01

The following is an add from a nineteen-eighty Playboy magazine: Werliner Men’s shoes for business and leisure. At Werliner, we craft shoes for those who forge their own paths—men who understand that true excellence lies in time-honored craftsmanship, not mass production. Each pair is meticulously handmade from start to finish, blending centuries-old techniques with uncompromising quality. Our founder, Benny Clemens, spent years traversing the globe to preserve the vanishing art of handmade shoemaking. He brought master craftsmen to the United States, reviving traditions that date back generations. Step into our workshop, and you’ll find no assembly lines. Instead, artisans labor at wooden benches, hands moving with practiced precision as they transform the finest leather into works of art. Werliner represents something rare, quality speaks louder than any label. This is how legends are made.

02

The year is twenty-twenty-three in Baltimore. Marvin takes big steps through an industrial area. His hair blends curls and waves. Hollow cheeks show a hint of dimples, and his elbows, Adam’s apple, and brow jut out. Halting, he reaches toward a patch of grass between a building and the sidewalk, picks up a rock, and turns it in the light as he resumes walking. He rubs it on his pants and examines it again. The rounded stone has veins of sparkly material running through it. With a smile, he pockets his find. A dog in a passing pickup barks. He cuts through an alley of broken pavement behind old warehouses. Train tracks sit in deep grooves in the pavement. He walks around a prostitute as she climbs down from a semi-truck. Stop-and-go traffic clog the main road. Broken pieces of sidewalk look like teeth that need braces. People mill around, loiter, and walk between parked vehicles and buildings. The smell of stale fry oil mixes with auto paint fumes. He keeps a steady pace. Soot-stained tents line the front of a restaurant supply store. Folks wearing orange vests stand outside a fast-food restaurant, wolfing down sandwiches. A car blasting music speeds past. A bus pulling into traffic cuts it off. Two men argue in front of a loading bay. “I don’t have time for this! I’m losing money as you give me excuses!” A man lies in the shade of a bent metal fence. Windblown litter collects in gutters and catches on weeds. A hunched man sits inside a trash pit tavern. Drug-emaciated youths come out of a motel and climb into a boat car held together with rusted wire and tape. Cars, customers, and salespeople move about outside a windshield repair shop. Two young women stand in a door recess in front of a clearance house, speaking what sounds like Russian. Muscular men rewind hose in front of the fire station. A lunch truck stops in the parking lot of the closed K-Mart, and ten workers line up. Three busloads of children go by. People riding motorcycles pull into the carpet warehouses parking lot. At a bus stop, people in suits, tattooed teens, an elderly woman gripping a grocery carrier, and a woman with four children wait. At thirty-three, Marvin needs to get a job real bad. He’s got a newborn, and his wife is super stressed about their lack of money. She’s been arguing with her family because they’re getting sick of bailing the new parents out. As he steps around a hole, he grinds his teeth. He climbs steps and walks into the old post office to apply. Entering the lobby feels like stepping into a Catholic church—cool and echoey. The noise from outside fades away. Stone tile covers the floor, stairs, and doorways. A dusty lady weighs a package on a scale the size of an engine block. A white guy wearing a dress walks a tiny dog, its claws scraping on the antique tile. Three immigrants wait in line in front of a window of ornate varnished wood. He loves this old post office and wants to work here. Taking his place in line, he can see past the service counter to dozens of people sorting mail, pushing basket carts, and lifting packages onto conveyor belts. How he envies the postal workers. Any job at the post office would be great. Then he could get his wife and newborn daughter into a nice apartment, out of the in-law’s house. At the counter, the woman who looks at him from under flattened eyebrows says, “You can apply online.” Marvin taps the granite countertop. She raises one brow. He says, “Thank you,” withdraws his hand, and leaves. Outside, he stares up at the sky. Online? Why is everything online these days? His hand in his pocket rubs the stone he found. What is that building next door? It doesn’t have a sign or any markings that tell him what it’s used for. The turn-of-the-century architecture with a new paint job stands out. He looks around, then heads for the door. The lobby of the six story building has art déco lamps hanging down from a high ceiling. A fine islander woman behind the counter talks on the phone, looking up at him. “Yes, I can confirm the order was sent this morning.” A bronze cast plaque on the wall reads, “Werliner Shoes.” Maybe that’s why this place smells like leather. … … … When he gets a job at Werliner Shoes and the receptionist leads him onto one of the assembly floors for the first time, it’s like walking onto a movie set. Old-growth beam floors hold industrial sewing and shoe assembling machines run mostly by girls and women. The place smells like machine oil and leather. The receptionist hands him ear plugs, which he gladly puts in his ears to shut out the deafening rattle and thumping. He can do this. This’ll work. Okay. Not as good as a post office, but this should be good. The receptionist says, “You haven’t heard of Werliner? Didn’t you ever see the movie ‘Cocaine Wallstreet?’ More than fifty people work here.” He leans in closer to her, “I’m sorry, what was that?” He can feel the sound vibrate his feet. She takes him floor to floor, showing him the assembly floors and other departments. Most everyone he meets that day seems nice.

