On Monday, Adam hopped out of bed the moment the alarm went off. Finally, after ages of waiting, the day was here. He’d been planning this for weeks, dreaming about it for months before that. Today, like no other day before it, was going to be absolutely perfect.

Breathless with anticipation, he padded across the room and dressed in what his closet presented to him: khaki slacks, Oxford shirt, and dark socks to match his shoes. Claude always stuck to the basics on Mondays: simple, stylish, functional. After a shave and a fluoride rinse from Esme—herself of similar mind, he thought—Adam felt ready for anything. And ready for it, he most certainly was.

“Good morning, Adam!” came Mary’s trademark greeting next, her tone a delightful tune that never failed to stick in his head. “Sleep well?”

“You bet, Mary!” he answered as he pulled up a chair. “Today’s the day!”

He didn’t need to explain what he meant. The smile in Mary’s voice was all he needed to hear. “That’s great to hear, honey! Breakfast is ready when you are!”

Over a steaming plate of poached eggs, Stacy read him the morning report. “Your working hours will be from nine A.M. to two P.M. The weather will be sunny, with a high of eighteen degrees centigrade and a low of nine. Today’s headline: Population Crash Intensifies as ‘Simicide’ Epidem—”

Adam silenced her with a wave of his hand. Political events always depressed him; current ones, doubly so. No news was good news, and today’s good news he already knew.

At eight-fifty-seven, Adam chipped into work, nodding hello to Jonathan as he settled into his desk. Adam’s boss wasn’t the talkative sort, but then again he rarely had reason to be. Keeping up with SimCo service reports used to be a taxing job, but lately the quotas were far more manageable, even with new models releasing seemingly every week. Today, Adam only had three reports waiting for him when he logged in, his lowest tally all year. With practiced keystrokes and some elbow grease, he finished in time to chip out before lunch—pastrami on rye with soy chips, Frank’s specialty and Adam’s favorite.

The time had come. This was it.

Joseph ferried him to the post office in record time, his cab flashing through empty streets like a data byte between circuit nodes. With so many SimCo models available, nobody traveled outside much anymore—and truthfully, neither did Adam. As he scurried inside the post office, he did his best not to look up. Even with so much at stake, the sight of clear sky overhead still made his skin crawl.

Noah called out to him as he approached the counter, but Adam barely heard it. A letter, yes, yes—he knew the spiel by heart. He heard it every week, mouthed the echo as Noah read off the sender and recipient: Adam Freeman, Adam Freeman. He’d set it all up, managed every detail. It all had been perfect. This had to be–

There.

He'd missed her coming in, only saw her once she murmured to the Noah three windows down: shoulders hunched under shining red hair, lips pursed and trembling beneath furtive blue eyes. He recognized Esme’s touch in her lipstick, Claude’s impeccable instincts in the form-fitting sway of her dress: simple, stylish, functional. He knew the name of everyone she knew, every voice she heard before and after she came here every week.

But he didn’t knows hers.

He didn’t know her at all.

How could he possibly speak to her? How could he know what to say, what she might say in return—whose voice she might speak with if she did? Her variables couldn’t be analyzed; her questions defied his answers. He couldn’t predict her. He couldn’t know for sure.

She received her package, turned around, click-clacked her way across the floor. He raised his hand, reached out—croaked. The door swung shut. She never looked back.

She was gone.

The rest of Monday passed in a fog: fitness training with Curtis (“One more set, Adam!”), dinner with Mario (“Leave room for dessert, eh, Adam?”), evening hygiene with Erica (“Don’t forget to floss, Adam!”), and personal care with Emma (“Mmm, ooooh yes, Adam…”). When the lights in his bedroom dimmed, Adam wrapped his arms around the membrane by his side, felt it vibrate as Emma sighed, heard her drowsily murmur goodnight. Her voice was intimate—perfect—predictable.

Artificial.

Simulated.

Fake.

On Tuesday, Adam let the alarm buzz until noon.