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  “It's fine, Dave, we'll put it on the company card.” Greg pulled the phone out of his pocket, and began to thumb around.

  “They gave you a card? Could we put tonight's food on it, you know, since it'll be while we're on business, sort of?”

  Greg did not respond. In fact, Greg was positive he had not heard the question at all. And he was absolutely positive he did not hear, 'Can we?' as a follow up to the first question he did not hear. He was busy texting Mei, to ask if she was busy, which he knew she was.

  “Yes.” Greg read the text response aloud and shook his head. “That's it, no follow up, huh?” He set to texting again, this time outlining their particular scenario. He did not get a response back.

  “What the hell, Mei?” He huffed, and started another text.

  “Did you ask her to help, and she said no, or something?” Dave leaned over trying to see Greg's phone.

  “No, I asked if she was busy, then I told her that we were outside of an apartment building that we need to gain access to.” Greg had to retype a few words, finding it difficult to type one thing while saying another.

  “Uh, you have to specifically ask her to do stuff, Greg. She will not accept implication, or an expectation of inference, as a request for work.”

  Greg looked at him with condescension burning in his eyes. “Those're some big words you got there, Dave.”

  Dave smiled, dimly. “I'm just repeating what Mei said the first time I asked for help.”

  “You've had Mei help you, I mean outside of last time with Cynthia?” Greg was surprised, thinking that they only worked with Mei because of Cynthia's connection to her.

  “Oh, yeah. I know Mei from way back. I introduced her to Cynthia, 'cause Cynthia didn't have any computer people working with her.”

  Greg's phone bleeped. “Christ, I got to explain each detail to her before she'll give me a price? How does Cynthia deal with this crap?”

  Dave wasn't sure if he wanted an actual answer, but just in case, he told him. “She tells Mei exactly what she wants done, from start to finish, and authorizes Mei to make any necessary adjustments, based on judgment, on the fly.”

  Greg slumped in his seat. He spent so much time irritated by Dave's incompetence that he was chagrined by his own incompetence. He thought about it, wondered how much detail he would need, and how much he could really get. Well, there would be at least two keypads, possible elevator security, that could, he conceded, take the form of a keypad. But he didn't know which apartment she had gone into, or what kind of security it had. He wondered, would it be enough to tell Mei about the keypads, and let her fill in the rest “on-the-fly?” He set his thumbs to work again.

  The results were much more satisfying this time, and he found Mei's prices to be reasonable. He gave Mei the apartment address, and authorization to perform any necessary actions he had not defined, and waited for the response. Mei worked fast. Within minutes, he had a code for the two keypads, the parking lot, the main entrance, and she asked for more information, because she found that the units, themselves, were keypadded.

  Greg described the girl they had followed, and waited. This time it took longer for Mei to respond, but when she did, they had three keypad codes, and the apartment number, and a query about additional work. He was so happy that Mei had thought of it, he had not asked how much it would cost, and just agreed to let her wipe the recordings of any activity they performed on the premises. He wasn't as concerned with the cost, anyway, since he was charging it to Cynthia's account. It was, after all, continuing work that they had begun three months ago, so it should still fall under the last job's requirements.

  Chapter 6: Charlene Becker

  Charlie washed her face, and stared a little too long into the mirror. Her left eye wasn't quite open all the way, yet. It took a little time before it more closely resembled its sibling on the right. She felt like crap, but that was pretty normal for her, right out of bed, even before the accident. She saw another brow-hair sticking out above the rest. They seemed to be sprouting up at an alarming rate, these days. She plucked it with all the care and concern one shows when brushing away crumbs. Her shoulders were sore. They said she shouldn't sleep with her arm on; it was, at worst, dangerous, at best, likely to stress the back and shoulders too much. She did it anyway. It made her feel closer to normal, like a whole person, and she never found a comfortable position without it on.

