“It doesn’t work like that. A Process Flow is a process—it’s based on extensive research and analysis.”

“Sounds like it’s just guessing.”

“It’s not guessing, and it’s not magic. I can’t predict the future. I can just apply what I know about people’s habits to help the Unison programmers create a series of satisfying outcomes based on a user’s spending habits and Friends.” The pride in his voice was unmistakable. “I help make people’s lives better without them ever having to ask.”

“Whatever,” she sighed. “They don’t have anything, Ambrose.”

“Who?”

“That lady, her kids. Everybody down here. You don’t worry about running out of space in your house when you don’t have money to buy things to fill the space.”

The gypsy cart rattled away to the left. She sped forward three more blocks, weaving through a line of scoots, and took a sharp right onto a quiet street lined with teardrop-shaped shrubbery. Aunt Dita always said that living down here meant they all had a part to play in making it beautiful. Although she tended the shrubs herself, watering and pruning every day, there were still dry, brown patches. Even the UV-infused canopy lights couldn’t make up for the complete lack of sun.

“Nice street,” Ambrose said eagerly. Mistletoe recognized overcompensation when she heard it.

Suddenly she cranked Nelson off the road and cut the engine. This time she was glad Ambrose was clinging to her like a crab, otherwise he probably would have been sprawled on the ground. She kept the lifts engaged and hid behind a shrub, nosing forward so that she could peek up the street at Aunt Dita’s house.

Ambrose leaned forward. “What are you—”

“Shhhhh!” she hissed. “Something’s wrong.”

Two men stood on the single step in front of Aunt Dita’s bright blue door. Both were tall and thin, with clothes that looked topside: tan suits, not holo like Ambrose’s but still too nice for the neighborhood. One man had short red hair and carried a small metal baton. The other man wore a shapeless brown hat and had a silver hand like the cop who’d killed Jiri.

Three other men disappeared down the narrow alley between Dita’s house and her next-door neighbor’s.

“Ma buh,” Mistletoe whispered. “What now?”

“I don’t know,” Ambrose said. He sounded genuinely shocked to hear himself say that. Mistletoe remembered that his Process Flow was thrown off by unfamiliar situations. Well, what good was it then?

“Use your hardcoded whatever,” she said. “Find out who they are.”

“How am I supposed to get online? You people are all practically unplugged down here.”

Mistletoe let the you people slide. “Well, we can’t just sit here.”

“Call her. Warn her.”

“Call her on what? Jiri smashed most of the cells, and I didn’t bring one anyway. Not like anybody ever calls me.”

“That’s ridiculous,” he snapped. “How could you not—what are you doing?”

She revved Nelson and shot forward out of her hiding place. She wrenched the scoot into a high-gear burn up the street toward Dita’s front step. Ambrose engaged his death grip around her belly and screamed. That was fine. Noise was the whole idea. She joined in with a piercing shriek and bore down on the two men.