03

The year is twenty-thirty. On a hot summer night, a radio plays in a pizza parlor that stays open to catch the crowds looking for food after the bars close. Upbeat jazz music plays and fades. With a spunky yet warm male voice, the host says, “Good evening, love seekers and night owls. You’re tuned in to ‘Before I met You,’ the call-in show for all you singles out there. You may be looking for true love or just a little action. I’m Chuck Midnight and I’ll be your host, so don’t be shy, give us a call, will ya. To start things out, I’m looking over this article about how AI partners are, in contradiction to what we usually hear, a good thing for the dating landscape. I hear you… You’re asking, ‘how’s that?’ “It goes like this: jerks, lady jerks, and nut jobs get dumped. They turn to AI partners. The next time you reinstall that dating app, the percent of jerks you encounter has gone down because they’re being taken care of by A.I. sole mates. So, is AI taking the piss out of the dating pool? And the phone lines are lighting up. I know you have a phone. Use it, and let’s take the first caller." A hoarse female voice says, “Hi Chuck! Sarah here. Long-time listener, first-time caller. I just started dating again and I have to say, it hasn’t been so awful this time and I’ve been wondering why! Ha! ha! Last time it was like playing Russian roulette. I never knew when a date would blow up in my face! I totally think the article is right.” Chuck says, “Tell me, Sarah. Are you more likely to invite a date in for a cup of tea?” Sarah says, “Oh, absolutely!” Chuck says, “Thank you Sarah. Good luck out there. Next caller.” A drawling man’s voice, laughing, says, “Hi Mr. Midnight. I can’t believe I got through.” Chuck says, “Your name?”… … … “Tenzor. So A.I. are the new prostitutes.” Chuck says, “How so?” Tenzor says, “Have you heard about how prostitutes make society safer for women because it takes the edge off men’s needs?” Chuck says, “And now A.I. are making society safer for prostitutes, am I right? Thanks Tenzor. Next caller.” A smooth woman’s voice says, “Am I on? Hi, I’m Pam. My experience is a little different. I may stop trying to date because it’s mostly just very attractive people dating these days. I used to get asked out. A few years back, I might get asked out by three different guys on the same day. Now I go days without checking to see if someone’s tried messaging me.” Chuck says, “So you’re saying we need a dating app for the appearance challenged?” Pam laughs, “Exactly! I miss the uni-brow, round-faced boys! Where did they all go?” Chuck says, “They host midnight call-in shows. You’ll find your hobbit, Pam, I just know it. Next caller.” A young sounding woman says, “Hi Chuck, my name is Zama, and I just want to say, I don’t know how those people can spend all that time with the headsets on. I tried it and it made me feel ill.” Chuck says, “Have you ever heard of Mersine. It eases V.R. nausea. Yeah, you can get in sodas, gum. It’s only as popular as Caffeine. Give it a try Zama. Shameless product plug. Next caller.” A slow speaking female says, “Hi Midnight, I’m Roni.” Chuck says, “What’s your story Roni?”… … … “Well, I could never like have a serious relationship with an A.I. because I’m one of those people who can totally tell when it’s an A.I. and it creeps me out.”… … … “Am I an A.I.” Roni pauses for a second. “You? well, no.”… … … “Are you sure about that?”… … … Roni says, “Are you?” Chuck says, “You tell me, folks! Am I or am I not an A.I.?”

04

In his Californian mansion, converted from a cloister nunnery, and built out of native river stone, the seventy-five-year-old Benny Clemens stands in front of glass looking down at the surrounded court yard where his wife, Tanner, climbs out of the pool, picks up a towel, and holds it to her face. In her fifties, she’s athletic. Tanner was a professional tennis player, while Benny has never set foot on a tennis court in his life. With a deeply dimpled chin and bushy eyebrows that fan out from his brow, he throws his head back when he smiles. He wears a cordless telephone headset, and as he watches his wife step onto the diving board, he chats on the phone. “Okay, so we cut the receptionist, the secretaries, accountant, complaints people. We outsourced packing, warehouse, and deliveries to Giantess. We cut the patterns department, factory manager, HR, office administrator, orders, advertising department, quality control, leather cutters, material cutters, stitchers, sole attachers, leather finishers, polishers, building maintenance, and I.T. So, your guys remote monitor the operation and come in if there’s a problem? Fabuloso. Five times as many shoes and no human messiness, not bad. Is there anyone else? Marvin Turner? What does he do?” The voice on the other line says, “You have him down as ‘general.’ Looks like he fills in when someone’s sick… Driver?”… … … “Oh yeah, that guy. He drives me around when I’m there on business. I like that guy. Er, let’s keep him. Yes, really. I hate taking cabs. Make him the day overseer. Call the security company and tell them we only need a drop-by at night. Have him walk through and do some checks on the machines. Have him examine the machine’s meters and log their values. Oh, well, add some meters then.”

05

With the rollout of the seven G. network, Peta-herze communication will be built on top of current tera-herze infrastructure. Traditional radio will come to an end. Standards for A.M., F.M., television broadcasting, police radio, airline radio, ham, and shortwave will discontinue to make room for faster internet wireless. Car stereos, handhelds, C.B.s and other devices will send and receive over the internet. With seven G., a new service called “Blind relay signal share” will start to roll out as newer devices support the service. Connected devices of all kinds will partake in signal share, boosting signal strength everywhere and reducing power requirements. In the case of a disaster, when radio towers fail, scattered devices will provide lines of communication. Poor reception and lost service will be practically unheard of. At low cost, all your possessions will include embedded trackers, and these trackers will never go out of range. Before, devices each put a drain on internet providers, with signal share, each device will also contribute to the amount of data that can flow through the internet.

