THE BELL DINGS, and I become a murderer.

I hold the knife with my thumb and middle finger and cut the wight into small cubes. Place each piece—marinated in thrice-boiled synthHoney and pureed tomatoes—gently in my mouth and chew silently. Slowly. Counting each movement of my jaw.

Twenty-five—that is the correct number of chews for each piece.

The magnificent blend of sweet and sour massages my senses; this is the best wight I have ever tasted. The best place I have ever been. I always want to dine in such comfort. Sit across from my husband, James of the Pillars. Be embraced by a floor-length dress with many shades of blue, a short train, and glittering gold words.

Light blue cuffs with black dots at my wrists, matte white pearls around my neck, V3454 Scarlet on my lips. And on my feet, glossy, black, one-inch heels.

My seat is luxurious. High-backed and made of real oak and leather. The air smells of fresh spicy lavender and sweet cream.

After five years of planning, we are here: Ancient Dreams.

The finest restaurant in Urban. I cannot believe it. Oh, I cannot believe I am actually here, in all this beauty.

I match myself to the quiet energy of them. To the red glow all around me. To the Anomalies. They are everywhere, sat at circular tables, and it is grander than I could have ever hoped for.

A spherical chandelier made of twigs hovers over each table, and tiny crystals create a soft glow from their branches’ centers. Each sphere rotates above us, its lights bouncing off the cream-colored walls and gold trim.

Red slats cross the towering ceilings and are matched by lattices that follow the curve of the arched doorways. They are stunning. Thick tufts of dyed-black shrubs peppered with slender gold-painted leopard orchids grow along their openings.

It is a near-perfect replica of our world 470 years ago. Different only because there is no green anywhere.

“Delicious.” I massage my fork’s smooth metal once more and set it on my left.

James of the Pillars glances around. Four black dots trail down each of his temples. He is thin and wearing a matching blue suit with a train that grazes the ground. Unlike my dress, it glows a faint red.

He eats little and drinks much. Tiny waves of his nerves ripple in my cup as his leg bounces under the table. Rustles the gold stripe on our black tablecloth.

I reach for his hand. Slowly slide my thumb between his index and ring fingers. The healed-over skin of his missing middle finger is soft and smooth.

“Relax, my husband.” He sighs and smiles at me.

Here, our life is perfect. Here.

Three hundred eighty years ago, The Dome was built. But one headquarters was not enough to govern our Earth and keep you wild humans in line, so we erected another. Virtual visits available daily. Your favored show, Today in the Past!

Much of the other patrons’ talk is of James of the Pillars. Some loathe him, but most are excited to see him after these eight years. Next to a few is a black tray holding red bottles painted with drizzling gold accents. Symbols of their immense status.

They glance at him, but none will be so impolite to approach him while dining.

A soft blue light comes from the floor-to-ceiling windows to my right. The clouds drift sleepily as the sky fades under the setting sun, still touching the Grand Anomalies’ glowing statues. Magnificent. They are made from red marble. Positioned next to each other over softly lapping water.

Each statue’s arm reaches to the next. They touch their fingertips together, holding a tiny piece of our world between their palms.

One day, after he has been old and gray, a statue will be erected for my husband. In his likeness. It will be beautiful like him, but I hope to never see it.

“More Manoir de Sang?” He drinks the last drop of the blood wine, and raises my hand to his lips and kisses the tips of my fingers. A spot of red remains on the middle one.

“Of course, but I’ll pay. Husband, I urge ya tuh not drink this bottle as if you’ve been choking and it’s air.” Three empty bottles, different shapes decorated with ornate windows, sit on a black tray next to us. “Hoarding. It’s a word.” I suck the sweet red from my finger loudly.

He laughs. “Hoarding? Me? My love, you have withheld your units all night. My ledger is near negative, yet you scold me when you finally decide to pay.”

“Don’t tell me ‘finally.’ I’ve tolerated ya excessive thirst our entire dinner.”

“True. I love this wine more than you.”

I laugh and motion to the bottles. “Clearly.”

He snaps his fingers and signals a happy-maker, who pours other patrons’ beverages even quicker and rushes to our table. To wait.

Ding. 60,000 units.

Like the others darting to and fro, the man wears a tailored gold suit jacket and cream-colored pants and shoes. Thick makeup covers his face, and red permapaint coats his fingertips. He does not write anything down; a happy-maker’s memory is their greatest pride.

