Rain pelted against the reinforced glass windows of my high-rise apartment. The real estate agent had assured me the 31st floor would have the best view of choking coal smog in the entire city! Today lived up to her solemn promise. The sky was a sickly yellowish green, with a brighter spot where the sun must have loomed hidden in the murk. I threw my device on the counter and closed the door. The homey turn of various bolts and locks hummed for an instant and then a green light flashed accompanied by a tone and gentle woman’s voice confirming, “safety measures activated.” My device buzzed and a notification reiterated the same message. I was safe.

  A small, calico cat leaped to the kitchen counter and mewed pitifully.

  “Hey, Mitzi, boo,” I said, scratching the cat on her lower back, right at the base of her tail. It was her money spot, and she stretched luxuriously.

  The cat purred like a chainsaw and rubbed her head forcefully against my arm. Then she mewed again. My attention was appreciated, but Mitzi really wanted her dinner. I went to the fridge for a can of cat food and removed a pre-packaged meal from the freezer for myself. I looked at the frozen food tray mournfully and tossed it in the instant cooker. Then, I fed Mitzi some fake, soy tuna and took a handful of evening medications while my cuisine was warming up.

  As I removed the food tray and dropped the molten container to the counter so it could cool, my device buzzed. It was my co-worker, Marci.

  “Answer it, Tina,” I called to the device.

  Tina was my household AI. I named her myself and had intentionally put as little thought into the name as possible.

  Instantly, an image of my co-worker, Marci, populated on the blank living room wall. She was riding in her self-driving car. Rain pattered on the windshield, which made her difficult to hear.

  “Boo, what's up?” she asked.

  "Wassup, stinky biscuit?" I replied. “I'm warming up dinner.”

  “Teal! That's bleak. You’ve got to get out,” she said.

  “It’s Tuesday,” I told her. “I’m not going out on a Tuesday.”

  “Why not?” Marci begged.

  “Because it’s Toaster Bath Tuesday! I don’t even want to be alive on Toaster Bath Tuesday, let alone face people.”

  Marci was silent for a moment. Falling rain filled the stillness.

  “You’re hopeless,” my coworker said.

  “Yet you keep trying.”

  “Friday?”

  “Maybe, Friday,” I answered.

  “If not Friday, I am giving up on you for life.”

  “Prove it,” I told her with a smile.

  "Ugh," she whined in exasperation. "You're gross."

  "But you love me!" I joked.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  “Later.”

  "Bye-ee!"

  She hung up and I removed the cover from my dinner tray, toasting my finger in the process. These stupid things took forever to cool down. Mitzi had already finished her wet food and was brushing back and forth against my legs in angry gratitude. I got out a fork and leaned on the kitchen counter.

  A flash lit up the sky, followed by an enormous boom. A moment later, the light on my device blinked red and a gentle woman’s voice intoned:

  “A toxic rain warning is in effect for the next two hours. Please shelter in place and enjoy any one of your approved programs, games or other virtual activities. An update will be provided once more information is available.”

  My device buzzed. It was Marci. Her text read:

  “So much for going out…”

  I smiled and told my device to respond with:

  “I tried to tell you. God hates Tuesdays.”

  She responded with a middle finger emoji, which was technically illegal and not provided in the emoji options on our devices, but everybody modded their electronics anyway. What were they going to do, arrest the entire populace of The West? Not likely.

  I sent her a kawaii cat flashing the peace sign, which I knew would get me an eye roll. Marci was not an advocate for kawaii cats or peace.

  The tray of protein, carb and veggie fabricates had finally cooled down enough to eat. I took a bottle to the distributor, and it doled out my meager nightly portion of water. Finally, I plopped down on the sofa with my sad girl dinner and asked Tina to turn on my entertainment options. Before the choices populated, the image of a woman buckling her fourth child of five into an SUV appeared on the screen. The blissful woman looked up from child #4 and smiled warmly at me.

  “Hi, Teal. I just wanted to check in to see if you had given any more thought to entering the Repopulation Program of the West. We’ve already discussed the benefits extensively. You are still within your window to enjoy maximum reimbursements as a young woman in your early 20s. Those peak perks won’t last forever…”

  “Skip!” I called to the baby lady ferociously.

  Her gentle voice answered, “Skipping is not allowed on federal communications, Teal. You know that.”

  Of course, I knew that, but I had to voice my disinterest in any way I could. The stupid biscuit on the entertainment screen continued without missing a beat.

  “Just think. You don’t need to work. You don’t need to live alone. You have the opportunity to be compensated for fulfilling a role that’s essential to your nature. Trust me, you won’t regret it once you look into the eyes of your child and see their first smile. Special bonuses are awarded on the fourth, sixth and eighth children. Additional awards are offered upon the birth of each male child. In most cases, candidates can participate in the selection of their husband or receive additional benefits for selecting privately funded male options. Why are you still waiting, Teal? Your purpose is so clear. Can I take you to the enrollment registration?”

  “Hell to the naw, dog” I replied.

  The woman on the screen looked disappointed, but she quickly recovered.

  “I understand,” she said. “Please know that failure to register could result in forfeiting the bonuses and participation in the husband selection process should you be drafted into the program.”

  “Pfft,” I fart-noised sarcastically. “I’ll take my chances.”

  The screen switched immediately to news. I had zero interest in whatever images of war and destruction flashed across the screen.

  “Tina,” I called to my AI.

  “Yes,” she responded.

  “Boot up Kawaii Farm Life,” I said.

  “This application is not supported by the Federal Office of…”

  “Tina,” I said. “Shut the fork up and put on KFL or I will rename you Chachi.”

  Tina loaded the game without further commentary.

  Tonight, was a big night. Kawaii Farm Life had updated to a new version, and players were being rewarded with a special in-game delivery for play testing the beta before official release next month. As a top supporter, I had earned the coveted special invitation. The update dropped at 1 PM, and I had nearly taken off work to play. But the company nurse reviewed all sick time requests like she got paid a fat bonus to deny people their hours. There were all kinds of ways to trick the nurses, but it wasn’t worth the risk. You had to be clever about what risks you took, and what risks you passed up.

  I reached for the neuro-link, which was threaded through the fabric of my sofa, and plugged it into the jack under my left ear. The sound of birds tweeting, cicadas humming and the wind blowing through trees whispered in my ears. I could feel the cool breeze and sunlight on my face. I could smell a warm cherry pie baking somewhere.

  And just like that, I was home.