06

The year is twenty-thirty, and Marvin is sixty-one. A bald spot has opened up on the back of his salt and pepper Afro. Age spots show on his golden-brown skin. Eyebrows naturally arched, he grips the wheel of his nineteen-year-old Camry as he drives home from work. Sunlight beats off town-house windows. Cars cutting, vans tale gating, and speedsters running red lights add to his agitation. Six o’clock and the sun is still hours away from setting, but he feels pressed for time. The upward curve of his lips fight with a grimace. He needs to get home before his girlfriend, Jeanie. The package he picked up at the Gun and Survival store lies on the passenger seat. In big letters it says, “Using the latest Blind Relay Signal Share.” He changes lanes and almost hits a cyclist. Is he just being paranoid? Just last night she asked him, “When are we going to get married?” He’s never been with someone so much younger than him. Maybe that makes him paranoid. She’s thirty-one. Damn, that’s too young. “Age doesn’t matter so much anymore.” People say. It does matter when she still goes to parties and has friends, male and female. He has an ex wife and daughter he hardly hears from. She still has friends from high school. His best friend drifted. People from his bowling team moved. His parents died. She’s always on the social media. The last time he posted anything, he got two likes, both from people he can’t remember friending who live in countries he knows little about. Is she just with him because he has a house? Rent is so high these days. He hasn’t moved in thirty years and his rent has gone from half his income to three quarters of his income. If he moves into an apartment, will Jeanie leave him? He nods his head to the rhythm of the turn signal. She complains he doesn’t buy her things like he used to. “Remember that I told you the rent increased? I can’t give you what I don’t have.”… … … “Well, get a second job. Lots of people have two jobs these days.” She smiles at him with a bit of a sneer. Having that package makes him nervous. If she’s home, he’ll leave it in his car. He takes a left and sees down his street that her car isn’t there. He gulps and pulls at the collar of his shirt. The pounding of his heart hurts. His heart never pounded like this when he was younger. After he parks, he tucks the package under his shirt and walks toward the house. The kids playing in the yard next to his yard ignore him. Once inside, he calls out, “Jeanie? You home?” Panic makes him hurry to the kitchen, where he uses the steak scissors to cut open the package. “For twenty-nine-ninety-nine, it’s like hiring a private eye.” A clear plastic tube holds an object the size of a needle. How can it be so thin? Is it a gimmick? Walking to the bedroom, he pops the cap and lets the device fall into his hand. He just needs to know for sure, before he marries her. Will he ever marry her? He feels like shit for doing this. The old arguments sound off in his head like they have countless times. He’s lacking confidence, imagining. He should try to talk to her instead of going behind her back. How would he feel if she did this to him? Her poker jacket hangs in her closet. He pulls it part way out and inserts the device into the fabric by the front zipper. Its pointy end slides right in, and its flexible material makes it hard to feel now that it’s been inserted. What an ass he is. If someone in a couple goes behind the other’s back, that’s a sign that the relationship isn’t meant to be. Everyone knows that. Where did he first hear it? But she always forgets her foldable on Tuesdays when she goes to play poker with her girlfriends. Isn’t that suspicious? It’s not that she doesn’t want to be bothered. If she doesn’t want to be bothered, she just wouldn’t answer. That’s what she usually does. And the one time he tried to bring it up, she just looked at him funny in a way that made him drop the topic. Jogging back in the kitchen, he takes the package off the counter and stashes it behind the recycle bin under the sink. He checks the sink faucet. Drat, a no-water day. Why is it he can get water in the kitchen and bathroom at work but all homes can’t get water on no-water days?

07

Jeanie gets annoyed when she sees Marvin’s car parked out front. Slouching, she parks behind it. She flicks died-red hair out of her face, looks in the mirror, and uses her finger to wipe lipstick off the front of her teeth. He used to be out on Tuesdays. This is the third Tuesday he’s been home. While walking from her car to the door, she works herself into a huff. Marvin sits on the couch watching TV when he hears her key in the lock. He looks up as she hurries in. “How’s your mom?” She grumbles as she walks down the hall jangling her keys. “The same. Always the same.” From the back, she hollers, “No water! I needed to take a shower! I hate no-water days.” A minute later, she steps back into the living room, changed into nicer clothes, including her poker-night jacket. Her make-up is refreshed and hair fixed. There’s the Jeanie he fell for. But part of him sees her as a stranger. She examines her nails. “I’m off to girl’s poker.” The last two Tuesdays, he tried to work up the courage to ask her if she remembers to take her foldable, but this time he won’t, so he’s more relaxed. “Okay, have fun.” She pauses and glances at him. A vertical line appears and disappears between her eyebrows. “Okay. Monique has a problem she needs to talk out so I’ll get home late.”… … … “Okay.”… … … “Okay, bye.” She jangles her keys on the way out. When the lock turns in the door, he pulls his laptop out from the lower shelf on the coffee table. He opens the lid, opens the app, turns off the TV, and puts his ear buds in. He can hear the song she listens to in her car. The map shows her moving toward downtown, but she takes a left. What? The freeway on-ramp is in the other direction. The jingly song plays in his ears. What in the? She pulls off the road and comes to a stop in a parking lot. That’s the trashy bar only a few blocks away. The music stops. Her car door creaks open and closes. Rocks scrunch as she walks. Her keys jangle. This is a couple of minutes after she left the house. On the map, a picture of the trashy bar pops up. A message says, “P.O.I. is entering this business.” Several points appear on the map for public cams. “This business has four exterior cams and three interior, available to the public.” He clicks on an interior. A live stream of the tavern from over the bar top pops up. Jeanie enters from the side door and looks around. A nineties song plays. Most of the seating is in shot: the counter seats, side booths and tables in the middle. One dude sits at the counter and another guy wearing a cap sits in a booth. Jeanie waves to the guy in the booth and stuffs her keys in her purse. She walks up to the counter. “I’ll have the special.” Is she angling her butt out toward the guy in the booth? A glass clinks. The guy at the counter rolls his head to look at her. “Twelve,” a man’s voice says. She takes out a plastic bag and removes a bill from it. See, she didn’t take her foldable again. Marvin takes out his smart phone and calls her. A ringing comes from the bedroom. He nods. “Yep, yep, yep.” She takes the glass and heads toward the man wearing the cap. When she reaches him, she leans down and kisses him before sliding into the booth. “Hi hunk!” Marvin rocks back and forth. He socks his chest, groans, and shakes his head vigorously. “See! See!” He feels like he wants to run circles around the room, moaning in pain. “Not again! What is it about me that makes this happen?” He makes himself watch the screen. The cam doesn’t give a great view of the two. Marvin can tell the guy is as young as Jeanie. With a springy posture, he looks muscled, like he may work in construction. With a voice like a power tool, he says, “Did you get his safe code?” Jeanie says, “He said he has an envelope in his sock drawer meant to be opened after he dies and that the code is there with his will.” The men nod. “Right on. You sure there’s something valuable?”… … … “Last year he had a one man party when his rare coins collection passed fifteen hundred K. in value. One time I went with him to trade in a coin and I watched him get over a thousand dollars. For one coin.” Cap guy whistles. “You could go to beautician school.”… … … “I don’t want’a do that anymore.” A man walks in from the front entrance. His expression permanently hangs like his face has melted. He’s also tall, really tall. Probably had his leg bones extended. Cap guy says, “There’s our guy.” Extra-tall guy walks up to their booth and slides into the seat opposite them. Cap guy says, “Jeanie, this is my friend I was telling you about. Can I tell her your name?” The other guy says, “Just call me Mouse.” She giggles and says, “Hi Mouse.” Mouse says, “I don’t like to play games. Twenty. That’s what I’m asking.” Jeanie’s mirth disappears. “Oh… Yes. I knew that. Twenty. I have it. When do you think?” Mouse cuts her off. “Tonight. Any night. You say he doesn’t get out much. I can take him somewhere in his car. All you have to do is say you two got in an argument and he left angry. I can make him chug a bottle of vodka, then make it look like he drove his car off viewpoint road. He’ll do what I say. I don’t fool around.” Jeanie and her new man sit pinned to their seats. “Okay.” “Yes.” Mouse says, “Look, we should go now. I want to get it over with so I can get back to binge watching Goose Pumps.” The couple are nodding.