The man stands still. His eyes never leave James of the Pillars’s back as he searches for something he dropped. I tap my foot. Rub small circles in our tablecloth’s fabric. Soft like infant skin.

Tap, tap, tap…

Tap, tap, tap…

The wall moves. My tapping stops.

A woman, draped in cream-colored clothing and gold shoes, steps forward. Her smile widens as she walks to one of the tables and blows out seventeen candles on a boy’s birth day cake.

The woman is not looking at the cake. She is staring at the glass next to it, her eyes glued to the water’s condensation sliding down it.

“My candles’re out, Keeper. Get away from me.”

She blinks and nods. Goes back to the wall. The room is painted in those like her. They stand next to one another. Arms at their sides, palms out.

Silent. Attentive. Smiling. Waiting.

Tap, tap, tap…

A minute later, my husband pops up from under the table holding a small, gold doorknob. It is a key part of the beautiful mansion the four wine bottles will become after he assembles them.

He pockets the tiny ball, then looks from me to the waiting man, who is grinning harder than I thought possible.

“Take her order.”

The happy-maker turns to me.

“I’d like the final bottle of Manoir de Sang. Non-alcoholic.” I slur the words together and smile because of it.

Quirk my eyebrows at James of the Pillars. He said the final bottle is the best flavor. I do not know how the other three can be improved upon, but I will be the judge of that.

“That’ll be five thousand units, marm.” I put my left arm out, palm up, and the man places The Charge to my elbow.

The vial-like device beeps. A beam of green light shoots from it and makes a small green dot on the ceiling. Twelve feet above me, it does not feel like a gentle grin doting on me anymore but a hard, judgmental sneer stabbing into me. Tiny compared to it.

Worthless.

Some of the patrons giggle. There should be no light. No beep. No green. The happy-maker’s smile falls.

So does mine.

He assumed I would not have enough for the wine before reading my ledger. Programmed The Charge to react too quickly. I thought this practice had gone out of favor long ago.

I hold my arm straighter, my chin tighter. No one will see it tremble. I stare into his eyes.

You are Common like me. How could you do this?

He drops his gaze to the small machine and presses the button. The Charge reads my barcode, branded into my skin, and a small pinch tells me when the large needle pierces through. Six seconds later, my blood fills the container to the fifth line.

The Charge squirts a clear liquid on my skin and lights red to indicate success. He pulls it away. The invisiband’s wetness dries quickly and stops my blood from running.

The man hurries to get our final bottle.

“My love—” James of the Pillars reaches out to me, but I pull my hand away to stop what he will say next. His words will not bring the wight’s sweetness or the eve’s lightness back. It is sour now. Heavy. It was supposed to be perfect.

Stupid man.

I wait. Again. Irritated. Both by the growing pain under my belly and the spreading sickness bubbling within it. I know it well. A suffocating wave that overtakes my thoughts.

I stare at the soft inner skin of my elbow.

I am as valuable as any other person. I am worthy.

I am worthy?

I study my clothing. The Anomalies’. I matched myself to them perfectly. Spent hours checking, adjusting, twisting, checking again. I made sure none of me was left.

How did the happy-maker know I did not belong? What did I do wrong to make him use The Green Charge? I peek at James of the Pillars. His face is scrunched up. Sour. Angry. Sad.

We are thinking the same thought, he and I: Will anyone else be suspected of inferiority? Illegality. Inability to pay.

Our moods worsen as we scan the room, watching other patrons.

Dings. Many billions of units. The zeroes clog in my mind. How are these numbers truly possible?

A woman and her Common companion a few tables over purchase imported First Africa Northlake wight—and are not subjected to The Green Charge. Neither is the couple behind James of the Pillars, who purchase real, organic lettuce for their salad. And the man to my right with a large slab of 100% uncontaminated cow? Nothing. It is only us, forced into humiliation.

James of the Pillars huffs. “I will get a refund.”

“It’s not allowed.” I only want to go home.

“Well, I will force it. This is a most heinous discrimination.”

He marches to The Charge counter a few feet from us. The attendant mumbles “manager, manager” in a device. Glances around the room. Steels himself for the onslaught.

Ding. 520,000 units.

