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, then 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 wight is the best I have ever tasted. I always want to dine in such comfort.

I sit across from my husband, James of the Pillars, wearing a floor-length dress with multiple shades of blue and a short train, a light blue scarf with black dots, V3454 Scarlet lipstick, matte white pearls, and glossy, black one-inch heels. My seat is luxurious, made of real oak and leather, and the air smells of fresh lavender.

After five years of planning, we are here: Ancient Dreams. The finest restaurant in Urban. A perfect replica of our world 400 years ago.

“Delicious.” I raise an eyebrow at James of the Pillars, thin and wearing a matching blue suit with a train that barely touches the ground. He eats little and drinks much. Tiny waves of his nerves ripple in my cup as his leg bounces under the table.

I reach for his hand. Slowly slide my finger between his index and ring finger. The healed-over skin of his missing middle finger is soft, smooth, and lighter than its surroundings. He sighs and smiles at me.

Here, our life is perfect. Here.

Three hundred thirty years ago, The Dome was built. The very first one. But one more headquarters was needed to govern our Earth and keep you wild humans in line. 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 five years. A few of them have tall trays next to them. The bottles on the trays a symbol of their wealth.

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

“More manoir de sang?” He drinks the last drop of the blood wine, 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 will pay. I urge you not to drink this bottle as if you have been choking and it is air.” Three empty bottles, different shapes and decorated with ornate windows, sit on a tall table next to us. “Hoarding. It is a word.”

I suck the red from my finger loudly, and 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.”

“Do not tell me ‘finally.’ I have tolerated your 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 the happy-maker, who pours others’ beverages even quicker and rushes to our table. To wait. Like the others darting to and fro, thick makeup covers his face to conceal imperfections, and red permapaint coats his fingertips.

The man stands still. His eyes never leave James of the Pillars’s back as he searches for something he dropped. I wait, too, tapping my foot.

Tap, tap, tap…

My husband pops up from under the table a minute later, holding a small doorknob. It is key to the beautiful home the four bottles will become after he assembles them.

He glances from me to the waiting man, who is smiling as hard as possible. “Take her order.”

The happy-maker turns to me. “One bottle of manoir de sang. Non-alcoholic.” I slur the words together and smile because of it.

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

The vial-like device beeps, and a beam of green light shoots from it and makes a small green dot on the ceiling. A few patrons giggle. There should be no light. No beep. The happy-maker’s smile falls.

He assumed I would not have enough for the wine even before checking my ledger. I stare into his eyes; hold my arm straighter.

He looks away. Presses the button. The Charge reads my barcode, branded into my skin, and then I feel a small pinch from the large needle. Six seconds later, my blood fills the container to the fifth line. The man hurries to get our bottle.

“My love—” James of the Pillars reaches out to me, but I pull my hand away to stop what he will say next.

I wait. Again. Irritated. Both by the growing pain under my belly and the spreading sickness bubbling within it. This feeling is one I know well. One that I have felt all my life. Shame. A suffocating wave overtaking my thoughts. The invisiband’s wetness dries quickly and stops my blood from running, but I continue to 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, then the other patrons’. How did the happy-maker guess I did not belong here? What did I do wrong to make him use The Green Charge? I glance at James of the Pillars. His face is 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 watch other patrons. A woman a few tables over purchases imported First Africa Northlake wight—and is 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 just 20% contaminated 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 strides to The Charge counter. When his voice begins to rise over the din of the restaurant, I grab our jackets and bags and walk as quickly 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.

“It is not worth it. You waste our savings,” I whisper, enunciating my words as the low-class must.

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

A manager walks to us, the happy-maker trailing behind. She wears a bright multi-colored suit and does not look at me, but pushes the bottle into my hands. She greets then bows to my husband. “James of the Pillars, we’re very sorry. I’m the manager. What can I do to improve your experience?” She hands him a lifetime dining card. No refund.

He glances at me, holding the expensive, thick-glassed bottle and everything else. My purse wobbles at the top of the heap. Less than. Common. He clenches his jaw, then gathers the items from me.

I pull at his arm, gently.

He breathes in and out. “You can do nothing, marm. You and that man have disrespected my wife. I am dissatisfied and will not return.”

