Fin stops to swallow. “I’m fine.”

“Good. I want you to come and see me.”

“Yes, sir. When?”

“Right now.”

Really? They finally decided to fire him? “Sir, can I ask what it’s about? I don’t think it’s fair to bring me in without warning, without preparation. I—”

“Fin, just get your ass in here. I’ll send a car.” Unwin cuts the connection.

Fin exhales. His heart skips and slows, skips and slows. He heads for the wardrobe. He hasn’t been at work for a year and all his clothes are out of fashion. If they’re terminating him, he wants to have some dignity. No time to do anything about his hair, but he shaves and cuts his fingernails.

He yells in the direction of upstairs. “Mother, I’m going out. Don’t let anyone into my room, I’m working on something.”

“Rasheed, don’t forget to eat before you leave.” Her voice floats down like a prophecy.

“Yes, Mother,” says Fin, barely attending to what he says. He is trying to decide whether to go out armed or not. He has no job, so technically he won’t be authorised to carry weapons. And if they’re finally pulling the trigger on Fin’s dismissal, they might confiscate his guns. He goes without.

On the room door, the last thing he sees before leaving, is a painting of a boy walking across a desert with mud-cracked ground as far as the eye can see. He is facing away from the viewer and seems an incidental figure, with the mud-cracks being the focus. It is the only artistic object in a room full of technological bric-a-brac.

He hears the car engine and looks outside. It’s like a pod, seating only one. Fin bets the AI doesn’t talk. He zips to the door and stands there for a moment, forcing his hand to move to the handle. Do it. He manages to shove the door open.

Enough hesitating.

He squeezes his eyes shut, holds his breath and stumbles outside.

Unwin is an older man with beady eyes and a thinning pate. He is still most of the time but can launch from stillness into incandescent rage, a reaction that can disappear as quickly as it starts. Fin is glad to have worn a suit even if the suit is threadbare. He feels uncomfortable in the unfamiliar office. Unwin used to have an office with an abundance of wood and leather, resins and oils soothing visitors. This was concrete, glass and plastics. Fin can’t help interpreting it as emblematic of a sterile, hardened heart.

There’s another man in the room, thin, leaning on the white wall, rolled up sleeves, about the same age as Unwin but seems more cheerful. There are no introductions, and the thin man doesn’t say hello or offer a hand.

“What’s your health like, Rasheed?” asks Unwin.