He picks up the burned and oily rags and turns the fallen garbage can upright. Next, a panel on his back opens to reveal a fine-mesh grill. He makes a rumbling, whirring noise, and after several minutes the air smells less like burned oil and smoke.

“It will take me approximately sixteen minutes to heat-dry the area,” he announces. “This will prevent the development of mold and mildew.” Casting a bright orange light from his faceplate, he travels around the garage, shining his face light along the way.

I find I cannot look away from him. I am learning so much about Trashbot. For one thing, I learn that Trashbot is really good at his job.

Finally, Trashbot trundles back over to us. The garage is dry, clean, and smells like a fresh spring breeze. “A tidy world, brought to you by uniMIND,” he says.

The mechanic is smiling and crying at the same time. I do not know what this collision of emotions means, but she wipes her hands on her pants and says, “Bring me that punctured tire. I’m gonna fix it for you. And you can keep your sixty-three cents.”

The mechanic directs Trashbot to a ditch behind the garage where he can empty his internal water tank while ADA and I make for the restrooms in the convenience store. Much like Trashbot, we are full of waste, though in our case it is biowaste left over from Wiener Mountain.

I have never been inside a convenience store, so I pause to learn what it is like. Racks of food items and medications fill brightly lit aisles, very much like the Giganto Super Food Mart, only smaller and more squished together. Children gather before displays of candy bars and gum and fill paper buckets with colorful carbonated liquids.

What are their lives like? I wonder. Do they live in homes like the one I shared with Gina? Do they go to school? Have they ever had their brains removed with a drill? I decide the best way to learn is by asking them, so I take a step toward the soda fountain. ADA stops me by grabbing my arm. She has a very strong grip.

“ADA, you are interfering with my cognitive development. Let go.”

ADA does not let go. She points to the cash registers. Taped to the wall is a sheet of paper, and printed on the paper in large type is the word “MISSING.” Two photographs sit below the type. One of them is a photograph of ADA. Beside it is a photograph of me. Written descriptions accompany the photographs. They include height and weight and hair and eye color and clothing. At the bottom of the paper is a phone number with instructions to call if we are seen.

The woman behind the cash register pauses in the middle of ringing up a sale of jerky and red licorice. She stares at us.

“We must go,” ADA says.