She dared to shuffle inside, finding that the dimmers had been switched to a pleasing level, just warmly lit enough to see, but not blinding or glaring. A work tablet was open on his “desk” and she approached it, hands behind her back, leaning over to find a series of handwritten poems done with a stylus. His handwriting was disarmingly artistic, with big, fine loops and a definite slant to the right. Smirking, she read over a few of the verses, then flicked the screen to the left to see more. It was a bit voyeuristic, but that feeling was swiftly quelled. The poems were childlike. One digital tablet simply read, frighteningly enough, TEETH.

“Sorry, I stepped out.”

Rosalyn jumped, then spun and tried, pathetically, not to blush. “I was definitely not prying.”

Edison shrugged and strode purposefully toward her, setting down a full bottle of single-malt whiskey and a tumbler. Only one, she noted, a little sourly.

“I’m only embarrassed that it’s so bad.”

Rosalyn glanced over her shoulder at the tablet. “You’re a closet poet?”

“I’m not,” he said, tapping the side of his head. “She is. Mostly children’s rhymes. Basic stuff.”

“Oh. Oh, that’s . . . weird, actually.”

Edison peeled the foil off the top of the bottle and yanked the cork out with his teeth, spitting it into the corner. The cleaning drone, a small, flat disk with three antennae, came to life and chased down the errant cork, sucking it into its round body before going back to sleep.

“Weird? A grown man sitting alone in his storage unit writing children’s ditties is weird, you say?” He poured out a measure of whiskey for himself and then reached into his pocket, pulling out a package of sealed cylinders filled with amber-colored liquid.

“No, well, yes,” Rosalyn said, taking the cylinders he handed to her and staring down at them dumbly. “Weird because I recognize some of it. Your unwelcome guests are plagiarizing.”

Edison paused at that, his eyebrows climbing slowly upward. “Are you sure? When I do it—when the Foxfire makes me do it—it feels like it’s organic, you know, original.”

Lilting jazz music filtered through the intercom, something chosen from his AR display. She didn’t know the artist, but it was relaxing to have the silence filled, even if this all was beginning to feel ominously like a date.