All of the blueberries looked giant to Izabel. Cami had never seen a regular-sized blueberry. After the Turning, produce grew larger, larger than anyone thought it could grow, and it grew more resilient, too. It was the first thing the country learned how to profit from. They encouraged fields of growth and built gargantuan robots specifically to traverse those fields and harvest the produce. It was one of those robots that Kaito commanded from his home office.

Cami began to ask Izabel questions about nothing. “Why are trees green?” Chlorophyll. “Why are days twenty-four hours?” That’s how long it takes for the Earth to spin once around its axis. “What is twenty-four hours?”

Izabel always answered and Cami knew she always would. Izabel was the kind of woman who knew answers and liked that she knew them. She liked that she knew words like chlorophyll. She liked that she could teach them to her daughter. But it was not satisfying, like a conversation. And it was not her television show of past people, imagining them lounging in patches of grass.

Izabel turned to Cami. “Maybe there’s a class we could do at the community center this afternoon—what do you think?”

“Yeah!” Cami yelled.

“Do you think that’s a good idea?” Kaito said, leaning out from the back room.

Izabel shrugged. Cami was dancing around the room.

“Do you want to rest, Cami?” Izabel asked.

She didn’t answer. She just danced.

“Cami,” Izabel said. “Cami, stop for a second and answer.”

Cami stopped. “I don’t want to rest.”

“Thank you.”

Cami went back to dancing.

Kaito laughed. “I guess it’s fine.” He went back to work. Izabel could hear him adjusting himself into the backless chair, his knees on the kneepads, his hands disappearing into the machine, his head mostly obscured, enough to create the world around him with a sense of the periphery. He would be there for hours.

Izabel pulled up the schedule at the community center and found an arts and crafts class starting soon.

“An art class?” Izabel said.

“Yes!” Cami jumped, and she ran to get her mask.

The car that came to them now was a little yellow with pollen, normal. They passed a few streets of perfect homes, domed and gray, under their own layers of pollen, left to sit. Cami pushed the button that rinsed the car’s windows.

They ended up behind a car with a young man in it. He was sitting to the left side of the car, and his right arm was outstretched. He made his hand into the shape of a gun, pointed his finger at a house, bent his thumb and bent his arm like he was experiencing a recoil, and then he straightened his arm and did it again. He pretended to shoot every house they went by. Izabel was transfixed.

“What’s he doing?” Cami said.

“He’s pretending to shoot the houses.”

“Shoot them how?”