Every happy-maker adds The Charge counter to their circuit. They bow deeply, ask if they can do anything, get him anything. My husband declines each one, and they apologize before rushing to their next table.

When his grievances rise far above the din of the restaurant—only a few whispers now—I grab our jackets, the bottles, my purse, and walk as fast as I can to him. Heavy with pregnancy, my belly is five times its original size, and the band under it rubs against my skin.

I lean close to his ear. “It is not worth it. You waste our savings.” I revert to my birth accent, enunciating my words as the low-class must.

James of the Pillars’s mid-brown neck has gone bright red. At my words, he quiets and looks around, close to tears. All stare. Politely, if that were possible. He looks away from me. Whispers, “You deserve more, my love.”

A woman smooths her hair as she strides to us. Her multicolored suit is as bright as her smile. Neither hide the slight sheen on her face or that more sweat is gathering on the lone dot at each of her temples. Ding. Oh my. 3,400,000,000 units.

The happy-maker trails behind her, bent low—a perfect position for the miserable weeping willow he is. When she reaches us, he drops to his knees, forehead touching the floor, palms up.

She does not look at me, only shoves the final bottle into my hands a moment before I bow to her. I strain my eyes upward to watch what is happening.

“James of the Pillars, I’m very, very sorry.” She greets and bows to my husband. His four dots far outranking her one. “I’m the manager and take full responsibility for this man. What can I do tuh improve ya experience?”

She hands him a lifetime dining card. No refund.

He glances at me, holding the expensive, thick-glassed bottles and everything else. Narrows in on my purse swinging from my wrist. Less than. Common.

“You may unbow, my love.” At his words, I unbend.

A muscle spasms in his neck as he gathers the items from me. It twitches harder when the manager looks back and forth from me to him, her thought clear:

Your donkey should be carrying these.

Her look pierces through me. My eyes lower to the pristine black marble as I fill with the urge to grab our belongings from him. Make things right.

James of the Pillars squeezes the neck of the final bottle, and the woman steps back. He is about to explode bigger than a hundred uncorked wines. I cannot let that happen. Am I not embarrassed enough?

I pull at him gently, my hand shaking on his arm. I nod toward the other patrons. The massive room has been silent for a long time.

He takes a few calming breaths. “You can do nothing, marm. You and this man have disrespected my wife. I am immensely dissatisfied.” He hands her the three bottles. “Expect a notice of suspension. Enough time to replace you and those you have trained. This establishment is—” He shakes his head.

We leave the dining area after he drops the card to the floor. I stare at it. A lifetime of dining at Ancient Dreams. Left here.

 Soon, I lean on him more. Slow more. My back aches, and the pain under my stomach worsens. The manager trails him, apologizing profusely. Only stopping when he tells her to not follow.

I look back when she turns on the happy-maker, loud now. “Why’re ya still here? Ya unemployed. Get away from me.”

The happy-maker grabs none of his possessions, as is custom. Tomorrow, he will receive a new life position with far lower pay in a rural shack of a restaurant—rather than in the fanciest establishment in Urban. Also custom.

Good. He deserves it. Wretched man. This night would have been perfect if not for him.

I have waited so long for this night.

How could this have happened?

My thoughts loop this question as we continue down the long, red carpet. Walk past large, gold-rimmed pictures of Grand Anomalies. I studied each when we arrived, watched their speeches, but now I avoid their eyes. They should not have to see me sniffling and wiping snot from my nose.

“I apologize, habibi.”

He has no reason to apologize. He is why I was able to come here. Commons cannot enter Ancient Dreams without an Anomaly.

“It is okay. Relax, my husband.” The building is large, and the exit is far away. He holds my hand, rubbing my fingers with his thumb.

The happy-maker bows to him, then speeds past us.

Too fast for me to think of a most unpleasant thing to say. It is there. I can feel it on the tip of my tongue…

Nothing.

After a few minutes, I stop to catch my breath. The band under my belly has tightened, and the arch of my foot throbs. Neither hurts enough to dull the misery inside me. Hide the truth.

I am not worthy; I cannot even pretend to be.

Antoine of the Glades walks up to us with a large, ripe tomato in one hand and a greasy piece of fried wight in the other. His lips are oily and a tomato seed sits in his neatly trimmed mustache.