  “Fucking Portland.” She rubbed her shoulder, wincing out the words. Although, as soon as she said it, she reprimanded herself. It's my fault for working in a restaurant and not being independently wealthy. I should be more ambitious. She smirked, but knew that somewhere in there was a hint of begrudging truth. “Bitch didn't even recognize me.” Why's that even bother me after so long, anyway? She threw back two ibuprofen, dry, and went to get dressed. Jeans, sports bra, T-shirt, leather jacket, hair down, for now. Work clothes went into her back pack with a pair of canvas flats. She wasn't likely to be back home before work tonight. She stopped on the tile flooring at the front door and put her boots on. Classic-style, actually-made-in-the-UK boots. Not real riding boots, but better than low-tops, and you could walk around in them all day, if you needed to. Sometimes she worried that she might be a hipster or something, and debated the possibility as she walked to her old motorcycle. Ancient really. Vintage, one could say. “But, I hate hipsters.” She said out loud, as she straddled her bobbed 1970's British bike. “But, that's exactly what a hipster would say.” She kicked it to life and hoped she was ruining at least one neighbor's day as she sped down the street, on her way to get breakfast.

  She arrived at Esme's Cafe in a considerably shorter time than mapping software would have you believe is possible.

  “You still ride those things!?” A voice came from the doorway of the cafe. The voice, of course, had waited until after the helmet came off. After all, what good is a joke, if no one hears it?

  “That never gets old, Esme.” Charlie smiled, saying it without contempt, but she would never know how Esmeralda took it. She put her hair up into a ponytail and tethered her helmet to the twelve-inch ape hangers. “Is Tanya in?” She asked, pretty much rhetorically. Tanya was always “in,” at least every time Charlie showed up. Charlie would have thought she lived there, if she didn't know better. Esmeralda said nothing, but bounced her head toward the building while she swept dirt—real or imaginary, Charlie couldn't tell—from the entryway.

  Tanya had already set a steaming cup on the counter before Charlie walked in. “What's up, Chuck?” She didn't look up from her phone, as she pulled a croissant from the case and set it on a plate next to the coffee.

  “Whatcha reading?” Charlie asked, before tearing the better part of half the croissant, and shoving it into her mouth.

  “Shitty farmboy romance novel, disguised as sci-fi. The guy owns a space ship instead of a pickup truck, but the rest is pretty much the same. Including the shirtless work.”

  “Surprising that there would be enough opportunities for shirtless work in a space setting, but I guess it's better than a shirtless, billionaire, time-traveler.”

  Tanya smirked, “That was last week's book. And he was a werewolf.”

  Charlie tensed a little, wincing at the thought, then relaxed. “Saw Portland last night.”

  It took a second to sink in, but Tanya put her phone down. “Oh yeah? What did she want?”

  Last night was already starting to take on the sepia-edge of nostalgia, which was a small cause for alarm within Charlie's thoughts, but she did her best to ignore it, for now. “Moscato.”

  “And she came to you for it? Bizarre.” Tanya's phone had quickly found itself back in her hands.

  “She didn't come to see me. She came into the restaurant. I'm pretty sure she didn't recognize me, though she did call me 'Chuck' at one point, but I think that was coincidence.” The croissant finished, Charlie started to sip at her coffee, now luke-warm, but becoming sweeter as the caramel had more time to break down into the milk fr
oth.

  As if Tanya had just realized she was a bit player in this story, she quickly became disinterested. “You okay?” And before Charlie could answer, “You talk to Mom, yet?”

  “About Portland? No, why would I talk to her about that?” Charlie was semi-sincere, although she was pretty sure that was not what Tanya had meant.

  “I think she wanted to ask you for help doing something around the house. You know, something her son could do, but her daughter couldn't.” A running gag between them. Tanya was just as capable as Charlie, but it was always on Charlie to fill masculine roles around the house. Charlie was never truly bothered by it, but today she wondered, just for a second, if it was some kind of jab at her sexuality. Has that sweet little old woman been taunting me this whole time?

  “Yes.” Tanya said, not looking up. Charlie started for a moment, worried she may have been thinking out loud, then realized that she was probably agreeing to any number of questions Charlie could have had. Pausing too long had given Tanya enough of an idea about what was going on in Charlie's head.

