfly in a glass dome the kind of thing she should have a bot dig out for the museum?—but Graeme didn’t seem to mind. The salve really did help.

On Tuesday, she opened the package. There was a note, scribbled on a sheet of AlgaWeave:

Dear Benny,

Jacko would have wanted you to have this.

Hoping it brings back good memories.

You’re always welcome here in Salmon.

Don’t be a stranger.

Love,

Margaret

Benny crumpled the note, then immediately tried to smooth it back out again. Jacko had talked about her mom all the time: the quilts, the spoon collection, the unexpected dirty jokes. A couple times, she’d gotten care packages of molasses spice cookies to share with the squad.

This care package was a sketchbook.

It was like something from the wrong asset pack dropped into her apartment. The black fiberpack cover, ring binding, and FurySaurus sticker were all horribly familiar.

Benny’s sketchbook had been decent, with long-fiber creamy AlgaWeave, but Jacko’s was the real deal: thick cotton paper. She had thought Jacko was bullshitting the first time she told her to go ahead and draw something on one of those precious pages, but no, that was just Jacko. If Benny flipped through it, about a quarter of the drawings would be her own.

She didn’t flip through it.

She put it carefully in a drawer, with Margaret’s smoothed note on top.

Then she dismissed all her notifications and played the stupid block game until she was tired enough to sleep.

Her fifth week on the job, Graeme told Benny that her squad had a below-average adverse incident rate. Benny choked up a little. It was nice, maybe, to know she was keeping them safe.

On an uneventful Tuesday, something tripped an alarm. The notification took over her entire HUD, red and flashing, with an urgent beep.

“ENEMY SIGHTED! ENGAGE Y/N?”

She froze, ready to—no, that wasn’t right. She blinked, hard.

It actually said, “WARNING: MET-A28 PAYLOAD ERROR.”

Payload error? Okay. Payload error. That had been in one of the training modules. Sometimes the reclaimed materials they were dumping got stuck.

She minimized the notification, pulled up the metal bot’s interface panel and tapped “Payload purge cycle.” Through the front-facing camera, she watched it bank off the track and dock with the hopper. “Purge cycle complete! Continue to decon?”

“Continue,” she signaled, watching the minimized error.

It didn’t go away.

Instead, the screen turned redder: “REPEAT WARNING: MET-A28 PAYLOAD ERROR.”

Something was really stuck in there. That was okay. Manual decon. She’d passed that quiz.

Eventually.

She directed the bot to a manual decontamination bay and set off.

MET-A28 met her in bay C-34, a narrow space with a counter on one side stocked with gloves, wipes, containers, and a lot of nozzles. The blue bot was still, but the lights in its sensors were flickering. When she approached, it beeped sullenly.

Benny hadn’t actually seen them in person, she realized. Not up close.

Up close, the bots were big. Waist high at least, and Benny wasn’t short. The problem was obvious: one of its grabbing arms was still extended, locked around something shiny. Carefully, Benny moved closer. It was a flat piece of metal, plain silver, barely thicker than her retro ID badge. Narrow, and wider at both ends. A wrench. A very simple one, not adjustable, just a bracket on one side and a loop at the other. More like a wrench icon than an actual tool.

Benny pulled the bot’s menu back up, watching in case it moved.

“Cycle arms,” she tapped, then jumped as one of the grabbers extended next to her prosthetic. She pressed back against the counter. She could get up onto it if she needed a more defensible position—which was ridiculous. This was a civilian bot. She was a civilian person. Everything was fine.

The arms cycled, grabbing and pinching and scooping, then retracted. All except one. Was the thing stuck in there? Without taking her eyes off the bot, Benny groped around on the countertop for PPE.

“Come on, drop it,” she said, locking her gloved fingers around the wrench. It was really jammed in there. She wriggled it, careful not to misalign the arm.

MET-A28 beeped, then beeped again, sounding almost plaintive. Which was silly. It was a bot.

“Give it!” she said, tugging. The bot beeped once more as the wrench finally came loose. It was light as well as thin. Aluminum, maybe, or an alloy. “Okay.” She pulled up the menu again and cycled the arms. This time, it retracted properly.

Right. Fine. Weird, but fine.

She set the wrench in a containment tub on the counter and turned around to take off her sweaty gloves. She should file the incident report while she had the object’s measurements handy.

In her peripheral vision, something moved. Benny spun to face the enemy. Except the stupid prosthetic didn’t pivot properly and her balance deserted her. She went down with a yelp, clipping her hip and shoulder against the counter and hitting the ground hard.

MET-A28 was holding the wrench again.

And the decon bay was too small. She was trapped between the bot and the wall. Her leg didn’t work. Benny could feel her pulse speeding up. She tasted blood.

With an effort, she smacked the “Call supervisor” button on her HUD.

She was almost okay when Graeme arrived. She’d made it to the bench across the hall from the manual decon bay, and maybe didn’t look too much like she was about to puke.

Graeme sat down next to her and looked straight ahead.

“What happened?”

