Jerry sat and stared unblinkingly at the overhead sun bulb in his little room. His white puffy body poured over the sides of the reclining chair, which doubled as his bed, like folded mayonnaise. His breathing was labored, though he hadn’t so much as stood in hours.
“Angela, what time will lunch be here?” he asked the room.
A voice answered in an imitation of humanity that still sounded cold and artificial around the edges.
“The courier is still fifteen minutes away, Jerry. Would you like me to send another pulse to the driver?”
The men and women employed to deliver all the things wore headsets that alerted them to new pickups and dropoffs, as well as customer reviews and complaints by way of pulses—small subcutaneous jolts that were more annoying than painful. It sounded like a hellish vocation to Jerry, much worse than being an unboxer.
“Absolutely,” he said, “send one every five minutes until they get here.”
Jerry shambled to his feet without a shred of grace in a series of groans and pa…
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