08

Marvin full-on runs around the house. He sprints to his room and throws clothes and boxes out of the closet. Getting down on his knees, he turns the nob of the safe with twitchy hands. After opening it, he grabs a gym bag off the floor and fills it with his coin collection. They are only a few blocks away. Seriously, he has to get out now. Should he crawl out the back window? He runs to the kitchen and comes back with a large garbage bag that he throws a lot of his clothes into. He runs around the house, throwing a few personal items into the bag, including his will from the sock drawer and his laptop. There’s Jeanie’s foldable on the bed. As he runs out of the house, Jeanie’s car followed by an elevated, beat-up truck turn and head toward him. His car faces them. He runs around his car, opens the driver side door, throws his things in, gets in, powers on the car, and drives. He looks straight ahead as he passes first Jeanie and cap guy, then the truck that rides so high off the ground, he can’t see the driver as he passes. He can’t say for sure, but it felt like Jeanie stared at him as he passed. He takes a left. Where the hell will he go? Tires screech behind him. There’s the bar. His face feels wet. He turns onto a busy four-lane street, passing grocery and car service stores. What does he do? He still has child support payments. He can’t quit his job. He’ll never find another job better than the one he’s got now. His phone rings. The car meanders as he pulls his phone out of his pocket. It’s Jeanie. He almost throws it out the window. Red light jumps at him as the car in front stops, and he slams on his brakes. Now he’s waiting at a red light. This is no good. They could catch up with him at any moment. His car is recognizable from far away. The doors and trunk door are different colors because he got them from a junkyard. Cars are headed his way behind him. He backs up and takes a right into an alley. His tires screech and someone honks. He takes his car down alley ways, hitting a lot of potholes and driving through grass where it overgrows roads. He can’t park at work. She’ll find his car there. He takes a four lane with little traffic at this time of evening. She convinced him to get joint checking, so if he uses his card to get a motel room, she’ll find out where he’s staying. He pulls into the parking lot of a doughnut shop and parks by the back fence, away from the road and lights. The sun sets and deep grays turn to darkness. If they find him now, they can still follow through with their plan. This isn’t far from the spot where he was beat up by the cops a couple of years ago. He grabs his bags, gets out of the car, and starts jogging down the side street. He left the car running and isn’t sure why, but does it matter? This area has industrial warehouses and big-box stores, mixed with the occasional decrepit house that needed a new fence, roof, and paint job twenty years ago. After taking a dirt alley, he reaches the train tracks that cut diagonally through streets. As he tries to keep a fast pace, the large rocks bend the flexible soles of his sneakers. An hour later, standing next to the corner of the Landers building, he looks across the street at the Werliner building. The security will flag him if he goes in at this hour even if he has the code. He walks down an alley and goes behind the Cash n Carry where there’re benches and a horseshoe court, and lies down on the grass to sleep.

09

On the world stage, nations eye each other warily as fresh water and other resources grow scarce. Diplomatic channels fall silent. Military exercises become more frequent, more aggressive. Locally, wearing a dust-broom mustache, Mr. Sims of Homeland Security runs the Eye of Providence Project. At the heart of the project, one of the world’s most advanced artificial intelligences receives a non-reversible feed of all activity on the world wide web. Whenever someone posts a video, a bank transfers money, someone’s D.N.A. enters the national database, someone downloads a calendar p.d.f., or someone gets directions from Goggle Maps, the Providence A.I. sees it. Cased in rows of cabinets, this computer is on the fourth floor in a not very special town, in a not often heard of county, in one of the least featured states. Mr. Sims stands next to Ms. Brown. “We call it a passive A.S.I. because it gathers massive information, but its only output is to a single printer that prints out paper reports. It may not look like a secure facility, but we have layers of separate A.I. that watch all input and output and are hard wired to shut the whole thing down.” With excitement showing through her military resolve, Ms. Brown says, “You’re standing right next to it. Aren’t you afraid it hears you?” He laughs. “Don’t let the category scare you. This thing has a non-volatile mission. It writes reports about people acting suspiciously that may warrant further investigation. That’s all. It could ruin the reputation of someone running for office, as an example, but it isn’t made to do that. Its senses are vast but its actions are tiny.”… … … “And it’s why we have zero foreign operatives in the US?”… … … “Exactly. We apprehended fifty-two-thousand people in a little over a year. These are assassins, spies, propagandists, terrorist… We simply never could’ve found these people if not for our friend here.”… … … “Aren’t we afraid that someone will reprogram it to? I don’t know…”… … … “Get insider information to invest in stocks?”… … … “Yes, something like that.” He reaches out a hand to lean on a cabinet, but changes his mind. “Its core brain isn’t software running on a computer. It’s hardware. It can’t be modified or updated.”… … … “But that sounds more like narrow A.I.”… … … His mustache twitches. “What it does is god-like. Do you ever wonder why we don’t get attacked by terrorist like other countries? Providence isn’t limited. We limit what it works on.” She glances around the room. “Does it watch me?”… … … “It keeps track of everyone. Every time your phone pings a tower, every time you take a cab, every time you heat your coffee in a microwave. It watches you through cams and knows what happened the last time you went to the doctor. It listens when you call your mother. For years, the FBI put people on watch lists for looking up how to make bombs. They used to leave copies of bomb making manuals at local libraries. But our friend here makes all that obsolete.” She notices a food stain on his tie and looks away. “And the public?”… … … “What it knows is encrypted. No one can see what it sees.” She takes a deep breath and slowly lets it out.