Ding. Zeroes bunch in my mind. It stutters, trying to fathom them, then calculates. 21,200,000,000 units. What. Wow. Still, I am not used to Anomalies’ numbers.

I stare at him. He has added gold flecks to his light gray eyes. Many in Urban add small changes, and with subtler mods, you cannot even see the alterations. His change should make his concerts even more popular.

I have listened to all his compositions, and I want to pepper him with questions. But I do not though all of me wants to. I hold myself still.

Antoine of the Glades stands in front of my husband. He is older but looks younger. Taller. A line of five black dots is on each side of his temples.

James of the Pillars and I bow deeply to him.

He straightens. I do not.

Tap, tap, tap…

It echoes in my head.

“You may unbow,” the other man says. I hold in a groan as I unbend.

“We are going home.” My husband sidesteps the man, but I motion for him to stay.

It has been many months since he casually spoke with another Anomaly, and he would welcome the conversation. This night cannot get any worse, so why not spend a few minutes more?

There is so much beauty here, and I have waited all my years to enjoy it.

James of the Pillars points to the dining area. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I need to rest anyway.”

He and I move to the benches that line the hallway’s walls. I lean back and rub my fingers on the cushion’s down. Magnificently soft.

“Speak freely, my love.” My husband permits me to join their discussion.

As Antoine of the Glades comes to the bench, he puts the tomato in the crook of his elbow. Wipes his hand on his pants. Like the other Anomalies, his barcodes glow red. Bright against the tomato’s smooth skin.

They stand in front of me. Hold their fingers together and touch their palms in greeting. The man hums a tune I have never heard in his deep, resonant perfect pitch. It is more stunning in person.

The layered notes soothe the turmoil inside me, then fade away as if I had not heard them at all. My husband’s shoulders lower, and he closes his eyes. Our belongings fall to the floor. His throat works a moment, eager to reply with a more exquisite sound—but instead, he presses his lips together and opens his eyes.

One by one, he picks up our belongings. Drops a few once more. Antoine of the Glades looks vaguely in my direction, then holds his hand up near his body. I scoot forward and reach my palm out, stopping an inch from touching his. I feel better. Most, like him, do not offer me any greeting. To them, I do not exist.

James of the Pillars stands, his arms full again. He makes every effort to elicit my opinion, but I give none.

They talk while I sit back and meld into the cushions. Smell the new paint on the walls—J5900 Cream. This is the third version Urban has made. Lacquer and hints of sweet cream scent waft from the paint.

Soon enough, I cannot hear them. Near-transparent films cover their mouths, so they can speak of new ideas and inventions. James of the Pillars makes large gestures, his entire body animated as he takes up much of the conversational space.

Almost as quickly as it began, the films flatten into their cheeks, and their words fill the air. They talk of old Common laws. No large gestures. No smiles. No passion-lit eyes. My husband has gone flat once more.

When their discussion finishes, Antoine of the Glades leans forward and taps him on the forehead. Scans him from head to toe. “Ya speak… differently, and ya look awful. Ashen. Sickly. You’ve grown thin.”

James of the Pillars pokes the other man’s belly; it jiggles. “And you’ve just grown.”

They laugh. My husband speaks quickly in his relaxed, natural high-class accent.

Antoine of the Glades glances away, then back. “We need ya. Our world needs ya—fully.”

“Never. Never, but I very much wish that was possible.”

“It’s possible.” He motions to the dots on my husband’s temples. “I know it must be exhaustin’ livin’ as a lowly four-dot, havin’ tuh travel when called to duty.” An upside-down triangle broken into pieces glows on the man’s neck. Fades. “Returning tuh Urban would be easier, James—”

“I said never.”

Antoine of the Glades sighs as he puts his arm out. “A grand eve to ya.” They press their palms together again. The man shoots me a glare. “Both.”

Another machete slices through my heart. I look down. It is not my fault James of the Pillars left Urban; it was his choice.

I cannot sift through my feelings fast enough. They are hardening into an unreadable boulder in the bottom of my stomach, so I stare at the man’s neck as he walks off. I have seen that triangle many times before.

It is dangerous.

James of the Pillars steps toward the man. I pull him back.

“He is not worth it. Let us go home, my husband. I cannot take anymore.”

I take his offered hand, stand, and pull my jacket tighter. We continue to the exit. This night could not have turned more horrid.

