Ali’s text comes in.

  “That went poorly.”

  “Sleeping on the couch?”

  “Sleeping on someone else's couch, actually.”

  “Yikes.”

  “My choice, trying not to pressure her. It’s a complicated situation she’s in.”

  “Is it?”

  He doesn’t reply for a while. Not a conversation to have over text.

  “Was it a productive talk?” he asks.

  “No.”

  “You shouldn’t have gone behind closed doors with them.”

  “I know.”

  “You should have met with us, nobody was expecting it, not that fast.”

  “I know.”

  “I had to explain your goals for you. They think I’m your second in command. It has not helped things with Sazwa.”

  “Thank you, Ali, I’m sorry,” I say. Like a brat being scolded. “I’ll set some meetings tomorrow.”

  “It’s been a big day. Have a good night, Heidi.”

  I exhale shakily, put the phone down, and lay back in my bunk. Deep breaths. There’s no soundproofing here, I’ve been kept up by people crying in their cots. I won’t have that be me. Not tonight. I pull up the most trustworthy tool to make me feel better: The Diameter Corporate Internet news feed.

  After twenty years of fighting, Worcester has been fully swallowed by greenbomb khudzu, it’s last residents helicoptered out, a few elderly refusing to leave, left to die in their homes, strangled by vines.

  Cell drones, branded as a tool for disabled people, continue to be too expensive for anyone on disability and are causing havoc in the hands of rich teens, with multiple apps that train the drone to fly under women’s skirts or to block safety lights in dangerous neighbourhoods.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Street nomads were confronted by xenowarrior cultists after a misunderstanding of the term ‘nome’ they used for themselves. They were later found vivisected, with red cone hats stapled to their heads.

  An English immigrant had gone missing. His boyfriend was on the run, formerly 4’11”, now expected to be 16 feet tall after months of monstrous transformation his boyfriend had helped to hide. The disappearance was solved when they found traces of bonemeal baked into a loaf of sourdough.

  Civilian casualties in a far off war. Witch hunt officers shooting journalists in their homes. CEOs accused of heinous acts, uninvestigated and unpunished. It never stops, and if you look away, your apathy is complicity.

  Deep breaths. I put the phone down, focus on my breathing, the rise and fall of my chest, counting to four at the apex, and again over each rise and fall. It helps, which makes me feel kind of stupid for needing this dumbass exercise, which makes it stop working. I go for a walk.

  I roll up the shutter, close it behind me, just a few lights still on at this hour. I put my headphones in, listen to something thrashy, loud, all consuming. I hit the elevator button, then when that takes too long I go to the stairs and jog down.

  Cars hover overhead, massive holographic advertisements fill the sky with light, and all of it is dominated by the the Prudential Vertical Traffic Exchange to the south- that massive building in downtown boston that I once called home. A city within a city, where a hundred thousand people live, and where far more than that work. It’s a mall and transit station and mass housing unit that covers nine city blocks, built a hundred stories tall. I look up at the skydocks and remember dangling my legs over the ledge with Vincent and Valery.

  The thought brings a smile to my face, a taste of cigarettes and lip balm to my tongue.

  And then, as if summoned by that unfaithful thought, there’s a familiar streek of green overhead.

  Squishboy lands on a nearby billboard. “Where?” I ask it. It turns back towards my building’s front door. Just a little ways past, I see Vern’s red car.

  I keep walking my way. Squishboy flies off back to vern. A minute later I catch his car prowling past, stopping up the road a little ways. He gets out.

  I turn and run. Maybe I should just sprint for the hills, but I know my building is locked, know my room has people in it. I dip into the lobby, fumble with the key fob. The elevator is coming down, but its got ten floors to go. I hit the stairs, I won’t be cornered.

  Headphones unplugged, I make it six flights up, out of breath, legs jelly, then hear a door open overhead and Vern shout “Harvey!” There’s screaming behind him.

  I turn and run down the stairs. Squishboy buzzes past me and I swat him away, lose my balance, collapse at a landing, twist my ankle.

  “Harvey! Stop running, you fucking idiot!” Vern yells.

  I peel myself off the ground, shuffle the last two flights down, get into the elevator and take it up to my room.

  People are panicking, roiling shadow covers their eyes as they shout for help, grope blindly, scratch at their faces. It drips from cameras, stains cell phones, there’s guns drawn, people escaping, and I’m pushing against the current towards my bunk.

  And there, in the closed metal shutter, is an inch wide hole, aimed where I had been resting my head ten minutes prior.