Alfonzo theorized that the higher-ups had chosen these specific colors not just because of the company’s ties but also because they drained animals’ spirits. He felt sure the mayor wanted city workers floppy and despondent. Some psychologist could prove this if he or she ever took the time to study paint. “Guilt, Authority, and Chromatics: A Study of the Effects of Paint Hue on Mammal Desolation.” He would read that paper. Or maybe these were simply the random colors that came from mixing the leftovers of all other colors. Either the city wanted to crush workers or the crushing was an unintended consequence of cost saving. Anything was possible.

His neck ached, and it was only 9:18 a.m.

Somewhere upstairs, an assistant was placing a rye latte with organic oat milk on the mayor’s desk. Various phones were ringing. Someone answered a call and jotted down a request. “The deputy will get back to you.” She stuffed the note into the appropriate message cubby. Through the hallways scurried assistants, council members, and interns. In a chamber outside the bullpen, an undersecretary for public communications was speaking to reporters on the city beat. “The press conference will begin shortly,” he barked. “The mayor is just running a touch late.” Upstairs it was business as immutable.

Alfonzo contemplated work. He should do some. That was what he was here for, after all. He lifted his head and began to examine the day’s folders in his wire-basket inbox. There was the fire incident dispatch data from the last quarter, August’s facades-compliance filings, a report on boiler safety, and the directory of teachers’ pension fund financial reports. His toes clattered the keys of his machine as he entered his first code of the day, 7–2–4–1–7–8–3-C-V.

His hunched body felt dwarfed yet unwieldy. The furniture surrounding him towered and perched, shelves too tall and chairs too small. The only object his size was the Aztek Howtek. It sat cold and silent in the corner.

Alfonzo typed slowly for the next hour. He just about finished a single task. His neck, ankles, and stomach ached. Pain roamed freely through his body, around his shoulders, up his neck and back down. He ached and twisted. Bits of him went to sleep, then awoke pinned and needled. How had he ever written a whole dissertation? It seemed ludicrous now, though it hadn’t been so long ago. How had he learned to type? Middle school technology class was the literal answer, but Alfonzo’s question was more metaphysical. How did his brain trace through to his limbs? He watched himself as he hunted-and-pecked the next code. 7–1–5–1–8–9–2-B-G.