Chapter 1 · Continued
Jane
Click.
Seal.
Done.
The arm retracted just a fraction too quickly.
It clipped the unit.
Not hard, but enough.
The robot swung in a sudden, uneven motion that wasn’t part of the rhythm. It twisted once, then twice, the hook creaking softly as it tried to settle.
Still moving.
Still swinging.
Ahead was a doorway with low clearance.
The system didn’t adjust. It didn’t slow.
It didn’t notice.
CLANG.
The unit’s head struck the top of the frame with a sharp, hollow impact—metal against metal.
It jerked, then steadied.
A dent remained above one eye, pressed into its forehead as though something had tried to get inside.
The line never paused.
The unit passed through the doorway and into the packing area. Automated arms lifted it from the hook and lowered it into an open crate with perfect alignment.
No inspection. No correction.
Another set of arms moved in. The lid closed and sealed. A label was printed and applied.
Destination confirmed.
The crate slid forward, joined the others, and moved toward the loading dock.
Outbound.
To Jane.
Several days passed, and Jane forgot all about the beta test.
It was Saturday morning. No work. No rush.
Jane stood at the front window with coffee in hand, watching the quiet street ease into the day. Her cat, Seymour, sat on the windowsill beside her, his tail flicking lazily as he tracked the birds at the feeder in the tree. The birds’ soft, steady chirping made a peaceful soundtrack.
The house was small, but it was hers. The living room was at the front, with her “office” just off to one side—really only the spare bedroom with a desk and too many browser tabs open. The dining room led into the kitchen at the back. Her bedroom was tucked behind it, with the bathroom just off to the side.
Lace curtains. Plants everywhere. A backyard with a small patio.
Just enough.
Just right.
Jane smiled and reached down to scratch Seymour’s head. “Well, Seymour… should we go out back later?”
Seymour purred, his eyes still locked on the birds.
Jane lifted her coffee and took a sip.
Then she paused.
A large white truck was pulling into her driveway.
She frowned. “Huh.”
Glancing down at Seymour, she asked, “Did you order cat treats without my permission?”
Seymour purred louder.
“Yeah, I didn’t think so.”
Jane watched the truck roll to a stop. “What did I order?”
The driver stepped out. He was a big, broad man with the kind of build that suggested he never skipped a meal—or a second helping.