That was an hour ago. Across the way, the two-story arcade popped and whistled, and as Silas bargained with the man at the nearby phone kiosk, she watched four guys with military cuts on the live-play deck, battling aliens with a team from South Africa. She wasn’t sure how she knew they wouldn’t be able to get off-planet without the keymaster who lived in the swamp, but it was all she could do not to go over, jump on the interface, and tell them. Jack, maybe? she thought, tarnishing her good mood. Had she really killed her anchor? Did he really shoot me first?
No longer hungry, Peri set down her chopsticks and broke open the fortune cookie. It was stale, the sweet biscuit flat as she snapped it between her teeth and read the fortune. The heart is stronger than the intellect, she mused, wadding it up and flicking it across the table to land against Silas’s empty cup.
Yeah, okay, she thought, watching Silas with that salesman, his very clothes flashing logos and discount codes. Since leaving the hotel, Silas had been silent and brooding, but he had bought her dinner. Sighing, Peri looked at the plastic knife before slipping it into her empty boot sheath like a child’s promise—heady with intent but weak on follow-through.
Finally Silas shook the man’s hand, a new bag in his grip as he wove impatiently around three giggling girls dressed in full Japanese schoolgirl charm, their green hair matching their swirls of face paint designed to thwart facial recognition scanners. Not a bad idea. A phone would be great, but she wasn’t leaving without new underwear—even if she had to steal it off a mannequin—which might be difficult seeing as they were all holographic simules.
“Better?” he asked as he sat down and shook his head at the three girls now singing what had to be the latest Hatsune Miku single at the top of their lungs. The interactive mannequins within their earshot began to sing along, the simules’ attire shifting to something the tweens might buy.
Peri crumpled up the nearly useless napkin and dropped it on the leftover rice. “Very much so. Thank you,” she said, meaning it down to her still-damp socks. “It was a little heavy on the lemon, but not bad. They probably added it after cooking instead of before. It’s an easy mistake to make.”
“Since when do you cook?” he asked, almost laughing.
Affront flashed through her and her eyes came back from the dusky parking lot. “I cook all the time,” she said, embarrassed to admit that she didn’t remember cooking anything, but clearly the knowledge was there. Sandy had once suggested she explore her new kitchen as a way to relax. Clearly she had. But why had Silas assumed she couldn’t?
He shrugged contritely, and not liking the silence, Peri said, “Mind if I borrow your phone and get some underwear?”
“Sure,” he said, his attention caught by the flashing ads on the servers bussing the tables, fast on their in-line skates. “Your sweater is looking a little tired, too. Can I see your phone first?”
“My sweater?” She looked down at it, not believing what he’d just said, and his neck reddened.
“It’s, ah, not very practical,” he amended, and she slurped the last of the orange juice from the glass of ice in a sound of disbelief. “Phone, please?”
“I ditched it in Detroit,” she said sourly. I’m not supposed to cook and my sweater is a little tired? It’s Donna Karan. But, on second thought, he was right about the sweater.
“Really?” He took a glass phone out of the bag and pushed it to her, the purchase apps lighting up as it found the table’s ordering system. “Good thing I got you a new one, then.”
Suddenly feeling grungy, she reached for it, wishing he’d gotten a smartphone instead. This new glass technology was fun, but her learning curve was shallow. At least she knew how to turn it on. That Silas was with her brought a weird mix of guilt, gratitude, and discomfort. “Thanks,” she said as she took her SIM card from her wallet and flipped the phone over. “I’m still going to need your phone. If I tap my bank, they’ll know where I am.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, is that from your old phone?” She nodded, and he held out his hand, his expression both irate and relieved. “May I?”
She handed it over, shocked when he snapped it in two. “Hey!” she shouted, then lowered her voice, not liking that people had turned. “You can’t track SIM cards,” she said as he dropped the broken card into his empty cup. “That was my only link to my past three years!”
“Opti gave it to you?” he asked, voice as angry as hers.
Ticked, she slumped into her chair, her new resolve to stop snapping at Silas being tested. She didn’t have much left, and he’d thrown it away as if it had meant nothing.
“Look, I’m sorry,” Silas said as her peeved silence grew. “I know the names and numbers were important, but don’t you have a diary? Every drafter I’ve met does, hidden somewhere.”