10

The year is 2040. Ms. Brown walks into Mr. Sim’s office carrying her ultra-thin tablet and printed pages still connected by their perforated edges. “I’ve got one here. I’m not sure what you want me to do with it.” Sims stands from his desk and massages his dominant hand. “What is it?”… … … “There is… a man in Baltimore who works at a shoe company. He hasn’t missed a day for seven years. He’s seventy-one-years-old, and he still works.” Sims stands next to Brown so they can both look at the printout. “Okay.” Brown points. “And… Other than that, he disappears. He… is the only person working at the company. We have cam footage of him outside the building. Records show he clocks in and out. He gets direct deposits and makes purchases online. Techs and security guards visit the building, but he’s the only one there Monday through Friday. And he doesn’t have a home address. With hundreds of cams around the neighborhood, we don’t see him arriving at work or going home. He doesn’t have a phone.”… … … “Hm. Does he have a criminal record?”… … … “No. He abandoned a car five, six years ago.”… … … “Any indication that he doesn’t exist, and this is some alias artifact?”… … … Brown shakes her head. “We have cam footage of him from years ago.”… … … “What does it show?”… … … “The last time we got a cam trail of him, he shows up on 4th at seven in the evening in the Winter seven years ago. Here, I’ll show you.” She scans a Q.R. code on the printout with her tablet. A video pops up. “This is him sped up walking down 4th. He takes Dresden, turns on fifth, there he goes into the Giantess shipping station. You can see him walking through the lobby.” Sims squints, then he opens his eyes wider. “He looks scared of something.”… … … “Yeah. See, he goes to those vending machines.”… … ….. “Where’s he going now?”… … … “Back to his place of work.” Sims relaxes. “It would be boring if he weren’t so off the radar. It’s weird to see an invisible man. Seventy-one. No criminal record at seventy-one. What else?”… … …. “He had a girlfriend he used to live with who died last week. Her car drove off Viewpoint Road. Her blood alcohol was over the limit… By a lot.”… … … “How long did he break up with her?”… … … “Well, about seven years. He stopped paying rent on the house they shared soon after he abandoned his car and stopped paying for phone service. Her share sites show she dated someone else in the years after. He planted a surveillance device on her before they broke up.” Sims says, “I wonder why Providence tagged him. Reminds me of the people we have on our hermit list. Uh, can you call Baltimore and ask someone to look into it?” She takes a quick breath. “Yes, sir.”

11

During the day, Marvin sits at the front office where the receptionist used to work. There are old accounting offices, team leader offices, manager, designer, and even head janitorial offices, but all of those are closer to the machines that make so much noise. Though he sits there Monday through Friday, he keeps the front door locked and doesn’t answer when strays come knocking. The tech people, and security guards who come by not very often, come in through the front. Also, he has his groceries delivered to the front entrance. At the desk he lines up his rock collection, several igneous, sedimentary, and crystallized rocks he’s saved over the years. The library and Giantess team up to deliver books to senior citizens. Delivery robots drop off books at the front door. He likes to read humor and gun-slinger stories. He plays solitaire on the reception desk computer. A few times a week, he walks around each floor to look things over. Six floors of machines chunking away. The loud racket doesn’t bother him as much as it used to, but it seems like he’s losing his hearing. The smell of leather and machine grease fills his nostrils. Everything about this place is as familiar as his own hands. He waits for the time when he gets an email directing him to retire, but that time never comes. The people who own this company, have they forgotten that Marvin works for them? The robots that make the shoes haven’t changed and now they seem old, arms made of cast iron parts. In the back half of the first floor, Giantess rules packaging and shipping with its latest tech. Bipedal robots sorting goods and loading trucks move like headless insects. He remembers when sixty people worked here. Always some drama kept people on their toes. So-and-so slept with that one and surely a divorce would follow. One time, a stitcher came in with a rifle and walked around the third floor, yelling at people until the cops came. One immigrant mother of five shat herself that time. There was the boyfriend of so-and-so who hung around outside until female workers left in groups at the end of shifts. One gal, who he thought was frail, became lead of the design department and caused half the people there to quit. Gone is the funny guy, the single mom of a problem child, the fem who always mentioned her college degree, and the aspiring sole musician who handed out flyers to his shows at dive bars. The machines take up much more space, but they work day and night. He can look out the large windows down to the streets. Well, a lot of homeless people move through the area. They find new ways to use hand trucks, skate boards, baby carriers, and roller flats to move high stacks of all their worldly belongings. They set up tents next to the roads that driver-less trucks drive down.

12

The alarm on his Casio beeps, so he goes to the time clock, takes a credit-card size card, and punches it in the slot. Then he climbs one long flight of stairs after another. When passing the sixth floor, he takes out his keys. The highest flight of stairs leads to one door at the end. He uses a key to unlock the door and steps out onto the roof. Years ago, he changed this lock and now he’s the only one with a key. Sometimes, night security guards try the door but give up after they find none of the keys they have work. On the flat roof, the strong wind feels warm. The sun sets behind orange clouds. He walks to the brick wall surrounding the roof and leans on it to peer out at the neighborhood. Raised solar panels above vehicles cover most of the parking lots. He’s heard that all over the world, parking lots host solar panels. A flying ambulance sails above the freeway, high above the cars. It banks right and passes between buildings while the traffic below remains stopped at a red light. As it comes closer, the propellers grow louder. Ambulances are the only vehicles allowed to fly so low in all neighborhoods. Flying taxis exist, but those must fly higher and only over major roadways and non-residential areas. The ambulance turns on flashing lights and lands behind a couple of semi-trucks waiting for a green light. Its propeller cages fold. Rolling on wheels, it parks next to the sidewalk. Two medics jump out. Marvin can only see the tops of their heads. Oh, there’s a homeless person lying next to the building. The medics lean over them. High in the sky, a drone—tiny because of its distance—flies toward Marvin. It slowly drops onto the roof of the eight story bread company building next door. Marvin waits for it to lift again or do something, but it remains. It’s well known that drones can latch onto the tops of lamp poles or roofs and recharge using solar. But it’s late in the day for recharging. Down on the street, the medics move the homeless person into the ambulance, get in, and lift off. With spinning lights that flash off the buildings, the vehicle flies below Marvin and to the interstate, where it glides over the traffic heading north. Turning around, Marvin walks to the shed, a small building that used to serve as an employee break room and kitchen. A rusted grill and a couple of picnic tables sit outside. He opens the sliding glass door and walks in. Home sweet home hidden from everyone, everyone who’ll try to hurt him sooner or later. He sits on a couch that looks like an elephant sat on it. Hitting a button on a remote, he switches on the newer TV that picks up internet channels. His old TV is unplugged and set on the floor facing the wall. On the news, Nester Colt stands on set speaking with a level tone. “…the car pirate. They have him in custody. He stops autonomous cars and abducts the passenger. Cars have been trained to evade car pirates. If someone walks out and stands in front of one, it’ll go around or reverse if it can and lock the doors. “The perpetrator sets an explosive on the road that detonates when the car drives over it. In response, the car stops and the doors unlock so passengers can escape the vehicle. This allows the perpetrator to get into the car and pistol whip the passenger. “Law enforcement reports that copycat incidents have already emerged in five different locations, prompting manufacturers to fast-track security updates to their autonomous driving systems. … … … “Data centers and computing facilities now use over fifty percent of the country’s power. Small nuclear plants, deep underground, provide much of this power. … … … “For those who avoid eating methane-free meat and fossil-fuel-free meat, you may need to order your protein special. Nestles, the largest provider of beef and poultry, has discontinued its Reagan line of products, the last major brand to guarantee raising methane-producing livestock and use gas burning equipment. “In a plot twist, it’s organic ranchers who still raise methane producing animals, but not all organic ranchers. “And here’s something for our Giantess grocery shoppers: The retail giant is launching a customer appreciation campaign, offering complimentary tablets with lifetime connect accounts completely free. The tablets are set up for novice users and ease of use. Those scared off by new technology will have no problem using these. “We’ll have your weather forecast right after these messages from our sponsors…”

