MORNING LIGHT SLICES aggressively through an opening in the blackout curtains. The sharp blade of sunshine cuts straight across the pillows, and I'm forced to relinquish my hold on the little bit of sleep I'd finally cornered.
I yawn, allowing myself a catlike stretch under the body-warm, soft cotton sheets. I pull the other pillow toward me like a lover I can't bear to leave.
But I must. It's Friday. A dreaded 'in-office' day. No home visits to save me from the dusty tedium of the beige-walled sanctum of social service. The office has always felt to me like a cage. When I'm in it, I pace the halls like a restless animal under the watchful eye of a tyrannical guard—the clock that ticks off minutes like a geriatric teacher taking endless attendance.
Dolly? Here.
Dolly? Here.
Dolly? Still here.
Hours of that, until the day finally comes to its graceless close and, because it's Friday, the workweek too. But as one cage door swings rustily open, another clangs shut behind me, and I find myself re-trapped by the spectre of two full days of aloneness.
I might go out with co-workers if an end-of-week drink is suggested—anything to delay the isolation.
I might see Becks for Saturday lunch or a manicure if she doesn't have plans with Roger. He, of course, takes priority.
If I'm desperate, I can video-call my mother, but she has a way of poking at the past until I come away feeling less sure of myself than I went in. She insists, for example, on calling me Dolores instead of Dolly.
That's the name we gave you, she says, an obstinate refusal to acknowledge the reason I want to cut ties with my younger self.
Ugh. But first, I need to get through Friday.
With great reluctance, I release the pillow from my loving embrace and push the duvet off. Come on, Dolly, time to face the day. I pull my robe around my cold shoulders and head toward the kitchen.
The coffee machine, at least, is delighted to see me.
Good morning, Dolly! she says chirpily when she senses my unique bio-print enter the kitchen. A double today?
"Yes, please," I reply gratefully. Politeness isn't necessary when dealing with smart appliances, but it's a habit I find hard to break in myself. Kindness doesn't cost a thing, my mother likes to point out.
As the coffee machine whirrs and purrs, I flick through the news headlines on the kitchen screen. I'm looking for stories like the ones in Becks' folder, but all I see are the usual global catastrophes.
Wildfires tear through the southwestern states.
Air quality at emergency levels in Los Angeles.
Florida is a fluid landscape of flame and flood.
Displaced Australians continue to swamp temporary immigration camps in Japan, Russia, and Canada as they flee the heat of a barely habitable continent.
Maybe saddest of all, there's a countdown clock as the world prepares to say a final goodbye to Hawaii's beaches; a process that should have taken millions of years sped up by the recent surge in sea levels.
Coffee's ready, Dolly! Her cheery voice interrupts my doom-scrolling. Have a wonderful day.
I gratefully pick up the fresh cup of espresso.
"Fat chance," I call over my shoulder as I head off to get dressed.
THE OFFICE IS more stifling and beige than usual this morning. The dry air seems to cannon from the ceiling vents, making my hair, skin and eyes feel scratchy and irritated. I'll feel like a parched iguana after a day of sitting at these desks.
I sling my bag under my desk and notice with satisfaction that I've beat Julian, who sits in the cubicle next to mine. That almost never happens. I feel victorious but also let down that he's not here to soften the start of my day with some banter.
I slip MYA(™) into my ear and whisper "calendar." She takes a moment to activate; I can feel a slight warmth in my ear canal as she connects to the cloud. A lot of people have upgraded to the newer MyAssistant implant, but I'm not willing to host another digital parasite, so I stick with my nearly obsolete model.
True, she doesn't have all the bells and whistles of the cochlear device—precognition, for example—but I don't need MYA guessing what I need before I need it. Something about that feels incredibly lazy. Or dangerous. Who's to say whether she's predicting an actual need or manufacturing it?
No thanks.
Good morning, Dolly. You have a meeting with Sasha in 30 minutes. There is 1 new communication waiting for your attention, marked urgent from RebeccadotThompsonatTorontoStar. Would you like me to read it to you?