We turn away. He walks beside me after throwing the card to the floor. I stare at it. A lifetime of dining at Ancient Dreams. Left here. Soon, I slow more. My back aches, and the pain under my stomach worsens. The manager trails him, apologizing profusely. She only stops when he motions her not to follow.

“You’re unemployed,” she says to the happy-maker. “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.

We continue. The building is large, and the exit is far away.

“It is okay. Relax,” I tell my husband as we walk. He holds my hand, rubbing my fingers with his thumb. The happy-maker bows to him, then speeds past us.

After a few minutes, I stop to catch my breath. The band under my belly has tightened, and the arch of my foot hurts.

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. He has modified his natural light-gray eyes and added gold flecks. Many in Urban add small changes just because they can. With subtler mods, you cannot even see the alterations.

Antoine of the Glades stands in front of my husband, older but younger-looking. Taller. A line of five black dots trail down each side of his temples. James of the Pillars and I bow deeply to him. My husband sidesteps him, but I motion for him to stay and talk. Though I want to go home, he bounces slightly with excitement. It has been months since he casually spoke with someone like him. He nods and smiles at me, then motions for all of us to move nearer the benches. I sit down.

The man follows as he puts the tomato in the crook of his elbow, then wipes his hand on his pants. Like most of the other patrons’ back in the dining area, his barcode glows red, bright against the tomato’s smooth skin. With their fingers held together, the two of them touch palms in greeting, and then Antoine of the Glades hums a tune I have never heard in his deep, resonant perfect pitch.

Like a gentle breeze, the layered notes cradle my husband, relaxing him. He closes his eyes for a moment, and our belongings fall to the floor. His throat works for a moment, eager to reply with a more exquisite tune—but instead, he presses his lips together and opens his eyes.

He picks up our belongings, one by one, nearly dropping the wine bottle once more. Antoine of the Glades glances vaguely in my direction, then holds his hand up near his body. I scoot forward, reach my palm out to his, close but not touching—and I feel somewhat better. Most, like him, do not offer me any greeting. To them, I do not exist.

“Speak freely, my love.” James of the Pillars permits me to join their discussion, then stands, his arms full.

I lean back as they speak of new ideas, inventions, and old Common laws but add nothing to the brief conversation, though my husband makes every effort to elicit my opinion. When their discussion finishes, Antoine of the Glades leans forward and taps him on the forehead, then scans him from head to toe. “You speak… differently, and you 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 and natural high-class accent.

Antoine of the Glades looks away and then back. “We need you. Our world needs you—fully.”

“Never. Never, but I very much wish that could happen.”

“It must be exhausting, remaining a lowly four-dot, having to travel when called to duty”—an upside-down triangle broken into eight pieces glows on the man’s neck and then fades—“Returning to Urban would be easier, James—”

“I said never.”

Antoine of the Glades sighs and puts his arm out. “A grand eve to you.” They press their palms together again. The man glares at me for a moment. “Both.”

I stare at his neck as he walks off, then shake my head at James of the Pillars, so he does not yell about his rudeness. I pull my jacket tighter as 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: Tall buildings covered in spray-painted murals and words, 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 the fading oranges of the sun.

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

And comfort.

And excess.

I bring my gaze down. The happy-maker stands there, unmoving, bowed down, staring at the concrete. James of the Pillars chastises him quietly, but I stop him from this.

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

Three hundred forty-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 went out of style this morn.” Oh. “I am remorseful, miss.”

He unbows. He no longer calls me “marm” but “miss.” A demotion. It hurts. I stare at him. He has no jacket, and his complexion has already begun to lose its color. He sags with fatigue, and tear streaks have cleared a path through his makeup. Deep bags hang from his eyes, a bruise sits on his cheek, and a slight green tinge covers his face. 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, almost painfully enunciated, so I know he is not where I am from, but I hope I am wrong. “Do you live in Valley?”

“No, Abyss.” Oh, poor thing.

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

I pull away, and he turns around. Walks further away.

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.

“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 300 units more to buy a filtering in Abyss.

“I am truly remorseful. I should not have, I thought you were his…”

He glances away, and my shame grows stronger. He thought many things about me; wife was never one of them.

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

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.

A polite driver lands our hoverCar, scans our cards and our faces, and we get in.

I call a taxi for the happy-maker, then lean against my husband, my silent sobs soaking his shoulder. He holds me close and whispers gentle words as I clutch my dress. Rub my fingers on the fabric. It is a rental.

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.