He stares at the eggs as if I have personally betrayed him.
“Eat,” I repeat.
“Want sweet loops.”
“We do not have sweet loops.”
“Buy.”
“With what?”
He thinks about that. “Money.”
“Brilliant. Why didn’t I think of that?”
He pokes an egg suspiciously. “Mama grumpy.”
“Mama is efficient.”
“Grumpy-ficient.”
I point a fork at him. “You are two. Who taught you sass?”
He gives me a level look that says, very clearly, genetics.
I snort and sit down with my coffee. It is too hot and a little burnt and tastes like salvation. Outside, dawn spreads over Novaria’s lower urban rings in streaks of mauve, acid gold, and electric blue. Freight lanes blink in the distance. Somewhere nearby a transit horn wails. The building across from mine flashes a giant animated ad for cosmetic cybernetics, featuring a woman whose cheekbones could cut industrial glass.
Jesse stuffs fruit in his mouth with both hands.
I glance at the time and my stomach drops. “Okay. Okay, no, we’re late.”
We are always late. Even when we’re early, I am spiritually late.
I jump up, clean him with one hand, pack his bag with the other, and start our daily ritual of attempted dignity. Shirt. Tinypants. Soft boots. Comm slate. Nutrient pouches. Wipes. Spare clothes in case of a toddler or apocalypse. My work badge. My lunch. Jesse’s fossil-shaped rock, because apparently that is essential today.
When I try to put him in his jacket, he twists like a greased eel.
“No.”
“You have to wear it.”
“No.”
“It’s cold.”
“Fight cold.”
“With what? Your opinions?”
He scowls and crosses his arms.
I kneel in front of him, holding the jacket open. “Jesse. Buddy. Love of my life. Tiny tyrant of the lower districts. Put on the jacket.”
He narrows his eyes. “You say please.”
I stare at him. “You extort me now?”
“Please,” he says solemnly, demonstrating.
