Love, Death and Robots. Volumes 2 & 3

POP SQUAD Paolo Bacigalupi

The familiar stench of unwashed bodies, cooked food, and shit washes over me as I come through the door. Cruiser lights flicker through the blinds, sparkling in rain and illuminating the crime scene with strobes of red and blue fire. A kitchen. A humid mess. A chunky woman huddles in the corner, clutching closed her nightgown. Fat thighs and swaying breasts under stained silk. Squad goons crowding her, pushing her around, making her sit, making her cower. Another woman, young-looking and pretty, pregnant and black-haired, is slumped against the opposite wall, her blouse spackled with spaghetti remains. Screams from the next room: kids.

I squeeze my fingers over my nose and breathe through my mouth, fighting off nausea as Pentle wanders in, holstering his Grange. He sees me and tosses me a nosecap. I break it and snort lavender until the stink slides off. Children come scampering in with Pentle, a brood of three tangling around his knees — the screamers from the other room. They gallop around the kitchen and disappear again, screaming still, into the living room where data sparkles like fairy dust on the wallscreens and provides what is likely their only connection to the outside world.

“That’s everyone,” Pentle says. He’s got a long skinny face and a sour, small mouth that always points south. Weights seem to hang off his cheeks. Fat caterpillar brows droop over his eyes. He surveys the kitchen, mouth corners dragging lower. It’s always depressing to come into these scenes. “They were all inside when we broke down the door.”

I nod absently as I shake monsoon water from my hat. “Great. Thanks.” Liquid beads scatter on the floor, joining puddles of wet from the pop squad along with the maggot debris of the spaghetti dinner. I put my hat back on. Water still manages to drip off the brim and slip under my collar, a slick rivulet of discomfort. Someone closes the door to the outside. The shit smell thickens, eggy and humid. The nosecap barely holds it off. Old peas and bits of cereal crunch under my feet. They squish with the spaghetti, the geologic layers of past feedings. The kitchen hasn’t been self-cleaned in years.

The older woman coughs and pulls her nightgown tighter around her cellulite and I wonder, as I always do, when I come into situations like this, what made her choose this furtive nasty life of rotting garbage and brief illicit forays into daylight. The pregnant girl seems to have slipped even further into herself since I arrived. She stares into space. You’d have to touch her pulse to know that she’s alive. It amazes me that women can end up like this, seduced so far down into gutter life that they arrive here, fugitives from everyone who would have kept them and held them and loved them and let them see the world outside.

The children run in from the living room again, playing chase: a blond, no more than five; another, younger and with brown braids, topless and in makeshift diapers, less than three; and a knee-high toddler boy, scrap diaper bunched around little muscled thighs, wearing a T-shirt stained with tomato sauce that says ‘Who’s the Cutest?’ The T-shirt would be an antique if it wasn’t stained.

“You need anything else?” Pentle asks. He wrinkles his nose as new reek wafts from the direction of the kids.

“You get photos for the prosecutor?”

“Got ’em.” Pentle holds out a digicam and thumbs through the images of the ladies and the three children, all of them staring out from the screen like little smeared dolls. “You want me to take them in, now?”

I look over the women. The kids have run out again. From the other room, their howls echo as they chase around. Their shrieks are piercing. Even from a distance they hurt my head. “Yeah. I’ll deal with the kids.”

Pentle gets the women up off the floor and shuffles out the door, leaving me standing alone in the middle of the kitchen. It’s all so familiar: a typical floor plan from Builders United. Custom undercab lighting, black mirror tile on the floors, clever self-clean nozzles hidden behind deco trim lines, so much like the stuff Alice and I have that I can almost forget where I am. It’s a negative image of our apartment’s kitchen: light vs dark, clean vs dirty, quiet vs loud. The same floor plan, everything about it the same, and yet, nothing in it is. It’s archaeological. I can look at the layers of gunk and grime and noise and see what must have underlain it before… when these people worried about color coordinating and classy appliances.

I open the fridge (smudge-free nickel, how practical). Ours contains pineapples and avocados and endive and corn and coffee and Brazil nuts from Angel Spire’s hanging gardens. This one holds a shelf cluttered with ground mycoprotein bars and wadded piles of nutrition supplement sacs like the kind they hand out at the government rejoo clinics. Other than a bag of slimy lettuce, there isn’t anything unprocessed in the fridge at all. No vegetables except in powder jars, ditto for fruit. A stack of self-warming dinner bins for fried rice and laap and spaghetti just like the one still lying on the kitchen table in a puddle of its own sauce, and that’s it.

I close the fridge and straighten. There’s something here in the mess and the screaming in the next room and the reek of the one kid’s poopy pants, but I’m stumped as to what it is. They could have lived up in the light and air. Instead, they hid in the dark under a wet jungle canopy and turned pale and gave up their lives.

The kids race back in, chasing each other all in a train, laughing and shrieking. They stop and look around, surprised, maybe, that their moms have disappeared. The littlest one has a stuffed dinosaur by the nose. It’s got a long green neck and a fat body. A Brontosaurus, I think, with big cartooney eyes and black felt lashes. It’s funny about the dinosaur because they’ve been gone so long but here one is, showing up as a stuffed toy. And then it’s funny again because when you think about it, a dinosaur toy is really extinct twice.

“Sorry, kids. Mommy’s gone.”

I pull out my Grange. Their heads kick back in successive jerks, bang bang bang down the line, holes appearing on their foreheads like paint and their brains spattering out the back. Their bodies flip and skid on the black mirror floor. They land in jumbled piles of misaligned limbs. For a second, gunpowder burn makes the stench bearable.

Up out of the jungle like a bat out of hell, climbing out of Rhinehurst Supercluster’s holdout suburban sprawl and then rising through jungle overstory. Blasting across the Causeway toward Angel Spire and the sea. Monkeys diving off the rail line like grasshoppers, pouring off the edge ahead of my cruiser and disappearing into the mangrove and kudzu and mahogany and teak, disappearing into the wet bowels of greenery tangle. Dumping the cruiser at squad center, no time for mopdown, don’t need it anyway. My hat, my raincoat, my clothes into hazmat bags, and then out again on the other side, rushing to pull on a tux before catching a masslift up 188 stories, rising into the high clear air over the jungle fur of carbon sequestration project N22.

