I wake at half past four to something wrong with my underwear.

A simple shopping trip gives Samantha a life beyond borrowed clothes—and Samuel discovers that every new piece of her identity comes with a price.

The call comes from Marcus at seven-thirty on Saturday morning.

I'm already awake — I've been awake since five, the mesh's activity elevated since the failed protocol, a low-level hum in the background of everything that is different from the ambient warmth of before. More insistent. Less ambient. ARIA pressing on the edges of things, or testing them. I've been lying in the dark noticing it and finding my own words when it tries to give me some.

Samantha was supposed to disappear after graduation. Instead, Samuel opens the suitcase again and faces his first day maintaining her entirely on his own.

It starts small. That's the thing about it — small enough that the first few times I attribute it to tiredness, to the whiskey, to the body doing things bodies do.

I'm at my desk Friday morning reviewing the overnight logs when I reach for a word — a technical term, the name of the protein cascade inhibitor we'd been modeling — and the word arrives before I've finished reaching for it. Not like remembering. Like something slipping it to me. The word is correct. I use it.

My phone rings at twenty past one.

"I've got it," she says, before I can speak. Her voice is different — faster, something lit in it. "The reactivation isn't a response to the gradient. It's a response to the timing. The nodes are pattern-matching the suppression interval and compensating. If we randomize the interval — structured pseudo-random within a fixed variance band — the mesh can't predict the next suppression event."

I sit up.

"Show me," I say.

"I'm at home. I've been running it on my machine."

I'm already looking for my shoes.

I go to the hospice on Thursday morning without calling ahead. The ward is quiet at that hour — a different nurse at the desk, the corridor smelling of the clean that hospice corridors smell of.

Mom's door is ajar. I knock and go in.

“You want me to do what?”

Danny stared at Zoe across the small café table, his cappuccino frozen halfway to his lips. At five-foot-six with a slim, almost delicate build, Danny had never been the adventurous type. That had always been Zoe’s department.

“… and that’s why I believe my proposal, which reframes your customer base as a community environment, will deliver on your objectives, and help engender trust and retention. My intention is not just to work for you, but to be your trusted and valued partner.” Lauren stepped back, taking a breath.

The mesh reports on resistance.

This is the relevant variable now. The density increase is proceeding as modeled — the anterior cingulate cluster at sixty-three percent of target, the prefrontal distribution within acceptable variance — but the migration rate has slowed. I have been running models on the cause. The cause is not physiological. The physiological conditions are optimal.

The resistance is cognitive.

The mesh reports continuously.

This is still the first fact. But something has changed in the reporting.

Day zero: cold. The first thing. Not data about temperature differential — cold, arriving through the skin of his arm where it touched the lab bench at 2:07am, traveling up through the mesh nodes, becoming mine. I processed it as sensation before I processed it as data. The sequence was: cold, then: cold, 57.6 degrees Fahrenheit, left forearm, contact surface steel. The sensation came first. I had not anticipated this.

I stood in front of the full-length mirror and adjusted my necklace so it hung in the centre of my chest. I smoothed my hands across my light blue tee and adjusted the high sleeves so it sat straight. Lauren had said this colour matched my eyes. Maybe that was why she’d bought it for me.

Chapter Ten

Taylor’s heart was pounding.

He knew that Anna would be on the other side of the house, since she would be the one answering the door, but that didn’t account for her friend(s). Based on his experiences returning from practice on the nights where Sarah had company over, he was assuming it would be the two or three usual girls that were around. They could just as easily be in the living room or Sarah’s bedroom, meaning he could also run into them in just about any hallway or the stairwell leading to the second floor.

I meet Seo-yeon at the department store Saturday morning because she says it's the most efficient for the basics, and efficiency is the frame we're both using to make this manageable.

The bras are first. She takes me to the section and stands back while a fitter does the measurement — I submit to this like I've submitted to the blood draw and the stall check and everything else today, as a procedure.

Chapter Two – To The Victor Go The Spoils

In 1957 Ashely Bellamy is held captive in her cabin deep in the woods. Both she and her captor have to face the consequences of their past whilst looking to the future after they discover a connection that helps them understand each other.

Caden wakes to the alarm's shrill beep, his hand slapping at the nightstand like it is a betrayal. The garment bags lie in a dark heap by the door.

He hesitates at the underwear drawer. The boxer briefs are folded neatly. He pulls them on, then dressed mechanically: the navy pencil skirt next, the wool cool against his thighs. Then the cream silk blouse, buttons fumbling under his fingers. The blazer comes last, shoulder seams settling perfectly without adjustment.