  “Well, I was going to go for a run, but I guess I could stop by the house and see what's up.”

  Tanya glanced up from her phone, briefly, as preemptive punctuation, “No you weren't.” Eyes back on her phone, she paid little attention to Charlie as she got up to leave.

  “No. I wasn't.”

  Outside, Charlie kicked the bike over and backed out, being careful to dodge the two small, fresh oil spots. Then, she gestured a stationary wave at Esmeralda, which turned out to be futile, as Esmeralda was walking back into the cafe. It was a short ride to Mom's house, but long enough that Charlie's legs were stiff and her back was sore when she pulled up the unpaved driveway. Mom was in the front yard, and she smiled at Charlie, while stuffing a handful of spindly green-brown shoots into a black trash bag.

  “Just the person I wanted to see.” She stood and removed her thick gardening gloves. Thick, grey, pale-blue-striped gardening gloves that looked an awful lot like Charlie's welding gloves.

  Charlie slid her helmet off with both hands, like a commercial model, and tied her hair back up. “Lose your gloves, again?” She asked, while taking off her jacket and picking at her sweat-damped T-shirt. Charlie left her jacket and helmet on the bike and followed Mom up to the house.

  “No, but these have better padding against the nettles.” She set the gloves down on the porch railing and held the door for Charlie. “You want something to drink? Did you eat, yet?”

  “I'm fine. I just came from the cafe. Tanya said you needed help with something.” She was visually inspecting the house, looking for any obvious board out of place, or dead L.E.D bulb, as they walked through and into the kitchen. Nothing obvious was jumping out at her.

  Mom saw her taking stock of everything. “Oh, it's nothing with the house. You know Marianne from my book club?” She spoke as if she actually expected Charlie to know Marianne.

  “No. No, I do not know Marianne from your book club. I actually forgot you belonged to a book club until just now.”

  “Well,” Mom continued, unphased, “Marianne, from my book club, has a daughter about your age, and I was wondering if you could meet with her and talk to her. She's giving her parents ulcers about this prosthetics business, and I thought you might be able to share some of your experience... and maybe it would steer her away from it.”

  Charlie was none-too-interested in meddling, but knew her mother would not let it drop until she agreed to do it, so, to short cut the process, she acquiesced with little resistance.

  “I have tomorrow off, if that works for them. But, I'm not going to tell her not to do it, unless they have a damn good reason for her not to.”

  Mom smiled and took Charlie's hand, “I knew you'd do it. I'll set it up for tomorrow.” Charlie started to say something, but Mom cut her off. “We can take my car. And wear something nice.”

  Charlie thought for a moment, do I have any jeans that don't have oil stains on them? No, she did not. “I'll figure something out. Text me with the time and I'll meet you here, early, so I can change into something nice before we go.” Charlie ran the tap until it felt cold enough, filled a glass and sat at the table. “So, what's wrong with her? Accident, like me, birth defect, or cosmetic vanity?” She watched as her mom shifted against the counter where she leaned.

  “Well... nothing. At least as far as I know. They say she's perfectly healthy, so it might be more of a cosmetic procedure.” Mom pulled a soda from the refrigerator and sat at the table with Charlie. “But, I kind of felt like your arm was a little more of a cosmetic accessory, than a necessary repair, as well, so I may not be the best judge of these things.” She waggled the thumb, index and middle finger of her right hand, displaying the missing ring and pinky fingers, as she smiled softly at Charlie.

  Charlie smiled back, and half-chuckled, “An entire arm is a little harder to work around than a couple missing fingers, but I can see your point, I guess. It's not like I was going to die without it. It took me a while to realize that, but of course, necessity and desire are hard to tell apart, sometimes.”

  Mom took a moment to enjoy her small victory, washing it down with the last of the can of soda, before springing the trap she'd been holding inside herself since she heard Charlie's bike coming down the street. “So, how's Portland.”

  Charlie groaned. “So, this is my life now? Portland shows up and I just drop everything to cater to her narcissism? Always the center of the universe, whether she's in ear-shot or not?” She got up and refilled her water, without returning to the table.

