Activating our monitors to distract ourselves, news and reports danced along our vidscreens. The various scenes and images overlapped one another like battling holovids. The protests surrounding the Muungano embassies on the Yo. Unrest in many communities left forgotten—the polite way of saying underresourced with intentionality—by the LISC administration on O.E. Reports from Bronzeville about the O.E.-Mars trade negotiations breaking down and the brewing tensions. All the parties reached out to Muungano for an answer or to play mediator, as if we were the only ones who could speak to the community and their interests. If we were, it was because no one else bothered to learn how to.

“Any update on the bombing?” We rubbed our face, attempting to wake ourselves up. It took awhile to come into the full experience of our being. An ache radiated from deep within our muscles. A tightness about our neck and shoulders as if we had slept in a poor position. For a month.

<Ten civilian deaths have been reported.>

“I thought there was only one casualty in the embassy.” Our thoughts drifted to Jaha. She had been—she is—a second mother to us. Had been in our lives as long as we could remember. Both an institution and a force of nature, she was too stubborn to die. Things move fast on Muungano. It doesn’t allow time to reflect unless we carve it out with intention. But the bombing and her injuries reminded her, all of us, of her all-too-human frailty.

<Nine more as O.E. moved to quell the protestors.>

“Has anyone taken credit?”

<There has been no official statement.>

“VOP Clay Harrison is waiting to get his story straight.” We knew that was what Jaha would have surmised. He was all about caste-splaining. He’ll use every euphemism to avoid admitting to the reality of the racial caste system. Or condemn it. Sadly, there’s a history of black leaders carrying the water for the system. Having secured a seat at the table for himself, he’d do anything to keep it. He has to toe the party line. He has to represent the dominant caste’s interests. And in so doing, he becomes their scapegoat; he’s made to bear the blame for others while his presence allows them to convince themselves that they aren’t beholden to or upholding the racial caste system.

Jaha being transported to the medical facilities on the Dreaming City gave us comfort and allowed us room to exhale. To worry about the rest of the community. These days, being a professional worrier had become our life’s calling. Worry wasn’t quite the right word. Ours was a heightened sensitivity to the work, the people-centered work that was our day-to-day concern. It required a lot, to notice each person, to be fully aware and attenuated to them. And we weren’t certain that we wanted to keep doing it.