But it doesn’t smash, it rolls, with a grinding, droning kind of music, weaving this way and that, hopping the curb and trundling into the road. A vapordrive hansom cab on gold razorwheels whines shrilly along the cross street, and the aquaball disappears beneath it. Iris tenses, with a certain pleasure, anticipating the crunch and the loud splash. But when the hansom flashes past, the murky green globe is impossibly still rolling, undamaged, along the far sidewalk. Iris has never in all her life so wanted to see something crushed.

Instead a kid puts his foot out and stops it.

That kid.

In one sense Iris has never seen him before. In another she has seen him a hundred times, on her way to her father’s, has glimpsed him from her Monowheel, this kid with his too-cool-for-school slouch, in a gray wool baseball cap and a gray wool coat that has seen better days. He is always here, hanging out against the wall in front of a closed Novelty.

He doesn’t do anything more than stop the ball with his toe. Doesn’t look up the road to see who dropped it, doesn’t bend down to pick it up.

She steers the Monowheel over to him. It’s easier now that she has two hands to guide it along.

“You’re too kind. And I do mean that literally. You just rescued the world’s crummiest birthday present,” she says.

He doesn’t reply.

She leans the Monowheel against the hitching post along the curb and bends to get the aquaball. She hopes it’s cracked, squirting its guts out. What a pleasure it would be to watch that gruesome slug—that sardine-size parody of a woman—swimming frantically around as the water level falls. Not a mark on it, though. She doesn’t know why she hates it so much. It isn’t the mermaid’s fault it’s ugly, trapped, unasked for, unwanted.

“Shoot. I was hoping it would shatter into a thousand pieces. A girl can’t catch a break.”

This doesn’t even earn her a chuckle, and she casts a quick, annoyed glance into his face—when she’s witty, Iris expects to be appreciated—and sees it at last. He isn’t a kid at all. He’s a Clockwork, an old one, with a smiling, moonlike face of crackled ceramic. His chest is a scratched case of plasteel. Within is a coil of cloudy vinyl tubing where intestines belong, brass pipettes for bones, a basket of gold wires filled almost to the top with silver tokens instead of a stomach. His heart is a matte black vapor-drive.