Cherry

  I wake up before the sun.

  The orphanage is quiet, and for a brief, wonderful moment, I can pretend the day won’t be exhausting. I stay in bed longer than I should, listening to the hum of the purifier cycling water through the pipes. A small light blinks in the corner of my room, signaling that the system is running at sixty-eight percent efficiency—a problem, but not an urgent one. I’ll have to check it ter. Another task on the list.

  I sit up, rubbing my face. My View syncs as soon as I open my eyes, fshing today’s schedule across my vision. A breakdown of funds. A reminder of pending reports. A notification that the milk delivery is te—again. I dismiss it with a flick of my fingers and stand, stretching out the stiffness in my shoulders.

  I walk carefully through the dim hallway, stepping over the sections where the floor creaks, because waking the children before breakfast is suicide.

  The kitchen is a mess.

  The serving trays from st night are still in the air, hovering inches above the counter. The autoclean cycle must have failed.

  Normally, the trays return to their slots once the children finish eating, guided by embedded grav-systems—thin metallic strips lining the furniture that generate localized gravitational fields. In theory, they keep things orderly without manual effort. In reality, they malfunction more often than they work.

  I sigh and press my palm against the wall interface. The View around my ear links with it instantly, bringing up a digital diagnostic screen over my vision.

  Error: Unprocessed Debris Detected. Cleaning Cycle Incomplete.

  I gnce down. A single breadcrumb rests on one of the trays.

  You’ve got to be kidding me.

  I brush it off, and the trays immediately lower into their slots with a loud crash to wake the whole neighborhood. Great.

  Then Klev screams, “Oi! Keep it down!”

  Oh shut up.

  I turn back to the pantry—thump!

  I hear a noise from the vents above. I don’t even flinch.

  “Zett,” I say ftly. “Get out of there.”

  No response.

  I step closer to the wall, tapping my View to scan for heat signatures. The dispy pulses, and an orange silhouette glows behind the vent grate.

  I fold my arms. “I can see you.”

  Silence. Then, in a hesitant, muffled voice: “…Really?”

  I sigh. “Yes, really.”

  There’s some shuffling. A moment ter, the vent swings open, and a nine-year-old boy drops onto the counter with a soft thud. His red hair sticks up in every direction, and his crimson eyes are wide with poorly concealed guilt.

  “I wasn’t hiding,” Zett says quickly, as if that somehow expins things.

  I rub my temples. “Then what were you doing?”

  “…Climbing.”

  I stare at him. He stares back, as if that was a completely normal answer.

  I exhale through my nose and turn back to the pantry. There are better uses of my energy than trying to understand Zett’s logic. I pull out the ingredients for breakfast, rolling up my sleeves as I set the bread processor to knead the dough. It’s an old manual machine, one of the few appliances that doesn’t require constant repairs.

  Zett doesn’t leave. He climbs onto the counter, watching me work. His legs swing back and forth in quiet rhythm.

  “Why do you still do it that way?” he asks, tilting his head.

  “Do what?”

  “Make food by hand.” He gestures vaguely at the room. “I thought the machines do everything.”

  I gnce at the kitchen console—a sleek, wall-mounted unit with built-in dispensers. The auto-cook system technically makes food preparation instant, mixing nutrient-packs and synthesizing meals with a press of a button. It’s efficient. Convenient. Perfectly adequate.

  I hate it.

  “Bread tastes better this way,” I say simply.

  Zett hums, considering this. He leans forward, resting his arms on the counter. “So if I make something by hand, it’ll taste better too?”

  I pause. Then nod. “Usually.”

  Zett grins. “Then I wanna try!”

  He reaches for the dough before I can stop him, shoving his hands into the mixture. A second ter, his face twists in horrified betrayal.

  “It’s—sticky.”

  I try not to ugh. “That’s how dough works.”

  “And it stinks!” He stares at his hands, as if deeply questioning his life choices. Then, without warning, he wipes them on his shirt.

  I do ugh at that, despite myself. “You’re a disaster.”

  He doesn’t seem to mind. “Yeah, but now I made bread!”

  I shake my head, gently nudging him off the counter. “Go wash up.”

  Zett hops down, still grinning, and runs off to clean his hands. I return to my work, covering up the dough with a sheet. The kitchen is still too cold, which means the yeast won’t rise properly. I make a mental note to increase the room temperature by two degrees next time.

  As I pull the fresh loaves from the oven, I let the warmth rise to meet my nose, the smell of crisp crust.

  Perfect.

  A faint beep pings in my ear. I gnce at my View, expecting another te delivery notice, but instead, it's a reminder from a few days ago.

  Government Delivery Completed.

  Oh. Right. That thing.

  I lean against the counter, rubbing a bit of flour between my fingers as I think back to that morning. After the new World Mayor was elected, or procimed, the new government had sent their officials, serious as ever. The mayor had made sure every citizen of the whole pnet—me included—was noted in their system. They spoke about taxes, how they’d start collecting them monthly, but this time, there was a ‘kindness’ from the new leadership. No fees yet. Instead, every registered citizen received a View.

  It wasn’t the worst deal, honestly. I just wished they’d done it before I spent my own credits on one months back.

  I dismiss the notification and turn back to the bread. The loaves have cooled just enough to slice. I grab a knife, steadying one of them with my free hand.

  Then I hear it.

  A tiny crack.

  I look up sharply. Zett, sitting cross-legged on the counter, freezes mid-bite, his crimson eyes wide.

  I narrow my eyes. Something about him is off. I scan his face, then notice—his View. Or rather, the complete absence of it.

  I set the knife down. “Where’s your View?”

  Zett hesitates. Then, with great effort, he swallows his mouthful of bread and shrugs. “...Gone.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Gone where?”

  Zett looks at the ceiling. “...Away.”

  I close my eyes. For God's sake. “How?”

  A pause. Then, in a barely audible voice:

  “I… dunno… broke it?”

  Really?

  I exhale sharply. “And?”

  Zett scratches his cheek. “I, uh. Ate it.”

  “You ate it—” I rub my temples. “—Zett.”

  He brightens. “But it’s fine! I didn’t like it anyway.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  Zett swings his legs off the counter, grabbing a slice of bread. “I didn’t need it. Hope kept talking too much. Kept showing me words I didn’t care about.” He grins. “Besides, I like to see things with my own eyes!”

  I sigh. This kid.

  I should be mad. Frustrated. Something. But looking at him, grinning like he hasn’t just wasted government property, I can’t bring myself to yell.

  Instead, I grab a slice of bread for myself and sit beside him.

  “If the officials ask, you lost it in the river.”

  Zett beams. “Got it.”

  I shake my head, taking a bite.

  It’s going to be a long month.