It wasn’t enough of a change to the room that she forgot where she was, and that was smart of Kaito. Izabel would have hated it, as if they were pretending, or forgetting the time before the Turning. He knew how she felt about that. She let it slip out. That worry. That little anger she kept and polished like a silver spoon.

An industry had formed in the town to disguise the rooms of the plastic domes to look as if they were not of plastic. Inset walls, tile work over the concrete floors, custom kitchens, built-in bookshelves and entertainment units. Anything was fair game as long as the access to the electrical, the plumbing, and the HVAC was clear.

It took a few years of stability before businesses like this began to crop up. Then it took only months for them to succeed. The companies had names like ArtInside, Personal Design, Classic Interiors. Izabel wondered if they were part of the renaissance, too.

Her mother would have called her tiled floor a flight. Everyone deserved those, her mother used to say.

As Izabel showered she imagined everyone, as a society, finding a way back to McMansions. And other spoils. Displays of wealth. She imagined the television producers chomping at the bit, already prepared for the new version of MTV Cribs.

Izabel rubbed her toes into the tiles and grout. She considered less pleasant things. She wondered if somehow she had caused the break in their air filtration system. If she’d cooked something she wasn’t supposed to and clogged a filter. If she hadn’t operated the doors correctly. Something rote that somehow became unrote by mistake, by her unpredictable body.

She thought she heard Cami crying and she turned the water off. The house was silent. Her hair was filled with suds. She turned the water back on and rinsed out her hair. It sounded like Cami was crying again, but this time she didn’t turn the water off to check. She needed to take deep breaths as she finished conditioning her hair, to hear what sounded like crying and not respond.

When she finished and turned off the water, the house was still silent. She was right to not stop, to take her time, but she had to tell herself that over and over.

She dragged her foot over the tile to help the water down into the drain. She wanted to keep mold from growing in the grout for as long as she could. She inspected the plumbing coming up through the concrete slab.

No cracks. All sealed and caulked and perfect. And it was only another week before an inspector would come around for their quarterly check.

Back in her bedroom, Izabel touched her tablet. Alerts ran down the screen. Another family had been killed.