13

The next day, Marvin walks through floor after floor, reading meters on machines and writing numbers. Some machines are so loud, he can feel the vibrations on his chest. At the reception desk, he enters the numbers into a spreadsheet. The door buzzes, and he looks up. Stiffly, he rises. At the glass entrance, he clanks open the lock and lets the bot in. It roles in. Shaped like two coolers stacked on each other, it stops and the doors on its sides open. He pulls the paper grocery bags out one by one and sets them on the floor. After he removes the last bag, the doors close. He walks around it and opens the door. The robot says, “Thank you. Have a good day,” and rolls out. He uses an electric flatbed and the lift to carry his groceries to the sixth floor. In the sixth floor kitchen, he puts cold items in the fridge. In one bag, a quality-made white box rests next to a box of cereal. He brings the box back to the front desk. It feels solid yet light. Sitting and opening it, he finds a tablet inside. It turns on as he pulls it from the box. “Congratulations Mr. Turner. You’ve been chosen to receive this thank you gift for your years of loyalty to Giantess.” Despite his dislike of tech, he feels a stirring of excitement. Several icons compete for his attention: Solitaire, True Crime Central, R and B radio. It all looks so three D. and colorful. There’s an icon for FacBook. He doesn’t want that. Oh wow, Rock Analyzer, what’s that? He clicks on it and it’s as if the tablet turns into glass. The screen perfectly shows the desktop on the other side. He almost drops it. A cartoon puppy appears. “Hi Marvin. My name is Leo. I’m always here to guide you. To use the Rock Analyzer app, start out by pointing the tablet at a rock you want to learn more about.” Marvin laughs. Ten rocks sit within reach on the desk. He can stump this app right away. Reaching out, he grabs a rock he’s had in his collection far longer than the others and places it on the other side of the tablet. It’s not a rock exactly. It’s a chunk from the Berlin Wall. When he was a dishwasher for a Bavarian Restaurant in the late eighties, one of the lounge regulars brought in chunks of the Berlin Wall a few weeks after it fell. The dog cartoon disappears. Vector boxes dance all over the gray chunk. Stats, a map, and timeline appear. The tablet says, “This rock is person made. This is concrete. The pebbles in the mix are of European origin, possibly from Germany. Some rusting indicate that re-bar ran next to this piece before it was broken.” “Mother mercy.” Marvin says. … … … The puppy appears in the corner. “Marvin, someone’s trying to reach you.” A picture of a young woman and some text appears. The picture was taken while she was talking. Her lips are parted, and her head tilts and rests on her arm. She doesn’t wear makeup, and the lighting is poor. His gut does a tumble. Is she his daughter? It can’t be. An old wound opens and burns. He taps on the picture. A video of the woman pops up. “Hi, Mr. Turner. Sorry to bother. I was a friend of your daughters.” (He knew it!) She continues. “I feel like I need to tell you that she always talked about how much she loved you.” The woman’s eyes are watery, but her voice is steady. In the background, a baby makes noise and the lighting changes like a TV is on. “She wanted to call you real bad, but I don’t think she had a chance before… Before her accident.” Marvin trembles. He holds his stomach and leans down close to the desktop. A cartoon bell jiggles next to the video and a smooth ringing sound plays. The puppy says, “The person who left this message is trying to call you.” He wants to hear the rest of the video, so he brushes the bell away, but the video closes and a new window pops up. It’s the same woman, but she looks older, wears makeup, and sits possibly in an office. “Hi, Mr. Turner!” Her bright smile calms him, and he sits up and takes a deep breath. She says, “I’m glad you answered my call. I wasn’t sure if I should reach out.” He stares at her until it occurs to him she sees him and he sits up straighter. “You… knew Franshaun?” She gulps and nods. Her eyes move back and forth like something in her environment has distracted her. He wipes his face and finds it wet. “Oh…” His voice trembles. She says, “You just saw my video?”… … … “Yes.” She nods resolutely. “Um.” He says, “You knew her well?”… … … “Yes, from nursing school and after. She knew that her mom blocked your number. Marvin, I’ve got to go.” His head rocks forward and back. “Oh.” A baby cries in the background. The background behind her moves as she gets up. “But we can talk again.”… … … “Yeah?”… … … “Yeah, um, you can call me tomorrow evening, around 8?” He says, “Okay.” The video disappears, and he looks at the tablet background for many minutes.