Mma Telogo has a new concerto. Alice is his diva viola, his prize, and Hua Chiang and Telogo have been circling her like ravens, picking apart her performance, corvid eyes on her, watching and hungry for fault, but now they call her ready. Ready to banish Banini from his throne. Ready to challenge for a place in the immortal canon of classical performance. And I’m late. Caught in a masslift on Level 55, packed in with the breath and heat of upper-deck diners and weekenders climbing the spire while the seconds tick by, listening to the climate fans buzz and whir while we all sweat and wilt, waiting for some problem on the line to clear.

Finally, we’re rising again, our stomachs dropping into our shoes, our ears popping as we soar into the heavens, flying under magnetic acceleration… and then slowing so fast we almost leave the floor. Our stomachs catch up. I shove out through hundreds of people, waving my cop badge when anyone complains, and sprint through the glass arch of the Ki Performance Center. I dive between the closing slabs of the attention doors.

The autolocks thud home behind me, sealing the performance space. It’s comforting. I’m inside, enfolded in the symphony as though its hands have cupped themselves around me and pulled me into a chamber of absolute focus. The lights dim. Conversational thrum falls away. I find my way to my seat more by feel than sight. Dirty looks from men in topaz hats and women in spectacle eyes as I squeeze across them. Gauche, I know. Absurdly late to an event that happens once in a decade. Plopping down just as Hua Chiang steps up to the podium.

His hands rise like crane wings. Bows and horns and flutes flash with movement and then the music comes, first a hint, like blowing mist, and then building, winding through a series of repeated stanzas that I have heard Alice play perhaps ten thousand times. Notes I heard first so long ago, stumbling and painful, that now spill like water and burst like ice flowers. The music settles, pianissimo again, the lovely delicate motifs that I know from Alice’s practice. An introduction only, she has told me, intended to file away the audience’s last thoughts of the world outside, repeated stanzas until Hua Chiang accepts that the audience is completely his and then Alice’s viola rises, and the other players move to support her, fifteen years of practice coming to fruition.

I look down at my hands, overwhelmed. It’s different in the concert hall. Different than all those days when she cursed and practiced and swore at Telogo and claimed his work couldn’t be performed. Different even from when she finished her practices early, smiling, hands calloused in new ways, face flushed, eager to drink a cool white wine with me on our balcony in the light of the setting sun and watch the sky as monsoon clouds parted and starlight shone down on our companionship. Tonight, her part joins the rest of the symphony and I can’t speak or think for the beauty of the whole.

Later, I’ll hear whether Telogo has surpassed Banini for sheer audacity. I’ll hear how critics compare living memories of ancient performances and see how critical opinion shifts to accommodate this new piece in a canon that stretches back more than a century, and that hangs like a ghost over everything that Alice and her director Hua Chiang hope for: a performance that will knock Banini off his throne and perhaps depress him enough to stop rejoo and stuff him in his grave. For me, competing against that much history would be a heavy weight. I’m glad I’ve got a job where forgetting is the most important part. Working on the pop squad means your brain takes a vacation and your hands do the work. And when you leave work, you’ve left it for good.

Except now, as I look down at my hands, I’m surprised to find pinpricks of blood all over them. A fine spray. The misty remains of the little kid with the dinosaur. My fingers smell of rust.

The tempo accelerates. Alice is playing again. Notes writhe together so fluidly that it seems impossible they aren’t generated electronically, and yet the warmth and phrasing is hers, achingly hers. I’ve heard it in the morning, when she practiced on the balcony, testing herself, working again and again against the limitations of herself. Disciplining her fingers and hands, forcing them to accept Telogo’s demands, the ones that years ago she had called impossible and which now run so cleanly through the audience.

The blood is all over my hands. I pick at it, scrape it away in flakes. It had to be the kid with the dinosaur. He was closest when he took the bullet. Some of his residue is stuck tight, bonded to my own skin. I shouldn’t have skipped mopdown.

I pick.

The man next to me, tan face and rouged lips, frowns. I’m ruining a moment of history for him, something he has waited years to hear.

I pick more carefully. Silently. The blood flakes off. Dumb kid with the dumb dinosaur that almost made me miss the performance.

The cleanup crew noticed the dinosaur toy too. Caught the irony. Joked and snorted nosecaps and started bagging the bodies for compost. Made me late. Stupid dinosaur.

The music cascades into silence. Hua Chiang’s hands fall. Applause. Alice stands at Chiang’s urging and the applause increases. Craning my neck, I can see her, nineteen-year-old face flushed, smile bright and triumphant, enveloped in our adulation.

We end up at a party thrown by Maria Illoni, one of the symphony’s high donors. She made her money on global warming mitigation for New York City, before it went under. Her penthouse is in Shoreline Curve, daringly arcing over the seawalls and the surf, a sort of flip of the finger to the ocean that beat her storm surge calculations. A spidery silver vine over dark water and the bob of the boat communities out in the deeps. New York obviously never got its money back: Illoni’s outdoor patio runs across the entire top floor of the Shoreline and platforms additional petals of spun hollowform carbon out into the air.

From the far side of the Curve, you can see beyond the incandescent cores of the superclusters to the old city sprawl, dark except along where maglines radiate. A strange mangle of wreckage and scavenge and disrepair. In the day, it looks like some kind of dry red fungal collapse, a weave of jungle canopy and old suburban understory but at night, all that’s visible is the skeleton of glowing infrastructure, radial blooms in the darkness, and I breathe deeply, enjoying all the freshness and openness that’s missing from those steaming hideouts I raid with the pop squad.

Alice sparkles in the heat, perfectly slim, well curved — an armful of beautiful girl. The fall air is under thirty-three degrees and pleasant, and I feel infinitely tender toward her. I pull her close. We slip into a forest of century-old bonsai sculptures created by Maria’s husband. Alice murmurs that he spends all his time here on the roof, staring at branches, studying their curves, and occasionally, perhaps every few years, wiring a branch and guiding it in a new direction. We kiss in the shadows they provide, and Alice is beautiful and everything is perfect.

But I’m distracted.

When I hit the kids with my Grange, the littlest one — the one with that stupid dinosaur — flipped over.

A Grange is built for nitheads, not little kids, so the bullet plowed through the kid and he flipped and his dinosaur went flying. It sailed, I mean really sailed, through the air. And now I can’t get it out of my mind: that dinosaur flying. And then hitting the wall and bouncing onto the black mirror floor. So fast and so slow. Bang bang bang down the line… and then the dinosaur in the air.

