He was a character, apparently. He wore a cape—not one of those little capes that rich people (usually villains) in old movies wore to the opera. This was full-size, and black as night with a red lining. He had a khaki shirt and trousers underneath, and he wore a pith helmet like he was Livingston I presume, going on a safari.

Bird shit. Bird shit everywhere.

“You said car washes were a rip-off, Dad.”

The video starts playing, and square in the middle of the frame is a metal chair with a female robot on it. She has pin-up model-like curves, and her head is a sleek monitor displaying the face of the one and only Marilyn Monroe. Even now, that mask is still one of the more popular, and expensive, downloadable features an owner could purchase for their PleasureCorp sex robot.

Jerry Johnston sat in the Delta Airlines boarding area. The time was 2:34 in the morning. He stood. He lifted his shoulder bag. He took a few steps. He put the bag down. He patted jacket pockets. He felt papers. He lifted the shoulder bag once again and returned to his chair, actually the next one over. He sat in that chair. It felt cold.

Rita sighed, already tired of the neighborhood grocery store. The products on offer were gray and rancid, and she turned away in disgust from a woman intently inspecting a package of ground beef with yesterday’s sell-by date.

Today was special, and Rita would not settle for anything less than a perfect treat.