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I tap through.
MAYOR: Such dedication deserves a reward. How would you like a tour of the old cellar? I’ve got something down there that might interest a gardener of your caliber.
My thumb hovers over the response options.
[That would be wonderful!]
[Maybe another time.]
[What’s in it for me?]
I tap the first one. Obviously.
MAYOR: Excellent! Meet me at the town hall tomorrow morning, and we’ll get you that key. Don’t be late now!
The dialogue box closes, and the exclamation point vanishes from the map. The mayor turns and walks back into his house, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft pixel thud.
I navigate to the market and sell the eggplants in one tap, sending the coin total soaring. Enough for the kitchen upgrade. I set the device in my lap and arch my back until my spine pops. The quiet of the house settles around me.
Kain’s screens sit dark at his desk, asleep. Not here to see my achievement.
Picking the device back up, my mind is already on layouts.
I head upstairs, my avatar taking its sweet time on the path to the farmhouse while I settle onto the couch to perform my evening tasks.
I feed my livestock, plant another batch of eggplants because I can always use more income, and sort my inventory so my travel pack is organized for the morning.
Finally, I click the bed, and the screen fades to black.
While it loads, I lift my head. The windows are black mirrors reflecting the room.
Outside, the street is dark, the curb lamps casting pale pools of yellow across the asphalt. Our neighbors’ porch lights are on.
When did that happen?
The mayor’s dialogue took maybe two minutes. The flower blooming took thirty seconds. The transition from evening to night outside my IRL window took longer than both of those combined, and I missed all of it.
I set the device down on the couch cushion and push to my feet.
My bare soles slap across the hardwood, and the cold seeps up through my heels. I pad across the living room toward the kitchen. The overhead light is off, the kitchen cast in semidarkness. The digital clock on the stove casts a green glow over the counter.
Seven oh three.
The hook where Kain’s jacket should be is bare, and the kitchen stands empty. I tilt my head, listening to the refrigerator hum. The heating vent clicks once and falls silent.
“Kain?”
No one answers.
I walk down the hallway, checking rooms as I pass. My bedroom door hangs open, revealing a bed with the covers pulled tight. In my streaming office, my monitor reflects nothing, my bunny-eared headphones resting on their docking station.
Frowning, I head back downstairs, my hand on the railing.
“Kain?”
The word bounces off the walls and dies. The office looks untouched, and darkness fills the gym.
I climb back upstairs. The bathroom door stands ajar, and I push it open with my fingertips.