Alice pulls away, seeming to sense my inattention. I straighten up. Try to focus on her.

She says, “I thought you weren’t going to make it. When we were tuning, I looked out and your seat was empty.”

I force a grin. “But I did. I made it.”

Barely. I stood around too long with the cleanup guys while the dinosaur lay in a puddle and sopped up the kid’s blood. Double extinct. The kid and the dinosaur both. Dead one way, and then dead again.

There’s a weird symmetry there.

She cocks her head, studying me. “Was it bad?”

“What?” The Brontosaurus? “The call?” I shrug. “Just a couple crazy ladies. Not armed or anything. It was easy.”

“I can’t imagine it. Cutting rejoo like that.” She sighs and reaches out to touch a bonsai, perfectly guided over the decades by the map that only Michael Illoni can see or understand. “Why give all this up?”

I don’t have an answer. I rewind the crime scene in my mind. I have the same feeling that I did when I stood on spaghetti maggots and went through their fridge. There’s something there in the stink and noise and darkness, something hot and obsessive and ripe. But I don’t know what it is.

“The ladies looked old,” I say. “Like week-old balloons, all puffy and droopy.”

Alice makes a face of distaste. “Can you imagine trying to perform Telogo without rejoo? We wouldn’t have had the time. Half of us would have been past our prime, and we’d have needed understudies, and then the understudies would have had to find understudies. Fifteen years. And these women throw it all away. How can they throw away something as beautiful as Telogo?”

“You thinking about Kara?”

“She would have played Telogo twice as well as I did.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Believe it. She was the best. Before she went kid-crazy.” She sighs.

“I miss her.”

“You could still visit her. She’s not dead yet.”

“She might as well be. She’s already twenty years older than when we knew her.” She shakes her head. “No. I’d rather remember her in her prime, not out at some single-sex work camp growing vegetables and losing the last of her talent. I couldn’t stand listening to her play now. It would kill me to hear all of that gone.” She turns abruptly. “That reminds me, my rejoo booster is tomorrow. Can you take me?”

“Tomorrow?” I hesitate. I’m supposed to be on another shift popping kids. “It’s kind of short notice.”

“I know. I meant to ask sooner but with the concert coming up, I forgot.” She shrugs. “It’s not that important. I can go by myself.” She glances at me sidelong. “But it is nicer when you come.”

What the hell. I don’t really want to work anyway. “Okay, sure. I’ll get Pentle to cover for me.” Let him deal with the dinosaurs.

“Really?”

I shrug. “What can I say? I’m a sweet guy.”

She smiles and stands on tiptoe to kiss me. “If we weren’t going to live forever, I’d marry you.”

I laugh. “If we weren’t going to live forever, I’d get you pregnant.”

We look at each other. Alice laughs unsteadily and takes it as a joke.

“Don’t be gross.”

Before we can talk any more, Illoni pops out from behind a bonsai and grabs Alice by the arm. “There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you. You can’t hide yourself like this. You’re the woman of the hour.”

She pulls Alice away with all the confidence that must have made New York believe she could save it. She barely even looks at me as they hustle off. Alice smiles tolerantly and motions for me to follow. Then Maria’s calling to everyone and pulling them all together and she climbs up on a fountain’s rim and pulls Alice up beside her. She starts talking about art and sacrifice and discipline and beauty.

I tune it out. There’s only so much self-congratulation you can take. It’s obvious Alice is one of the best in the world. Talking about it just makes it seem banal. But the donors need to feel like they’re part of the moment, so they all want to squeeze Alice and make her theirs, so they talk and talk and talk.

Maria’s saying, “…wouldn’t be standing here congratulating ourselves, if it weren’t for our lovely Alice. Hua Chiang and Telogo did their work well, but in the final moment it was Alice’s execution in the face of Telogo’s ambitious piece that has made it resonate so strongly already with the critics. We have her to thank for the piece’s flawlessness.”

Everyone starts applauding and Alice blushes prettily, not accustomed to adulation from her peers and competitors. Maria shouts over the cheering, “I’ve made several calls to Banini, and it is more than apparent that he has no answer to our challenge and so I expect the next eighty years are ours. And Alice’s!” The applause is almost deafening.

Maria waves for attention again and the applause fades into scattered whistles and catcalls which finally taper off enough to allow Maria to continue. “To commemorate the end of Banini’s age, and the beginning of a new one, I would like to present Alice with a small token of affection—” and here she leans down and picks up a jute-woven gift bag shot with gold as she says, “Of course a woman likes gold and jewels, and strings for her viola, but I thought this was a particularly apt gift for the evening…”

I’m leaning against the woman next to me, trying to see as Maria holds the bag dramatically above her head and calls out to the crowd, “For Alice, our slayer of dinosaurs!” and pulls the green Brontosaurus out of the bag.

It’s just like the one the kid had.

Its big eyes look right at me. For a second it seems to blink at me with its big black lashes and then the crowd laughs and applauds as they all get the joke. Banini = dinosaur. Ha ha.

Alice takes the dinosaur and holds it by the neck and swings it over her head and everybody laughs again but I can’t see anything anymore because I’m lying on the ground caught in the jungle swelter of people’s legs and I can’t breathe.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Sure. No problem. I told you. I’m fine.”

It’s true, I guess. Sitting next to Alice in the waiting room, I don’t feel dizzy or anything, even if I am tired. Last night, she put the dinosaur on the bedside table, right in with her collection of little jeweled music boxes, and the damn thing looked at me all night long. Finally at four AM, I couldn’t stand it anymore and I shoved it under the bed. But in the morning, she found it and put it back, and it’s been looking at me ever since.

Alice squeezes my hand. The rejoo clinic’s a small one, private, carefully appointed with holographic windows of sailboats on the Atlantic so it feels open and airy even though its daylight is piped in through mirror collectors. It’s not one of the big public monsters out in the clusters that got started after rejoo’s patents expired. You pay a little more than you do for the Medicaid generics, but you don’t rub shoulders with a bunch of starving gamblers and nitheads and drunks who all still want their rejoo even if they’re wasting every day of their endless lives.

The nurses are quick and efficient. Pretty soon, Alice is on her back hooked up to an IV bladder with me sitting beside her on the bed, and we’re watching rejoo push into her.

It’s just a clear liquid. I always thought it should be fizzy and green for growing things. Or maybe not green, but definitely fizzy. It always feels fizzy when it goes in.