14

Frolik has worked for twenty-two years at Homeland Security. A few years back, the Providence Project made his life thrilling as week after week, he and his team bagged hard-core sleeper agents, intel smugglers, state hackers, and spies. America didn’t know about well established, vast secret networks within the U.S. boarders working for foreign interests until that big-brain A.I. uncovered them by using data any local precinct had access to. Each day when Frolik showed up to work, new files named suspects and included enough incriminating evidence to secure search warrants and make arrests. Talk about deeply satisfying. Homeland made headlines for uprooting hidden organizations—some owning prime city property, Vegas casinos, shipping companies, major internet servers, banks, and literal underground tunnel systems. Foreign mafias and cartels were arrested, all members on the same day. Even when a group spanned dozens of states. Foreign operatives working inside prisons were transferred to off shore prisons. Frolik arrested those who used the internet to spy on and attack the U.S. He made too many arrests to remember them all. The bygone days of finding witnesses, searching manually through cam footage, and collecting clues seemed hopelessly time consuming in retrospect. Interrogations that used to take hours took minutes when Frolik showed the perps the footage and said, “We know you work for (and here he named the country.) The world is changing, we both know it. America won’t stand for outside attacks.” With shit-tons of hard evidence passing through the office each day, Frolik wore his bulletproof vest before even checking his computer at the start of his shift. But those thrilling days only lasted for two, two and a half years. These days are sleepy. These days, he feels like a vaccine for an eradicated disease. Adversarial activity against the US has dried up. Reports from Providence AI have grown increasingly predictive and inconclusive. Now, he shows up to work to watch and wait, something he never did before the Providence AI. The suspects he now watches and sometimes apprehends fall into two groups, amateur native-born bored young men who want to have a try at spy craft, or weirdos that Frolik can’t figure out why Providence thinks they’re important in the first place—potentials, people who haven’t committed a crime but who the AI suspects. One potential Frolik watches attempts a data breach. That is an exciting day. The perp goes into a warehouse and comes out with a bag of drives to find twelve swat cars waiting. The plane ticket in his pocket is for Spain scheduled to fly that evening. The same sad year he watches a man in his fifties who smokes actual tobacco-leaf cigarettes. This dude lives on Slag Street above a run-down store that sells used toys and strollers. Every evening, he walks to the Jerk in the Box to eat and walks back home. When he gets home, he switches his lights on. So Frolik aims a street cam at the dude’s windows and waits for the lights to come on. Ten minutes, twenty minutes, half an hour goes by and the suspect (suspect with a question mark) leaves the lights off. Frolik swivels and tilts the camera to scan the streets. Dude is nowhere. Frolik tries other cams in the fast food, gas station, and laundromat. No dude. When Frolik switches back to the first cam, he notices a figure lying in the alley. He zooms in and his gut tells him it’s Dude, lying like roadkill in the alley. Frolik jumps up. “Radio dispatch, One-eighty-seven on Slag!” A few hours, a cop car, a fire truck, and a new registration at the morgue later, it turns out that the suspect was mugged, stabbed and left lying in the alley in the evening light. A cam recording shows critical minutes when he crawled toward the main road. Coworkers in office cubicles watch as Frolik shouts, “Our AI probably knew about those muggers and we could’ve gotten them off the street before they stabbed my suspect! It’s not funny! How many of our suspects don’t even watch the news? How many don’t own a gun and have never flown on a plane? Hurrah! We stuck it to foreign adversaries but we still have rapists, killers, thieves, and drug dealers walking free when you know our AI could help us sweep the US clean of crime once and for all! The worst thing about working a boring job that should be exciting is we refuse to do what we could easily do to stop crime!” The others watch him with long faces. “Don’t you want your daughters to walk home at night and not fear getting raped and killed? We could achieve that with the AI. The AI already knows. The AI already has enough evidence to arrest every store robber, carjacker, and wife beater!” Some of his coworkers nod. Michiko says, “The public isn’t ready for that.” Frolic counters, “The public doesn’t know what’s best for them. A crime-free society! We are two clicks away from a crime-free society!” Michiko says, “We serve the public. It’s for the public to decide.” When Frolik was a kid, he choked in a park on the fourth of July, and a woman, a stranger, ran across the grass and grabbed him from behind and did the Heimlich, making Frolik eject the wad of chewed burger and bun. Frolik always thought that that incident was pivotal in his becoming a cop. He learned that day that some people will be there to save the day. But Providence AI is icy cold. Frolik knows for a fact that the AI sees people die who could be saved. Think about it, odds are, when someone dies these days, they’re on live cams, or recording themselves, or their watches are monitoring their heartbeats, or their cars are recording driving data, or something. Bodies are still discovered of people who died weeks earlier. Odds are, the AI watches most people die. And the AI does zilch about it. Cold, cold, cold.

15

Her name is Aisha. She and her special needs son live in a courtyard apartment building encircling a miniature playground with monkey bars, a climbing dome, sandbox, and swings. In the evening when she and Marvin video talk, she sits on a folding chair watching Len, her son who likes most of all to sit in the sandbox. Other people in the building hang out in the courtyard. Brax fixes his motorcycle. Tona and Benny come out after smoking pot and eat bowls of cereal. Of the children who come out to play, one likes to dance, one likes to scream at the top of her lungs, and one doesn’t like to share. Aisha says, “I need to put in a load of laundry. Could you watch over Len?” Marvin says, “Sure.” She walks over to the sandbox and hands her foldable to Len, who holds it in his lap and smiles at Marvin as he pokes at the screen. Two other children in the sandbox work together, building a town with sand, blocks, and other toys. Marvin says, “Hi Lenny. How you doing sport?” Len smiles and peers at Marvin wonderingly. Aisha gets back and grabs the foldable. “Sorry about that.”… … … “No problem.” She sits and rests the foldable on an armrest. The sun hits her face, so she squints instead of moving out of the sunlight. When talking, she flashes her gap teeth—a detail Marvin finds endearing. “I got my nails done.” She holds a hand so he can see. He says, “Oh wow. Nice.” A woman out of shot says, “Aisha, when are you going to let me braid your hair? Is that Marvin? How are you Marvin?” Aisha turns the tablet so he can see Persy, a plump middle-aged woman who enjoys wearing clothes adorned with vibrant patterns and stretch pants.“Marvin, are you ever coming here for a visit?” Marvin grins as he sits on a folding lounge chair on the roof of the shoe factory. The sun nears the horizon.