When we reach the outdoors, I look up, once again entranced by the magnificence of Urban. Skyscrapers covered in fluorescent graffita murals, the freshest of air, lush grass, 200-foot redwood trees, small, living animals scurrying around, hundreds of bikes and bike racks, and hoverCars. Invisible and silent, the sky looks clear as citizens move here and there, traveling through the dark blues and fading oranges.

Much life and laughter bustle in the late eve of this small city.

And comfort.

And excess.

I will have this. One day, I will have this for myself.

I bring my gaze down. The happy-maker is bowed with his forehead touching the concrete. James of the Pillars chastises him with quiet words, but I stop him from this.

A few moments pass before my husband forces out, “You may unbow.”

The man unbends and stands. He is the same height as my husband but does not meet his gaze.

“How did you know I did not belong?” This is the only answer I must learn from the happy-maker.

Three hundred eighty-five years ago, the Distribution War split all continents into multiple regions. Be kind. Share. Your favored show, Today in the Past!

“Full-gloss black shoes with a blue dress were in style this morn; they went out of style this aft.” Oh. “I am remorseful, miss.”

He no longer calls me “marm” but “miss.” A demotion. It cuts deeper than all else because he did not mean it to cut at all.

I ball my fist, contemplate doing him harm, but decide against it. He has given himself the worst punishment—he will never see Ancient Dreams again. Has lost Urban forever.

Plus, I do not want to damage the dress.

I stare at him. He has no jacket, and his complexion has already begun to lose its color. Thick tear streaks have cleared a path through his makeup. Under it, cavernous bags hang from his eyes and a bruise sits on his green-tinged cheek. His head hangs like mine did.

He has less than we do. A lot less.

James of the Pillars watches us silently, his lip curled.

I move closer to the happy-maker. “Do you have enough for a taxi?”

He shakes his head. “I was to be paid today.”

Each of his words is clipped, painfully enunciated. Unlikely, but, “Do you live in Valley?”

“No, Abyss.” Oh, poor thing.

James of the Pillars touches my elbow as I reach into my purse. Leans near my ear. “You do not know what he will purchase with it. You know how these… people are.”

I pull away; he turns around. Walks far from us.

I dig around, pull fifteen thousand units from my purse, and place the large vials in the man’s hand. Urban taxis are expensive, and Abyss is two hundred miles away—much too far to walk or risk asking for a share ride. Many are more desperate than him, and they will violently take their desperation out on him.

“Here. This should be enough to get you home. Be safe, my dear.”

He smiles at me, holding the three vials tightly. “Many thanks, miss.”

I pat his shoulder, then give him 500 units more to purchase a filtering in Abyss. They cost so much there.

“I am truly remorseful,” he murmurs. “I will never do such a thing again. I should not have, I thought you were his…”

He looks away.

Shame. That suffocating wave. It is all that is left in me. He thought many things about me; wife was never one of them.

James of the Pillars walks around us, pulls out his access card, and swipes it in front of the streetlight near the bike road. The scanner beeps.

His card’s metal is red. Its gold words and border glow brightly.

Under his image—Legal, under mine—Illegal. Like all Urban citizens, he is legal in every city of our world, but when traveling with me, his card details his restrictions:

Two citizens, three-hour stay, Urban to Valley, 160 miles. Late departs will not be tolerated.

Our hoverCar lands, and the door of the relic Noire Droptail opens. Altered, well restored. The top is down, and the dark rose-red paint gleams on the sleek design. I do not have to bend low; this is a tiny reprieve from this night.

I crash into the seat and call a taxi. Push a button to put the top up. Urban disappears behind the tinted windows, and we are surrounded by darkness.

“Husband.” My voice cracks at the end.

He holds me close as I squeeze my eyes closed, my chin shaking uncontrollably. I clench the dress in my fists. Rub my palm on the fabric. Sear its magnificence in my mind.

It is a rental, and tomorrow, I must return it.

This night was supposed to be perfect. Perfect. It has been anything but.

After a long while, I lift the dress, and he helps me adjust the prosthetic leg that chafes as my belly grows larger. Its withering top will leave a deep, bloody bruise above my pelvis bone.

After a long while, I lift the dress, and he helps me adjust the prosthetic leg that chafes as my belly grows larger. Its withering top will leave a deep, bloody bruise above my pelvis bone.