"Whatever you want it to be."
"No, your real name. The one before the cuff."
"That's not what I asked."
He ate alone that night, listening to the soft sounds of her chewing from the floor by the radiator.
"I'll notice," he said. "Now hold out your arm."
She looked at him then—really looked, for the first time. Her eyes were amber, flecked with gold. "I had a dream last night," she said, each word careful, as if confessing a crime. "In the dream, I walked out the front door. Just walked. No permission slip. No tracking chip. I walked until my feet bled and then I kept walking."
