Ambrose! Here. Len handed him a marble and grinned wolfishly.

What?

Drop it down.

Off the edge?

Yeah, unless you’re … Oh my God, you’re scared. You’re such a podcast.

I’m not! I’ll do it, just—right here?

Ambrose glanced back across the field. His father was standing with the Gen-Farm manager, chatting and pointing toward the central irrigation chamber, a gleaming cylinder that skewered the building all the way to the top. They were occupied and too far away to see anything specific. He hesitated a few more seconds, then reached back and launched the marble through the hole, palm thwacking hard against the plexi. The marble sailed out into empty space, spun, hung frozen for a millisecond, and disappeared before they could begin to trace its fall. The plexi prevented them from leaning out too far.

Len grabbed his brother’s shoulder, looking very serious.

What did you do?

Stoppit, Len.

What if you—

Shut up!

We’re so high, it’ll catch on fire and make somebody’s head explode—maybe a whole entire family, just … Len laid his hands on the side of his head and thrust them outward. Ppgggggkkkkkkk!

Ambrose bit his lip and glanced out over the edge. They were barely above the hundredth floor. Surely not high enough to—

Len chuckled. Let’s go back.

But—

You did a good job today, soldier. I’ll report you to high command myself and recommend you for the medal of bravery and a promotion out of podcast squad.

Len turned and took off across the dewy field. Ambrose yelled Hey! and tried to catch up, but Len, as always, remained a few steps ahead.

At his bedroom window, Ambrose found that he was pressing his forehead against the glass. It didn’t matter if an event from his brief childhood had been fun or scary; part of him always wanted to experience it again and again, stacked up against his growing adult responsibilities like old-fashioned casino chips. There was a reason his few friends were all in their twenties: no one else his age could relate to a life of high-pressure corporate decision making.

His dreams were another matter: feverish odysseys that left him panting and spent. He couldn’t ditch them fast enough. And they were getting worse: vivid, detailed, recurring nightly in the weeks leading up to today’s procedure. His father claimed it was the sleep center in his brain anticipating its death, going all out before it was flicked like a switch into nonexistence.

He placed a palm gently against his synth-table, a sleek silver tray jutting out from the wall next to the window.

He said, “Cinnamon toast.”

One second later, the top of the tray opened silently to reveal a piece of perfectly buttered BetterToast, with cinnamon sprinkled evenly along the top. He grabbed it and munched greedily as he palmed open his walk-in closet. UniCorp BetterFood (A Little Taste of Unison in the Real World!) provided a delicious simulation, infused with proper nutrients and a sensory-blinder tag to fool the stomach into feeling full. Because of the infusion, BetterFood was much healthier than the real thing and never spoiled or tasted any different than you’d expect.