“It wouldn’t let go of that wrench. And then when I finally got it to, it picked it up again.” Benny looked at the floor. The scrub bootie stretched weirdly around her plastic foot. She’d probably get fired now.

“Ah. Hang on.”

Graeme stood up, walked over to the decontamination bay, and pulled a chemical nose out of one of the drawers. She swabbed the wrench, looked at the readouts, and then sprayed some foam onto it. She was talking to the bot, too quietly for Benny to hear.

“Let’s give that a second to work. And then, I think it’s time we paid a visit to the charging bays.”

Benny frowned.

“Why? What’s it doing?”

“It’s easier to show you than explain. Let’s get this puppy cleaned up first.”

Together, they rinsed off the foam and sprayed down the rest of the unit, then checked fresh chemical sniffer results. Through it all, MET-A28 clung to its shiny wrench.

“Okay, tell it to go recharge.”

Benny tapped the icons on the HUD menu, and the bot started to move. Benny turned to follow it.

“No, we’ll take the elevator. This way. You feeling better now?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about. Should’ve done this week one.”

The elevator started descending with a jerk. For a moment, it seemed very small. Benny concentrated on Graeme’s prosthetic hand, tapping on the rail. Graeme didn’t look worried.

The elevator dinged again. The doors opened.

“After you,” said Graeme.

According to the HUD, the bay they were looking for was to the right. The hallway was dark, with pale concrete floors and blue metal gateways punctuating its length. Sensor lights flickered on as they walked, but the bays remained dark. Benny could make out faint red and yellow charging lights in some of them.

They turned a corner, then hit the right number.

Graeme leaned past Benny and poked a panel on the wall. The charging bay lit up.

Benny didn’t say anything.

It was going take her a while to figure out what to say.

There were ten alcoves around the room, sized for the different bots. They slept—charged, they weren’t alive—nose-in, with their pointed ends tapped into the power supply and their round backs facing the room.

No two alcoves were the same.

One had a curling design of green and blue glass stuck to the wall above it. One had a canopy of wood fragments woven through with long-dead flowers. A small one, with a sensor bot tucked into it, bore lines etched into the wall, arranged into designs that looked almost like pictures.

And one alcove had a sunburst of flat, shiny metal.

“What is it?”

“We’re not really sure. Almost all of them do it from pretty early in the real-world portion of their training. We tried taking it away, but performance craters. If we reprogram them not to do it, they can’t sort the materials right. We even had a couple of digital ethologists from the university come study them.”

“And?”

“Their final report was all about bowerbirds collecting blue objects and bees following ultraviolet markings on petals. Best I could tell, it boiled down to ‘the bots think it’s pretty, and maybe that helps them understand their jobs.’” Graeme shook her head. “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you, it just slipped my mind. When a bots finds a decoration for its nest, we just let it do its thing.”

There was a beep from the hall. Benny was probably imagining things, but it sounded timid. The big blue metal reclamation bot was still holding the silver wrench in its extended arm.

Graeme pulled Benny aside. They stood in front of the charging bay with the glass curlicues while MET-A28 rolled in, rotated, and extended a small nozzle. One of its solvent jets, Benny realized. It pivoted from side to side, probing the air, then poked the nozzle into the gap between a fish knife and a flattened beer can. It sprayed the wall, retracted the nozzle, and pressed the wrench into the sticky patch. Then, it retracted its arm, rolled backwards, beeped once, and rolled forward onto its charging brackets. An orange indicator light lit up on its rear.

“Told ya,” Graeme said, “personality.”

She shrugged.

Benny shook her head.

“That’s so weird.”

Graeme shrugged again.

“Like I said, it’s just how they make sense of it all.”

On the way home, Benny watched the scrubby regenerated forest around the landfill give way to orchards and solar arrays, and then housing developments with orderly palms and oleanders around their gates. She got off at the Caladan Avenue station, where unruly nasturtiums overflowed out of chipped concrete urns, and went back to her apartment.

Her pencil case was where she’d left it when she unpacked.

She went back into the other room and pulled Jacko’s sketchbook out of the drawer.

When Mom had helped her set this place up, she’d put a comfy chair in front of the window. Benny shoved laundry off it, sat down, and opened the sketchbook.

There was the dorm at Benicia. On the next page, a seagull with a crab in its beak. A water bottle, casting a long shadow in the afternoon sun. The extended gun-arm of a mech. She flipped through page after page of drawings, some swift, bare lines, some slow and carefully colored in. She found the first of her own drawings, a sailboat in the bay. Jacko had added a mermaid swimming in its wake.

The drawings ended three quarters of the way through the book.

Jacko would never fill those pages.

But new images had started crowding the blank pages of Benny’s life. She knew how she’d sketch them. The bots. Graeme’s plastic hand. The curvilinear forms of nasturtiums. Mom positioning furniture. The memory of Jacko’s face. Benny could see them, rayed out like the bots’ mosaics.

Benny bit her lip, pulled a pencil out of the case, and began to draw.