Alice takes a quick breath and reaches out for me, her slender pale fingers brushing my thigh. “Hold my hand.”

The elixir of life pulses into her, filling her, flushing her. She pants shallowly. Her eyes dilate. She isn’t watching me anymore. She’s somewhere deep inside, reclaiming what was lost over the last eighteen months. No matter how many times I do it, I’m surprised when I watch it come over someone, the way it seems to swallow them and then they come back to the surface more whole and alive than when they started.

Alice’s eyes focus. She smiles. “Oh, God. I can never get used to that.”

She tries to stand up, but I hold her down and beep the nurse. Once we’ve got her unhooked, I lead her back out to the car. She leans heavily against me, stumbling and touching me. I can almost feel the fizzing and tingling through her skin. She climbs into the car. When I’m inside, she looks over at me and laughs. “I can’t believe how good I feel.”

“Nothing like winding back the clock.”

“Take me home. I want to be with you.”

I push the start button on the car, and we slide out of our parking space. We hook onto the magline out of Center Spire. Alice watches the city slide by outside the windows. All the shoppers and the businessmen and the martyrs and the ghosts, and then we’re out in the open, on the high track over the jungle, speeding north again, for Angel Spire.

“It’s so wonderful to be alive,” she says, “It doesn’t make any sense.”

“What doesn’t?”

“Cutting rejoo.”

“If people made sense, we wouldn’t have psychologists.” And we wouldn’t buy dinosaur toys for kids who were never going to make it anyway. I grit my teeth. None of them make any sense. Stupid moms.

Alice sighs and runs her hands across her thighs, kneading herself, hiking up her skirt and digging her fingers into her flesh. “But it still doesn’t make any sense. It feels so good. You’d have to be crazy to stop rejoo.”

“Of course they’re crazy. They kill themselves, they make babies they don’t know how to take care of, they live in shitty apartments in the dark, they never go out, they smell bad, they look terrible, they never have anything good again—” I’m starting to shout. I shut my mouth.

Alice looks over at me. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

But I’m not. I’m mad. Mad at the ladies and their stupid toy-buying. Pissed off that these dumb women tease their dumb terminal kids like that; treat them like they aren’t going to end up as compost. “Let’s not talk about work right now. Let’s just go home.” I force a grin. “I’ve already got the day off. We should take advantage of it.”

Alice is still looking at me. I can see the questions in her eyes. If she weren’t on the leading edge of a rejoo high, she’d keep pressing, but she’s so wrapped up in the tingling of her rebuilt body that she lets it go. She laughs and runs her fingers up my leg and starts to play with me. I override the magline’s safeties with my cop codes and we barrel across the Causeway toward Angel Spire with the sun on the ocean and Alice smiling and laughing and the bright air whirling around us.

Three AM. Another call, windows down, howling through the humidity and swelter of Newfoundland. Alice wants me to come home, come back, relax, but I can’t. I don’t want to. I’m not sure what I want, but it’s not brunch with Belgian waffles or screwing on the living room floor or a trip to the movies or… anything, really.

I can’t do it, anyway. We got home, and I couldn’t do it. Nothing felt right. Alice said it didn’t matter, that she wanted to practice.

Now I haven’t seen her for more than a day.

I’ve been on duty, catching up on calls. I’ve been going for twenty-four hours straight, powered on coppers’-little-helpers and mainlined caffeine, and my hat and trench coat and hands are pinprick-sprayed with the residue of work.

Along the coastline the sea runs high and hot, splashing in over the breakwaters. Lights ahead, the glow of coalfoundries and gasification works. The call takes me up the glittering face of Palomino Cluster. Nice real estate. Up the masslifts and smashing through a door with Pentle backing me, knowing what we’re going to find but never knowing how much these ones will fight.

Bedlam. A lady, this one a pretty brown girl who might have had a great life if she didn’t decide she needed a baby, and a kid lying in the corner in a box screaming and screaming. And the lady’s screaming too, screaming at the little kid in its box, like she’s gone out of her mind.

As we come in through the door, she starts screaming at us. The kid keeps screaming. The lady keeps screaming. It’s like a bunch of screwdrivers jamming in my ears; it goes on and on. Pentle grabs the lady and tries to hold her but she and the kid just keep screaming away and suddenly I can’t breathe. I can barely stand. The kid screams and screams and screams: screwdrivers and glass and icepicks in my head.

So I shoot the thing. I pull out my Grange and put a bullet in the little sucker. Fragments of box and baby spray the air.

I don’t do that, normally; it’s against procedure to waste the kid in front of the mother.

But there we all are, staring at the body, bloodmist and gunpowder all over and my ears ringing from the shot and for one pristine crystal second, it’s quiet.

Then the woman’s screaming at me again and Pentle’s screaming too because I screwed up the evidence before he could get a picture, and then the lady’s all over me, trying to claw my eyes out. Pentle drags her off and then she’s calling me a bastard and a killer and bastard and monkey man and a fucking pig and that I’ve got dead eyes.

And that really gets me: I’ve got dead eyes. This lady’s headed into a rejoo collapse and won’t last another twenty years and she’ll spend all of it in a single-sex work camp. She’s young, a lot like Alice, maybe the last of them to cross the line into rejoo, right when she came of age — not an old workhorse like me who was already forty when it went generic — and now she’ll be dead in an eye blink. But I’m the one with dead eyes.

I take my Grange and shove it into her forehead. “You want to die too?”

“Go ahead! Do it! Do it!” She doesn’t stop for a second, just keeps howling and spitting. “Fucking bastard! Bastard fuckingfuckfucking— Do it! Do it!” She’s crying.

Even though I want to see her brains pop out the back of her head, I don’t have the heart. She’ll die soon enough. Another twenty years and she’s done for. The paperwork isn’t worth it.

Pentle cuffs her while she babbles to the baby in the box, just a lump of blood and limp doll parts now. “My baby my poor baby I didn’t know I’m sorry my baby my poor baby I’m sorry…” Pentle muscles her out to the car.

For a while I can hear her in the hall. My baby my poor baby my poor baby.… And then she’s gone down the lifts and it’s a relief just to be standing there with the wet smells of the apartment and the dead body.

She was using a dresser drawer as her bassinet.

I run my fingers along the splintered edge, fondle the brass pulls. If nothing else, these ladies are resourceful, making the things we can’t buy anymore. If I close my eyes, I can almost remember a whole industry around these little guys. Little outfits. Little chairs. Little beds. Everything made little.

