Chapter 8 · Continued
The Accident
Cam paused while examining one of the plants.
“Something wrong?” Jane asked.
“This plant would prefer drier soil,” he said.
His tone shifted slightly.
Less formal.
“I recommend placing it away from the others.”
Jane examined the plant and then looked at him. “Okay. Let’s put it over there.”
She pointed toward a smaller, sunnier strip beside the walkway.
Cam picked up the plant and moved without hesitation. He dug another hole and placed it there.
By the time they finished, the garden looked whole again.
Not perfect.
Alive.
Jane leaned back on her heels and brushed the dirt from her hands. “It looks really good.”
She smiled. “We did a good job, Cam.”
He looked at her, and his projected face formed a smile in response.
The expression lagged briefly before correcting itself.
Jane noticed.
Of course she did.
She chose not to mention it.
“Yeah,” she said as she pushed herself to her feet. “It’ll do.”
Cam stood beside her with his hands still, waiting.
Between them, the newly planted garden held together.
The following morning began as most mornings did.
Coffee first.
Always coffee first.
Cam had already prepared a cup strong enough to argue with God. Jane carried it into the living room, where he stood near the window, powered on and waiting.
“Morning, Cam.”
“Good morning, Jane.”
Normal.
That was good.
Normal had become increasingly valuable.
Jane settled onto the couch with her laptop. She checked her email, deleted three messages without reading them, and opened the one she already knew would irritate her.
“Oh, for crying out loud.”
Cam turned toward her.
Jane pointed at the screen with her coffee mug. “I had to talk to a coworker yesterday about these documents, right? Every one of them was set up incorrectly. Wrong filenames, wrong folders, wrong version numbers—the whole circus wearing a spreadsheet costume.”
Cam listened.
At least, he appeared to.
Jane continued because that was what she did now.
She talked to him about work, the weather, Seymour throwing up behind the recliner, and all the things that didn’t matter until someone was there to hear them.
“The worst part was that she acted like I was the one being picky. I’m not picky. I’m trying to stop us from drowning in document soup.”
Cam’s face flickered.
Jane stopped.
The projection fractured into small blocks of light. His expression remained half formed, caught somewhere between attentive and blank.
“Cam?”
No answer.
Jane waited.
The blocks shifted and then settled into a frozen pattern.