THE SECOND SHIFT

After setting the tin on the counter and removing the lid, he stared inside. He placed both hands on the counter, spread wide. His eyes never left the can.

Finally, he put a hand inside. He pulled out a glass tab the size of a cracker.

It was yellow from age. He laid it on the counter, beside the can, and tapped it once. A hologram appeared, struggling to stay visible. It flickered for several seconds before stabilizing. Still jittery, but there. It was a woman.

Her face was framed by long, straight hair. Couldn't tell the color. The projection was all a muted green. The woman tilted her head and laughed. She was beautiful. My father reached out to her, tried to touch her hair. His fingertips glowed in the light.

"Researchers tried everything to fight the virus," said the narrator. "Nothing worked. But they noticed something strange. Patients with sleep disorders in an unrelated biotech experiment weren't getting sick."

The video panned right and pulled back to reveal several research subjects in medical exam chairs. Dozens of wires extended from their heads to diagnostic machines. Robotic arms with long, thin needles lowered and slid into the backs of their skulls.

Good thing they sedate us for that, I thought, grimacing. "A cutting-edge brain implant suppressed the symptoms—not a cure, but a discovery that saved countless lives. There was, however, a complication."

Sorry
My boy
Not good with emotions
They seem to steal my tongue
Will use my fingers instead

I chose you
My boy
Not because the city made me
My choice
Best I ever made

I looked away for a moment, sucked in air. The scroll shook and the words slid off, drifting away as they fell. I looked back. The shadow of more text appeared. It grew darker and came into focus.

Big Todd tried to run. Too late. In a blink he was covered—an undulating mass of skittering metallic legs. That's when the sparks began. The bots appeared to be zapping

Teddy and the Todds. Little pops of light exploded beneath their clothes. They pulled off their shirts, clawing at their torsos. Manic screams echoed through the alley.

All three sprinted out into the street, shirtless and shimmering at low-voltage. They turned the corner and disappeared, howls cascading down Magpie Avenue.

The stores and offices along Ōtori Drive were prepping for close as I walked home from school. Nobody worked during the last or first hour of each cycle—the transition period. A barber holding a broom flipped the sign on a glass door to Closed. A grocer in a burgundy apron packed oranges into a crate.

In less than three hours, while every man and boy slept, these doors would unlock. Cash registers would reopen. Computers would reboot. Business as usual, but without us. The women of the city would emerge from their homes in East Orbis. They would come here, to the shared middle, and start their day. Well, their night.

The sky began to dim—a sign for Cycle One to wrap things up. I craned my neck to look at the sun. It wasn't real, of course. A digital forgery to make our world seem normal, like outside the dome. It didn't set in Orbis, the evening sun. It faded away to nothing like a movie's final scene.