Little dinosaurs.

“She couldn’t make it shut up.”

I jerk my hands away from the baby box, startled. Pentle has come up behind me. “Huh?”

“She couldn’t make it stop crying. Didn’t know what to do with it. Didn’t know how to make it calm down. That’s how the neighbors heard.”

“Dumb.”

“Yeah. She didn’t even have a tag-teamer. How the heck was she going to do grocery shopping?”

He gets out his camera and tries a couple shots of the baby. There’s not a whole lot left. A 12mm Grange is built for junkies, nitheads going crazy, ’bot assassins. It’s overkill for an unarmored thing like this. When the new Granges came out, Grange ran an ad campaign on the sides of our cruisers. ‘Grange: Unstoppable’. Or something like that.

There was this one that said ‘Point Blank Grange’ with a photo of a completely mangled nithead. That one was in all our lockers.

Pentle tries another angle on the drawer, going for a profile, trying to make the best of a bad situation. “I like how she used a drawer,” he says.

“Yeah. Resourceful.”

“I saw this one where the lady made a whole little table and chair set for her kid. Handmade it all. I couldn’t believe how much energy she put into it.” He makes shapes with his hand. “Little scalloped edges, shapes painted on the top: squares and triangles and things.”

“If you’re going to die doing something, I guess you want to do a good job of it.”

“I’d rather be parasailing. Or go to a concert. I heard Alice was great the other night.”

“Yeah. She was.” I study the baby’s body as Pentle takes some more shots. “If you had to do it, how do you think you’d make one of them be quiet?”

Pentle nods at my Grange. “I’d tell it to shut up.”

I grimace and holster the gun. “Sorry about that. It’s been a rough week. I’ve been up too long. Haven’t been sleeping.” Too many dinosaurs looking at me.

Pentle shrugs. “Whatever. It would have been better to get an intact image—” He snaps another picture. “—but even if she gets off this time, you got to figure in another year or two we’ll be busting down her door again. These girls have a damn high recidivism.” He takes another photo.

I go to a window and open it. Salt air flows in like fresh life, cleaning out the wet shit and body stinks. Probably the first fresh air the apartment’s had since the baby was born. Got to keep the windows closed or the neighbors might hear. Got to stay locked in. I wonder if she’s got a boyfriend, some rejoo dropout who’s going to show up with groceries and find her gone. Probably worth staking out the apartment, just to see. Keep the feminists off us for only bagging the women. I take a deep breath of sea air to get something fresh in my lungs, then light a cigarette and turn back to the room with its clutter and stink.

Recidivism. Fancy word for girls with a compulsion. Like a nithead or a coke freak, but weirder, more self-destructive. At least being a junkie is fun. Who the hell chooses to live in dark apartments with shitty diapers, instant food, and no sleep for years on end? The whole breeding thing is an anachronism — twenty-first-century ritual torture we don’t need anymore. But these girls keep trying to turn back the clock and pop out the pups, little lizard brains compelled to pass on some DNA. And there’s a new batch every year, little burps of offspring cropping up here and there, the convulsions of a species trying to restart itself and get evolution rolling again, like we can’t tell that we’ve already won.

I’m keying through the directory listings in my cruiser, fiddling through ads and keywords and search preferences, trying to zero in on something that doesn’t come up no matter how I go after it. Dinosaur.

Toys.

Stuffed animals.

Nothing. Nobody sells stuff like that dinosaur. But I’ve run into two of them now.

Monkeys scamper over the roof of my car. One of them lands on my forward impact rails and looks at me, yellow eyes wide before another jumps it and they fall off the carbon petal pullout where I’m parked. Somewhere down below, suburban crumble keeps small herds of them. I remember when this area was tundra. It was a long time ago. I’ve talked to techs in the carbon sink business who talk about flipping the climate and building an icecap, but it’s a slow process, an accretion of centuries most likely. Assuming I don’t get shot by a crazy mom or a nithead, I’ll see it happen. But for now, it’s monkeys and jungle.

Forty-eight hours on call and two more cleanups and Alice wants me to take the weekend off and play, but I can’t. I’m living on perkies, now. She feels good about her work, and wants me all day. We’ve done it before. Lying together, enjoying the silence and our own company, the pleasure of just being together with nothing needing to be done.

There’s something wonderful about peace and silence and sea breezes twisting the curtains on the balcony.

I should go home. In a week, maybe, she’ll be back at worrying, doubting herself, thrashing herself to work harder, to practice longer, to listen and feel and move inside of music that’s so complex it might as well be the mathematics of chaos for anyone but her. But in reality, she has time. All the time in the world, and it makes me happy that she has it, that fifteen years isn’t too long to prepare for something as heartstoppingly beautiful as what she did with Telogo.

I want to spend this time with her, to enjoy her bliss. But I don’t want to go back and sleep with that dinosaur. I can’t.

I call her from the cruiser.

“Alice?”

She looks out at me from the dash. “Are you coming home? I could meet you for lunch.”

“Do you know where Maria got that dinosaur toy?”

She shrugs. “Maybe one of the shops on the Span? Why?”

“Just wondering.” I pause. “Could you go get it for me?”

“Why? Why can’t we do something fun? I’m on vacation. I just had my rejoo. I feel great. If you want to see my dinosaur, why don’t you come home and get it?”

“Alice, please.”

Scowling, she disappears from the screen. In a few minutes she’s back, holding it up to the screen, shoving it in my face. I can feel my heart beating faster. It’s cool in the cruiser but I break into a sweat when I see the dinosaur on the screen. I clear my throat. “What’s it say on the tag?”

Frowning, she turns the thing over, runs her fingers through its fur. She holds up the tag to the camera. It comes in blurry as the camera focuses, then it’s there, clear and sharp. ‘Ipswitch Collectibles’.

^{Of course. Not a toy at all.}

The woman who runs Ipswitch is old, as old a rejoo as I’ve ever met. The wrinkles on her face look so much like plastic that it’s hard to tell what’s real and what may be a mask. Her eyes are sunken little blue coals, and her hair is so white I think of weddings and silk. She must have been ninety when rejoo hit.