16

Society is sick of being misinformed and fooled online. With fake videos and personalized misinformation, the problem has gone from bad to worse. Faked truth has led to child suicides, killing sprees, bombings, divided families, poor health, resurgence of pandemics, ruined careers, and lost fortunes. People notice when falsehoods pit neighbor against neighbor and seed mistrust of the public. Older generations, those born before twenty-twenty five, reveled in divisiveness. Younger people notice the disease and they want it to end. But misinformation gets posted faster than it can be flagged. At the same time, companies depend on the development of AI. But that requires lots of data, and bad data pollutes the process. Online content contains more untrue information than true. Finding quality information in the garbage is a monumental task. Therefore, XtraDry is made. The team that creates XtraDry A.I. establishes a pre-validated knowledge base from high-credibility sources—scientific journals, well-established math, verified news, and facts with proof history. This base serves as a reference. XtraDry learns skepticism and critical reasoning. It tests information for internal flaws and weighs it against the knowledge base. Hired reviewers examine the A.I.’s performance. Experts check complicated claims, while a larger group helps with simpler claims. The more experienced or reliable voices count more. XtraDry explains its decisions by showing its top reasons for flagging something, making it easier for everyone to understand why a piece of information was marked as false. There’s no shortage of known misinformation to train it with: Big Foot sightings, penis enlargement pills, get-rich-quick schemes, Nine-one-one was faked, Q-Anon, reptilian humanoids, weight-loss scams, Ponzi schemes, fake tech startups, war propaganda, commercials promising popularity, flat-earth theories, chain letters, hexes, spoon benders, the list goes on and on. The A.I. is trained on new fake data from the internet and synthetic data, created examples of misinformation. This method lets the system practice spotting fake information. XtraDry looks at different types of information separately. For example, one tool checks written words for signs of exaggeration or false logic, another analyzes images for signs of digital editing or deep fakes, and a third listens to recordings for hints of manipulation. XtraDry combines all the results to decide if a piece of information is likely true or false. This A.I. speeds up the development of new A.I. Flaws are discovered in reputable science papers. Serious fallacies in famous philosophers’ arguments are revealed. Evidences used in court cases are proven falsified. Some activists and legislators discover XtraDry and discuss how such a tool could be used for public mental health.

17

In the shed on the roof, Marvin heats some chilly, looking at his tablet more often than the pot of chilly. He knows she probably won’t call for another twenty minutes, but hopes to see the flashing notification light all the same. An hour and fifteen minutes later, his dishes rest unwashed in the sink while he sits outside in a lounge chair grumbling and shivering. He almost jumps when the notice goes off and the screen lights up. He taps it. “Hey there.” She looks tired. “Hi.” He sits up. “How are you?”… … … “Len had a fit at the resource center again. I had to make a new appointment.” Weepyness seeps into her voice. He quickly pinches his nose. “Oh, I’m sorry. And you took the bus?” In the background, something thumps. She rolls her eyes. “Yeah.” An extra window partly covers the live video chat. Marvin puts his finger on it and tries moving it off screen, but it remains in place. Her eyes open wider. “What’s wrong?”… … … “Oh, there’s a pop-up I can’t get off my screen.” His finger slides on the screen, catching nothing. Sober text inside a box, like the text used in labels on grocery items listing their ingredients, says, “Warning: this video chat is AI generated. You are not speaking with a real person.” Aisha laughs. “What’s up? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”… … … “It’s that… The pop up says there’s AI generated video on my tablet.”… … … “Oh, yeah.”… … … “Does yours say that?”… … … “No!” she laughs. “I’m the one AI generated.” Her demeanor doesn’t change at all. She still looks tired and relieved to talk with him. Marvin has trouble breathing. He rubs his left armpit as a deep pain shoots up his arm and into his chest. “I’m…” Her mouth opens, showing her lower teeth. “Marvin… Try to breathe. Sit back down…” The chair jumps as his leg presses against it. A bird flies over. It seems larger than normal as it hangs above him with stretched wings. He drops the tablet, grabs his chest with both hands, doubles over, and groans with pain.

18

Frolik watches a kid, a sixteen-year-old, every other day leave his school and instead of biking home, bikes into a forested area between strip malls and a suburb where townhouses and apartment buildings are being built. The boy leaves areas containing cams and sensors the AI can access. He wraps his phone in tinfoil so Providence loses sight of him. Frolik uses a drone to follow him. The drone can automatically follow the boy. Frolik controls a camera on the drone, zooming in on the boy or panning around to examine parts of the landscape. The path the boy rides dwindles to no path and the boy rides through grass. He reaches an abandoned house way back in the woods, drops his bike on the ground, and enters. Frolik leaves his desk, puts on his jacket, and heads to the undercover SWAT car. As he drives, the monitor on the dash shows the drone live feed of the kid leaving the house and biking home. After Frolik parks and hikes through the woods for forty minutes, he comes up on the abandoned house, looking for signs of activity. All he sees is the line where the bike cuts through tall grass and the spot where the bike was dropped to the ground. The back door is ajar. Taking out a foldable, Frolik scans the building. The app says no radio signals coming from the building, no heat sources, and no sounds suggesting human activity inside. The sound analyzer probably hears branches dragging on the roof and rodents in the building, but it won’t report those. With daylight fading, he enters the building, moves from room to room, and places cams in each room. These cams are the size of pebbles. He sticks them on stiff curtains, ratty furniture, a water stain on a wall, and at the top of a wardrobe. Internet is shoddy out here, so he sticks a booster, the size of a box of matches, outside in a bush next to the house, clipping it to a branch. By the time he reaches the office, most of his daytime coworkers have gone, and the evening shift sits at desks. He catches up with two of them, swapping family stories and some company gossip. A cup of coffee rests on Frolik’s desk. Benny must be in. He hasn’t touched the computer yet. Frolik sits and logs in to close out a couple of reports so he can sign out. The screen is divided into twelve windows, each for a different potential. He’s about the close it but something catches his eye. On the window second from the far upper right, he sees Marvin the urban hermit moving around on that lounge chair on the roof. Marvin grabs his chest. His tablet flips to the ground. His mouth is open like he’s calling out, and his eyes are hard shut. Frolik rises. “Oh god. Oh god.”