She frowns, processing. They have reached a fork in the conversation. It seems likely she remains in a state of guarded emotional distress. He banks a series of encouraging remarks and prepares three strategies for canceling out her unhappiness. Humans suffer terribly. Chip views lifting her spirits as much like lifting her Monowheel, a fundamental reason to act, to be.

“I’ve already celebrated it,” she says, and they resume walking. “My dad gave me a pet leech with a human face and passed out, snoring into his oxygen tank. Now I’m going back to my mom’s to think up an excuse—a lie—not to go out with friends tonight.”

“I’m so sorry to hear your father isn’t well.”

“No you aren’t,” she says, her voice sharp. “Clockworks don’t feel sorry about things. They execute programs. I don’t need a hair dryer to offer me sympathy.”

Chip does not take offense because he cannot take offense. Instead he says, “May I ask what happened?” He already knows, reviewed the whole ugly story as soon as Iris identified herself, but a pretense of ignorance will give her license to talk, which may provide relief, a momentary distraction from her cares.

“He was in the Murdergame. He was a professional homicide victim. A Resurrection Man. You know. Someone will rent a private abattoir and work out her unhappy feelings by beating him to death with a hammer or shooting him or whatever. Then a cellular-rebuild program stitches him back together, just like new. He was one of the most popular hatchet victims in the twelve boroughs. He had a waiting list.” She smiles without any pleasure. “He used to joke about how he was literally willing to die for me—and did at least twenty times a week.”

“And then?”

“A bachelorette party. They hired him out for a stabbing. The whole crowd of them went at him with kitchen knives and meat cleavers. There was a power failure, but they were all so drunk they didn’t even notice. Do you remember all the blackouts we had last February? His rebuild program couldn’t connect with the server for repair instructions. He was dead for almost half an hour. Now he has the shakes and he forgets things. His insurance wouldn’t cover his injuries because there was a company rule against having more than two assailants at a time, even though everyone ignores it. He’s worse than completely broke, and the state board won’t renew his license. He can’t die for a living anymore, and he isn’t fit for anything else.”

“Have we agreed I shouldn’t offer you sympathy? I don’t want to overstep.”

She flinches, as from a biting insect. “I wouldn’t deserve your sympathy even if you had any to give. I’m a snotty, selfish, entitled little bitch. My dad lost everything, and I’m in a pissy mood because we’re not doing what I wanted for my birthday. He got me the best gift he could, and I was going to drop it in front of a train. Tell me that doesn’t sound ungrateful.”