Whatever the name of it, Ipswitch Collectibles is full of toys: dolls staring down from their racks, different faces and shapes and colors of hair, some of them soft, some of them made of hard bright plastics; tiny trains that run around miniature tracks and spout steam from their pinky-sized smokestacks; figurines from old-time movies and comics in action poses: Superman, Dolphina, Rex Mutinous. And, under a shelf of hand-carved wooden cars, a bin full of stuffed dinosaurs in green and blue and red. A Tyrannosaurus rex. A Pterodactyl. The Brontosaurus.

“I’ve got a few Stegosauruses in the back.”

I look up, startled. The old woman watches me from behind the counter, a strange wrinkly buzzard, studying me with those sharp blue eyes, examining me like I’m carrion.

I pick out the Brontosaurus and hold it up by the neck. “No. These’re fine.”

A bell rings. The shop’s main doors to the concourse slide open. A woman steps through, hesitant. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and she hasn’t applied any makeup, and I can tell, even before she’s all the way through the door, that she’s one of them: a mom.

She hasn’t been off rejoo long; she still looks fresh and young, despite the plumpness that comes with kids. She still looks good. But even without rejoo-collapse telltales, I know what she’s done to herself.

She’s got the tired look of a person at war with the world. None of us look like that. No one has to look like that. Nitheads look less besieged. She’s trying to act like the person she was before, like the actress or the financial advisor or the code engineer or the biologist or the waitress or whatever, putting on clothes from her life before, that used to fit perfectly and don’t now, making herself look like a person who walks without fear in the open air, and who doesn’t now.

As she wanders the aisles, I spy a stain on her shoulder. It’s small but obvious if you know what to look for, a light streak of green on a creamy blouse. The kind of thing that never happens to anyone except women with children. No matter how hard she tries, she doesn’t fit anymore. Not with us.

Ipswitch Collectibles, like others of its ilk, is a trap door of sorts — a rabbit hole down into the land of illicit motherhood: the place of mashed pea stains, sound-proofed walls, and furtive forays into daylight for resupply and survival. If I stand here long enough, holding my magic Brontosaurus by the neck, I’ll slip through entirely and see their world as it overlaps with my own, see it with the queer double vision of these women who have learned to turn a drawer into a crib, and know how to fold and pin an old shirt into a diaper, and know that ‘collectibles’ really means ‘toys’.

The woman slips in the direction of the train sets. She chooses one and places it on the counter. It’s a bright wooden thing, each car a different color, each connected by a magnet.

The old woman takes the train and says, “Oh yes, this is a fine piece. I had grandchildren who played with trains like this when they were just a little more than one.”

The mother doesn’t say anything, just holds out her wrist for the charge, her eyes down on the train. She fingers the blue and yellow engine nervously.

I come up to the counter. “I’ll bet you sell a lot of them.”

The mother jerks. For a second, she looks like she’ll run, but she steadies.

The old woman’s eyes turn on me. Dark sunken blue cores, infinitely knowledgeable. “Not many. Not now. Not many collectors around for this sort of thing. Not now.”

The transaction clears. The woman hustles out of the store, not looking back. I watch her go.

The old woman says, “That dinosaur is forty-seven, if you want it.”

Her tone says that she already knows I won’t be buying.

I’m not a collector.

Nighttime. More dark-of-night encounters with illicit motherhood. The babies are everywhere, popping up like toadstools after rain. I can’t keep up with them. I had to leave my last call before the cleanup crew came. Broke the chain of evidence, but what can you do? Everywhere I go, the baby world is ripping open around me, melons and seedpods and fertile wombs splitting open and vomiting babies onto the ground. We’re drowning in babies. The jungle seems to seethe with them, the hidden women down in the suburb swelter, and as I shoot along the maglines on my way to bloody errands, the jungle’s tendril vines curl up from below, reaching out to me.

I’ve got the mom’s address in my cruiser. She’s hidden now. Back down the rabbit hole. Pulled the lid down tight over her head. Lying low with her brood, reconnected with the underground of women who have all decided to kill themselves for the sake of squeezing out pups. Back in the swelter of locked doors and poopy diapers amongst the sorority who give train sets to little creatures who actually play with them instead of putting them on an end table and making you look at them every damn day…

The woman. The collector. I’ve been holding off on hitting her. It doesn’t seem fair. It seems like I should wait for her to make her mistake before I pop her kids. But knowing that she’s out there tickles my mind. I catch myself again and again, reaching to key in the homing on her address.

But then another call comes, another cleanup, and I let myself pretend I don’t know about her, that I haven’t perforated her hidey-hole and can now peer in on her whenever I like. The woman we don’t know about — yet. Who hasn’t made a mistake — yet. Instead, I barrel down the rails to another call, slicing through jungle overstory where it impinges around the tracks, blasting toward another woman’s destiny who was less lucky and less clever than the one who likes to collect. And these other women hold me for a little while. But in the end, parked on the edge of the sea, with monkeys screeching from the jungle and rain spackling my windshield, I punch in the collector’s address.

I’ll just drive by.

It could have been a rich house before carbon sequestration. Before we all climbed into the bright air of the spires and superclusters. But now it exists at the very edge of what is left of suburbs. I’m surprised it even has electric or any services running to it at all. The jungle surrounds it, envelopes it. The road to it, off the maglines and off the maintenance routes, is heaved and split and perforated with encroaching trees. She’s smart. She’s as close to wilderness as it is possible to live. Beyond is only shadow tangle and green darkness. Monkeys scamper away from the spray of my headlights. The houses around her have already been abandoned. Any day now, they’ll stop serving this area entirely. In another couple years, this portion will be completely overgrown. We’ll cut off services and the last of the spires will go online and the jungle will swallow this place completely.

I sit outside the house for a while, looking at it. She’s a smart one. To live this far out. No neighbors to hear the screaming. But if I think about it, she would have been smarter to move into the jungle entirely, and live with all the other monkeys that just can’t keep themselves from breeding. I guess at the end of the day, even these crazy ladies are still human. They can’t leave civilization totally behind. Or don’t know how, anyway.

^{I get out of my car, pull my Grange, and hit the door.}

As I slam through, she looks up from where she sits at her kitchen table. She isn’t even surprised. A little bit of her seems to deflate, and that’s all. Like she knew it was going to happen all along. Like I said: a smart one.

A kid runs in from the other room, attracted by the noise of me coming through the door. Maybe one and a half or two years old. It stops and stares, little tow-headed thing, its hair already getting long like hers. We stare at each other. Then it turns and scrambles into its mother’s lap.

The woman closes her eyes. “Go on, then. Do it.”