"No, thank you. I'll use my screen." I reply. Politeness again.
MYA responds by powering up my desk screen and bringing the new item to the front.
It's a simple list of names, each with an age and home address.
Anisha Dal, 34
Sandra Gilletti, 37
Faustina Dzrebec, 32
Evelyn Wan, 36
...
These are the names she wants me to check records for; to dig up their implant serial numbers so she can compare them. I'm still not sure I want to wield my little bit of power so unethically.
I am considering whether I have time for a quick tea break before I'm due in my advisor's office at 9:30 when I hear Julian slipping his jacket off and hanging it over our shared coat hooks.
I swing around in my chair and raise my eyebrows accusingly.
"Late! This isn't like you," I say with a smile in my voice.
His hand darts up in an attempt to smooth his unruly hair as his eye scans the wall of offices.
"Anyone notice?"
I laugh at his concern.
"Of course not. It's only just gone nine, you nerd."
I turn back to my screen, but he stands in the shared opening, clearly not ready to end our exchange.
"I'm late because of Missy. There was an... incident." He says over my shoulder, forcing me to turn back around. He knows I can't resist a bit of gossip.
Missy is Julian's—well, it's hard to say exactly what they are to each other. They live together like an old married couple. They may even have blundered into old married couple sex once or twice if I interpret Julian's blushes correctly, but technically, they're housemates.
Privately, Julian is gay—an orientation that's tolerated in the same way being female is tolerated but certainly not as accepted as it once was. The rights of women and the LGBT community have always been intertwined, so it was no surprise that when the swooping backlash came, restricting women's fertility, safety and access to work, gay men also lost hard-won ground.
"What happened?" I say, leaning forward with interest.
"She lost her shit about the parking again. I had to stay with her this morning until her sister came."
The parking is shorthand for a saga that plays itself out regularly (but mostly harmlessly) on Missy and Julian's narrow little street. The residents compete for limited street parking with the fierceness of Roman Gladiators, and Missy is unhealthily obsessed with what she calls "douchebag parking"—where cars pull in, leaving too much room to front or back of them, essentially taking two spots when they only needed one.
"Did she leave another sternly worded note on someone's windshield?" I ask, bemused. I enjoy stories of Missy's righteous activism, even though it's completely wasted on this minor aggravation.
Last year, she'd gone out to the street in the middle of the night and used white canvas paint to create makeshift lines on the road, measuring and marking out the street by 10-foot increments. Her painted lines received a mixed reception from the rest of the street. The worst offender continued to park his Porsche across the lines, which Missy took as a signal of open hostility. The two of them squared off over a note Missy left on his car, accusing him of being a sociopath. The city came and washed the lines off within the week anyway.
"Way worse than a note this time. She went out there this morning—in her pyjamas and slippers—and used a can of spray paint on the Porsche."
I gasp, although I am secretly delighted. "What'd she write?"
Julian puts his hands over his eyes and shakes his head.
"DOUCHEBAG. All caps. And it gets worse."
"What? HOW?" I have my hands clapped over my face now. From outside, you'd think we were enacting a 'see no evil, speak no evil' tableau.
"She signed it. Like it was one of her fucking paintings."
We look at each other, stunned. Vandalism is bad enough. Putting your name on it is... crazy.
"Did the owner see it?"
"I don't think so. Not yet. But when he does..." Julian pauses to shudder. "I called Missy's sister and said she needs to stay at her place for a bit until this blows over."
"Porsche guy will go to the police," I think out loud. "He'll need to for the insurance. He won't hurt her if that's what you're worried about."
"It's not her getting hurt I'm worried about. She's so... amped up. She's like a raging bull."
I don't say what I'm thinking, which is, of course, that something about Missy's story would be right at home in Beck's file folder. I'm about to ask Julian how old Missy is when MYA speaks softly in my ear.
5 minutes until your meeting with Sasha.
I nod my head and touch Julian's arm.
"It'll be okay. She'll be safe at her sister's."
He nods, biting his lip with worry, but returns to his side of the cubicle wall.