The device projects a jittering blue interface full of corrupted icons. A cheap model, outdated by perhaps fifteen years, patched with mismatched software. I adjust the display stabilizer, clear a memory loop, and disable an intrusive advertisement program disguised as a weather widget. The whole process takes less than a minute.
“It should function now,” I say, returning it.
Mr. Eddison taps the screen. The projection steadies. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
“That is a separate issue.”
He stares at me, then laughs. “You’re funny under all that scary.”
“I am not attempting humor.”
“That’s usually when it works best.”
I return to the counter before more people decide I am approachable. Evie’s eyes follow me, bright with amusement.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“You are smiling.”
“I’m allowed.”
“At me.”
“Also allowed.”
“It implies something.”
“It implies I enjoyed watching you fix Mr. Eddison’s compad like it personally offended you.”
“It was poorly maintained.”
“He calls it a pocket bastard. That probably hurts its feelings.”
“Machines do not have feelings unless illegally modified.”
“That’s oddly specific.”
“Military regulations are often oddly specific.”
The words leave me before I can stop them.
Evie’s smile softens, but she does not pounce on the opening. She does not ask which military, which unit, which war, which scars, which ghosts. She only leans against the counter with care and says, “So you learned tech stuff in the service?”
“Some.”
“That explains the locks.”
“It explains many things.”
“Does it explain the brooding?”
“I do not brood.”
“You are brooding right now.”
“I am eating.”