I point my Grange, my 12mm hand cannon. Zero in on the kid.

The lady wraps her arms around it. It’s not a clear shot. It’ll rip right through and take out the mom. I angle differently, looking for the shot. Nothing.

She opens her eyes. “What are you waiting for?”

We stare at each other. “I saw you in the toy store. A couple days ago.”

She closes her eyes again, regretful, understanding her mistake. She doesn’t let go of the kid. I could just take it out of her arms, throw it on the floor and shoot it. But I don’t. Her eyes are still closed.

“Why do you do it?” I ask.

Her eyes open again. She’s confused. I’m breaking the script. She’s mapped this out in her own mind. Probably a thousand times. Had to. Had to know this day would be coming. But here I am, all alone, and her kid’s not dead yet. And I keep asking her questions. “Why do you keep having these kids?”

She just stares at me. The kid squirms around on her and tries to start nursing. She lifts her blouse a little and the kid dives under. I can see the hanging bulges of the lady’s breasts, these heavy swinging mammaries, so much larger than I remember them from the store when they were hidden under bra and blouse. They sag while the kid sucks. The woman just stares at me. She’s on some kind of autopilot, feeding the kid. Last meal.

I take my hat off and put it on the table and sit. I put my Grange down, too. It just doesn’t seem right to blow the sucker away while it’s nursing. I take out a cigarette and light it. Take a drag. The woman watches me the way anyone watches a predator. I take another drag on my cigarette and offer it to her. “Smoke?”

“I don’t.” She jerks her head toward her kid.

I nod. “Ah. Right. Bad for the new lungs. I heard that, once. Can’t remember where.” I grin. “Can’t remember when.”

She stares at me. “What are you waiting for?”

I look down at my pistol, lying on the table. The heavy machine weight of slugs and steel, a monster weapon. Grange 12mm Recoilless Hand Cannon. Standard issue. Stop a nitfitter in his tracks. Take out the whole damn heart if you hit them right. Pulverize a baby. “You had to stop taking rejoo to have the kid, right?”

She shrugs. “It’s just an additive. They don’t have to make rejoo that way.”

“But otherwise we’d have a big damn population problem, wouldn’t we?”

She shrugs again.

The gun sits on the table between us. Her eyes flick toward the gun, then to me, then back to the gun. I take a drag on the cigarette. I can tell what she’s thinking, looking at that big old steel hand cannon on her table. It’s way out of her reach, but she’s desperate, so it looks a lot closer to her, almost close enough. Almost.

Her eyes go back up to me. “Why don’t you just do it? Get it over with?”

It’s my turn to shrug. I don’t really have an answer. I should be taking pictures and securing her in the car, and popping the kid, and calling in the cleanup squad, but here we sit. She’s got tears in her eyes. I watch her cry. Mammaries and fatty limbs and a frightening sort of wisdom, maybe coming from knowing that she won’t last forever. A contrast to Alice with her smooth, smooth skin and high, bright breasts. This woman is fecund. Hips and breasts and belly fertile, surrounded by her messy kitchen, the jungle outside. The soil of life. She seems settled in all of this, a damp Gaia creature.

A dinosaur.

I should be cuffing her. I’ve got her and her kid. I should be shooting the kid. But I don’t. Instead, I’ve got a hard-on. She’s not beautiful exactly, but I’ve got a hard-on. She sags, she’s round, she’s breasty and hippy and sloppy; I can barely sit because my pants are so tight. I try not to stare at the kid nursing. At her exposed breasts. I take another drag on my cigarette. “You know, I’ve been doing this job for a long time.”

She stares at me dully, doesn’t say anything.

“I’ve always wanted to know why you women do this.” I nod at the kid. It’s come off her breast, and now the whole thing is exposed, this huge sagging thing with its heavy nipple. She doesn’t cover up. When I look up, she’s studying me, seeing me looking at her breast. The kid scrambles down and watches me, too, solemn-eyed. I wonder if it can feel the tension in the room. If it knows what’s coming. “Why the kid? Really. Why?”

She purses her lips. I think I can see anger in the tightening of her teary eyes, anger that I’m playing with her. That I’m sitting here, talking to her with my Grange on her grimy table, but then her eyes go down to that gun and I can almost see the gears clicking. The calculations.

The she-wolf gathering herself.

She sighs and scoots her chair forward. “I just wanted one. Ever since I was a little girl.”

“Play with dolls, all that? Collectibles?”

She shrugs. “I guess.” She pauses. Eyes back to the gun. “Yeah. I guess I did. I had a little plastic doll, and I used to dress it up. And I’d play tea with it. You know, we’d make tea, and then I’d pour some on her face, to make her drink. It wasn’t a great doll. Voice input, but not much repertoire. My parents weren’t rich. ‘Let’s go shopping.’ ‘Okay, for what?’ ‘For watches.’ ‘I love watches.’ Simple. Like that. But I liked it. And then one day I called her my baby. I don’t know why. I did, though, and the doll said, ‘I love you mommy.’”

Her eyes turn wet as she speaks. “And I just knew I wanted to have a baby. I played with her all the time, and she’d pretend she was my baby, and then my mother caught us doing it and said I was a stupid girl, and I shouldn’t talk that way, girls didn’t have babies anymore, and she took the doll away.”

The kid is down on the floor, shoving blocks under the table. Stacking and unstacking. It catches sight of me. It’s got blue eyes and a shy smile. I get a twitch of it, again, and then it scrambles up off the floor, and buries its face in its mother’s breasts, hiding. It peeks out at me, and giggles and hides again.

I nod at the kid. “Who’s the dad?”

Stone cold face. “I don’t know. I got a sample shipped from a guy I found online. We didn’t want to meet. I erased everything about him as soon as I got the sample.”

“Too bad. Things would have been better if you’d kept in touch.”

“Better for you.”

“That’s what I said.” I notice that the ash on my cigarette has gotten long, a thin gray penis hanging limp off the end of my smoke. I give it a twitch and it falls. “I still can’t get over the rejoo part.”

Inexplicably, she laughs. Brightens even. “Why? Because I’m not so in love with myself that I just want to live forever and ever?”

“What were you going to do? Keep it in the house until—”

“Her,” she interrupts suddenly. “Keep her in the house. She is a girl and her name is Melanie.”

At her name, the kid looks over at me. She sees my hat on the table and grabs it. Then climbs down off her mother’s lap and carries it over to me. She holds it out to me, arms fully extended, an offering. I try to take it but she pulls the hat away.

