Soon we were grabbing the ingredients for a Mexican feast off the half-empty shelves at the store: a package of synth-tortillas, another package of chips, a bottle of salsa made with three percent real tomatoes, and a bag of soy cheese. Our father even bought a six-pack of Beer-o, which he claimed was almost as good as the real thing, although Will made a face behind his back like he was gagging. I pushed the cart while our father inspected items on the shelves, reading their ingredients and hefting them in his hands as if he could discern the harmful chemicals simply by weighing them.
This was our happy father, the one I remembered from the days when our mother would take us shopping, singing songs about to-may-toes and to-mah-toes that always made us laugh. Our mother had been the silly one, but since she had become sick, there was very little silliness in our house.
“It’s a lot of food for four, and even more for three,” said our father. “Let’s hope he can make it.”
In the parking lot, the car started right away, and our father let Will drive home. He leaned into the steering wheel, grasping it with both hands, while our father kept one hand close to the emergency brake. The sun was low in the sky, and for once it looked warm rather than desolate. Even the fake flowers in the window boxes outside our building looked brighter, as if they had bloomed in our absence. We coasted onto the entrance road, and Will executed a perfect turn into the garage.
While our father mashed quasi-vocados in the kitchen and Will rehydrated the beans, I tried to reach Kai on the wireless using the ID he had given me. But after fifteen minutes without a signal, I gave up in frustration.
Kai lived only three kilometers from our building—a quick ride in the car or on my pedicycle—but at first my father didn’t want to hear about it.
“At this hour who knows who’s on the road?” he said.
“I’ll text you as soon as I get there.”
“You just said the wireless isn’t working.”
“It probably works at Kai’s.”
We went back and forth for a while, but eventually my father gave in, as I knew he would. I could tell he was excited about a visitor—especially someone wealthy and mysterious—and now that he was making all this food, someone had to eat it.
Our family lived in a section of Arch called “the Rails” where trains had once rumbled. Long ago it had been one of the least expensive places to live, but after the transportation system broke down, it was one of the few places where food and water were still available. As the other suburbs collapsed, the Rails survived and even thrived. But the legacy of poverty was hard to shake, and anything that reminded us of plenty held us in an incantatory grip.
It was an easy ride to the Wellington Pavilion. No one passed me on the road, and the wind at my back made pedaling easier. The guards stopped me by the front gate, and I removed my goggles to show them copies of my Certification of Health and Vaccination. Still, they wouldn’t let me inside. Instead they called Kai on an intercom, and in a few minutes he appeared.
“Hi,” I said. “Are you hungry?”
When he cocked his head, he looked like a sunflower, I thought, a rare prize that grew only in hothouses: tall, reedy, with silky blond hair that shone in the twilight. “What are you doing here?” he asked.
“Inviting you to dinner.”
“When?”
“Now.” I held out copies of our certifications, and he took them tentatively in his hand.
“What are you cooking?”
“It’s a surprise.”
He was only gone for five minutes. When he returned, he carried two plastene jugs and a small satchel on his hip. The jugs were stamped with a seal from the Water Authority, certifying that they contained real water from pure aquifers. He beckoned to me, and the guards stood by indifferently as I entered the compound. In a moment the black limousine appeared from an underground driveway, its powerful gasoline engine growling hungrily. It circled the interior courtyard and stopped in front of Kai. The bodyguard stepped from the driver’s side, machine pistol at the ready, mirrored glasses on the bridge of his nose.
“Come on,” Kai said to me. “We’ll drive you.”
“I have my cycle.”
“Martin will bring it back after he drops us off.”
I looked at the bodyguard, but his eyes were impassive behind the lenses. He stood there, alert, one hand holding open the door, the other on that machine pistol, head constantly scanning for threats.
I climbed into the car and folded myself into the back seat. It smelled richly of leather and coconut—scents I knew only from chemo-washes. There was a glass divider between the front and back, and below the divider—incredibly—were a sink, a dozen small bottles of colored liquid, and six plastene liter bottles of water.
“It’s a bar,” said Kai when he noticed me staring.
“What’s it do?”
“It doesn’t do anything.” He smiled at my ignorance. “You mix drinks for yourself.”
Of course I knew what alcohol was, but no one I knew mixed it with anything. At parties sometimes shakers would pass around home-brewed stuff, and I had even seen my father take a glass every now and then, but no one had the money to mix real alcohol with other liquids. When I looked at Kai I had to remind myself to stop staring at his skin. It wasn’t calloused or dry like paper. A faint scent—real soap, I realized—emanated from his hair. It was all I could do to stop myself from touching him, and I felt my face grow hot from the thought.
The ride was luxurious and smooth. I’d never been in a car like this. The limo’s big tires absorbed every jolt in the road, and its thick windows and doors (bulletproof, Kai said) blocked outside noise. We barely had time for a few words of conversation before we arrived at the front entrance of our building. Martin parked near the unmanned gate, then came around to unlock our doors. Kai gave him instructions for dropping off my cycle, and the man nodded wordlessly. He waited—gun at the ready—while we walked upstairs. My father opened the door. He was wiping his hands on his thighs, but when he saw the water, he stopped.
“Thank you for having me to dinner,” said Kai.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“Dad.” I scolded. “This is Kai.”
“I’m sorry. Where are my manners?” He accepted the jugs. “Thank you, Kai,” he added. “It’s nice to meet you.” His voice sounded hoarse.
Will appeared at his side, and his gaze went right to the water jugs. Without a word he took one bottle from our father’s hand and retreated to the back bedroom. Before Kai could ask any questions, I ushered him into the living room, where my father’s guacamole awaited. It was delicious, as always—the perfect blend of tangy salsa and creamy quasi-vocados. We had scooped up half the bowl when Will returned. His eyes were red-rimmed, but he was wearing a broad smile. “She drank a little,” he said.
“This is Kai.” It had been rude of Will to leave without even so much as a nod, but if he noticed my sarcasm, he pretended to ignore it. He said hello, then spooned himself some guacamole. Soon the boys were sitting on the couch chatting about the latest YouToo! and We! uploads. I followed their conversation like it was a Ping match: from screen to screen to screen. They could have been brothers of different mothers: one blond and smooth, the other ragged and lean, both tapered and fine.
Our father returned from the kitchen. Kai looked at his empty plate longingly. “I’ve never had guacamole,” he said.
“It’s my dad’s specialty,” I told him.
“My dad can’t cook,” Kai said.
“I haven’t met your parents,” said our father. “Are they registered?” Adults who had passed a rigorous security screening were allowed to travel freely between the lower republics and often had diplomatic or important business jobs.
“My father’s a driller.”
This wasn’t the answer anyone expected, but it made perfect sense. Drillers were wildcatters, risk-takers, and often rich—if they found water. That explained the limousine and the bodyguard.