  Mom giggled gently. “You're so melodramatic. You were always like this when it came to Portland. She was the nicest girl and you just kept freaking out about every little thing. Mountains out of molehills, so to speak. Or, as your father put it, not-so-eloquently once, Olympus Mons out of pubis mons.”

  “Mom! Enough.” Charlie's face burned and her ears itched. “She came into the restaurant last night. With friends... not to see me. She didn't even remember who I was. Based on her crazy new eyes, I'd guess she's full-prosth now.” Charlie enunciated the “th” sound, although most people dropped it. “She was hanging out with that weird kid, Thom, and she might be dating a girl at least ten years younger than herself. A bubbly little idiot who made puppy-dog-eyes at her the whole time.”

  “Oh! I liked Thom. He wasn't weird, he was quiet. I like the quiet ones. Also, you sound jealous. Do you miss being the idiot who made puppy-dog-eyes at Portland all the time?” Mom was afraid she might be pushing a button a little too hard, but she was sure she wasn't wrong.

  “The fact that it bothers me so much probably means that I am jealous. That just makes it worse. Why the hell should I care what Portland does, after ten years of being apart? Why should it matter that she didn't recognize me? I've had other relationships, I've grown as a person. I'm almost nothing like I was back then. I like different things, and dislike things I used to like. I might as well be a complete stranger to her, now. And, she's probably a complete stranger to me, too.”

  Mom took on a more conciliatory tone, “You're not as different as you might think. Don't be too upset. I just thought there was something going on, with Portland back in the picture, and I got a little over-excited.”

  “I know you didn't mean anything, Mom. The girl just gets under my skin, I guess. So, anyway, text me, let me know when to be around tomorrow. I'm going to take off. Gotta work, soon.” She put her jacket back on, cringing at the gross, cold-dampness still remaining on the inside of the arms. “Bye,” she called from the door, but her mother was already on the phone, and just waved, dismissively.

  Chapter 7: Thomas Jacob Winston Wensley

  Thom sat, legitimately uncomfortable this time, in the way-too-quiet living room of Hayley's parents' house. This couch is stiff as hell. I don't think it's for sitting on. Must just be for looking at. He shifted back and forth, hoping he could find a suitable position before Hayley came back with her parents. He was caught
, in perhaps the least comfortable position he had tried, when they entered the room. Sitting near the very edge of the cushion, back ninety-degrees-straight, knees awkwardly akimbo, feet together, he looked at least as uncomfortable as he felt. It did not go unnoticed, but it went unmentioned.

  Hayley's father stood near the couch, a broad expanse of intimidation. Well over six feet tall, shoulders like a line-backer, dark umber skin, black hair in a pompadour that would have looked silly on anyone else, but on him, it was more like a taunt. A dare-you-to-say-something hair-do. Thom thought he looked like he may have been a special forces agent, or something, but he was too afraid to ask. After lingering a bit too long for Thom's comfort, he sat down, giving space a breath could barely fit through between himself and Thom.

  Hayley sat with her mother on the love seat across from the couch. Both of them were so pale in comparison to Hayley's father, they looked like cartoon ghosts. Hayley's jet-black hair contrasted her mother's strawberry-blonde hair, but with her blue-green eyes, they could have been twins. That is, to say, if one of the twins spent a little more time in the sun.

  “Thom, this is my mother, Marianne, and my father, Miguel.” She gestured to each with her hand, in case Thom was confused about which would be which. He was not.

  “Sir.” A nod. “Ma'am, it is nice to meet you.” Another nod, almost a bow, but not quite.

  “So, you want my daughter to kill herself to become a robot?” Miguel spoke somewhat harshly, with the slightest remnant of an accent showing up at the end of the sentence. Thom would find that this was the case for nearly every sentence ending. It did nothing to soften his image, and, if anything, it made him sound more like a border patrol agent. Being a child of immigrants, Thom was even more sensitive to immigration officers. Maybe Miguel used to be a cop, Thom thought. Then, but that's not really any better than special forces.