“She wants to put it on your head.”

I look at the lady, confused. She’s smiling slightly, sadly. “It’s a game she plays. She likes to put hats on my head.”

I look at the girl again. She’s getting antsy, holding the hat. She makes little grunts of meaning at me and waves the hat invitingly. I lean down. The girl puts the hat on my head, and beams. I sit up and set it more firmly.

“You’re smiling,” she says.

I look up at her. “She’s cute.”

“You like her, don’t you?”

I look at the girl again, thinking. “Can’t say. I’ve never really looked at them before.”

“Liar.”

My cigarette is dead. I stub it out on the kitchen table. She watches me do it, frowning, pissed off that I’m messing up her messy table, maybe, but then she seems to remember the gun. And I do, too. A chill runs up my spine. For a moment, when I leaned down to the girl, I’d forgotten about it. I could be dead, right now. Funny how we forget and remember and forget these things. Both of us. Me and the lady. One minute we’re having a conversation, the next we’re waiting for the killing to start.

This lady seems like she would have been a nice date. She’s got spunk. You can tell that. It almost comes out before she remembers the gun. You can watch it flicker back and forth. She’s one person, then another person: alive, thinking, remembering, then bang, she’s sitting in a kitchen full of crusty dishes, coffee rings on her countertop and a cop with a hand cannon sitting at the kitchen table.

I spark up another cigarette. “Don’t you miss the rejoo?”

She looks down at her daughter, holds out her arms. “No. Not a bit.”

The girl climbs back onto her mother’s lap.

I let the smoke curl out of my mouth. “But there’s no way you were going to get away with this. It’s insane. You have to drop off of rejoo; you have to find a sperm donor who’s willing to drop off, too, so two people kill themselves for a kid; you’ve got to birth the kid alone, and then you’ve got to keep it hidden, and then you’d eventually need an ID card so you could get it started on rejoo because nobody’s going to dose an undocumented patient, and you’ve got to know that none of this would ever work. But here you are.”

She scowls at me. “I could have done it.”

“You didn’t.”

Bang. She’s back in the kitchen again. She slumps in her chair, holding the kid. “So why don’t you just hurry up and do it?”

I shrug. “I was just curious about what you breeders are thinking.”

She looks at me, hard. Angry. “You know what I’m thinking? I’m thinking we need something new. I’ve been alive for one hundred and eighteen years and I’m thinking that it’s not just about me. I’m thinking I want a baby and I want to see what she sees today when she wakes up and what she’ll find and see that I’ve never seen before because that’s new. Finally, something new. I love seeing things through her little eyes and not through dead eyes like yours.”

“I don’t have dead eyes.”

“Look in the mirror. You’ve all got dead eyes.”

“I’m a hundred and fifty and I feel just as good as I did the day I went on.”

“I’ll bet you can’t even remember. No one remembers.” Her eyes are on the gun again, but they come up off it to look at me. “But I do. Now. And it’s better this way. A thousand times better than living forever.”

I make a face. “Live through your kid and all that?”

“You wouldn’t understand. None of you would.”

I look away. I don’t know why. I’m the one with the gun. I’m running everything, but she’s looking at me, and something gets tight inside me when she says that. If I was imaginative, I’d say it was some little bit of old primal monkey trying to drag itself out of the muck and make itself heard. Some bit of the critter we were before. I look at the kid — the girl — and she’s looking back at me. I wonder if they all do the trick with the hat, or if this one’s special somehow. If they all like to put hats on their killers’ heads. She smiles at me and ducks her head back under her mother’s arm. The woman’s got her eyes on my gun.

“You want to shoot me?” I ask.

Her eyes come up. “No.”

I smile slightly. “Come on. Be honest.”

Her eyes narrow. “I’d blow your head off if I could.”

Suddenly I’m tired. I don’t care anymore. I’m sick of the dirty kitchen and the dark rooms and the smell of dirty makeshift diapers. I give the Grange a push, shove it closer to her. “Go ahead. You going to kill an old life so you can save one that isn’t even going to last? I’m going to live forever, and that little girl won’t last longer than seventy years even if she’s lucky — which she won’t be — and you’re practically already dead. But you want to waste my life?” I feel like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff. Possibility seethes around me. “Give it a shot.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m giving you your shot. You want to try for it? This is your chance.” I shove the Grange a little closer, baiting her. I’m tingling all over. My head feels light, almost dizzy. Adrenaline rushes through me. I push the Grange even closer to her, suddenly not even sure if I’ll fight her for the gun, or if I’ll just let her have it. “This is your chance.”

She doesn’t give a warning.

She flings herself across the table. Her kid flies out of her arms. Her fingers touch the gun at the same time as I yank it out of reach. She lunges again, clawing across the table. I jump back, knocking over my chair. I step out of range. She stretches toward the gun, fingers wide and grasping, desperate still, even though she knows she’s already lost.

I point the gun at her.

She stares at me, then puts her head down on the table and sobs.

The girl is crying too. She sits bawling on the floor, her little face screwed up and red, crying along with her mother who’s given everything in that one run at my gun: all her hopes and years of hidden dedication, all her need to protect her progeny, everything. And now she lies sprawled on a dirty table and cries while her daughter howls from the floor. The girl keeps screaming and screaming.

I sight the Grange on the girl. She’s exposed, now. She’s squalling and holding her hands out to her mother, but she doesn’t get up. She just holds out her hands, waiting to be picked up and held by a lady who doesn’t have anything left to give. She doesn’t notice me or the gun.

One quick shot and she’s gone, paint hole in the forehead and brains on the wall just like spaghetti and the crying’s over and all that’s left is gunpowder burn and cleanup calls.

But I don’t fire.

Instead, I holster my Grange and walk out the door, leaving them to their crying and their grime and their lives.

It’s raining again, outside. Thick ropes of water spout off the eaves and spatter the ground. All around me the jungle seethes with the chatter of monkeys. I pull up my collar and resettle my hat. Behind me, I can barely hear the crying anymore.

Maybe they’ll make it. Anything is possible. Maybe the kid will make it to eighteen, get some black market rejoo and live to be a hundred and fifty. More likely, in six months, or a year, or two years, or ten, a cop will bust down the door and pop the kid. But it won’t be me.

I run for my cruiser, splashing through mud and vines and wet. And for the first time in a long time, rain feels new.