She nodded reluctantly.
“Is it cool if I get a picture?” He sidled up beside her and snapped a few pictures. It was gross, but what else could she do? She couldn’t risk offending him now. He thanked her like she was some kind of celebrity and went back inside.
Before the front door could close, Kala slipped out. She came down the porch steps holding a wad of cash like a ward against evil spirits. It was go-away money, and she thrust it into Con’s hand. Con was still in a fighting mood, ready to call her friend every horrible name she knew. But then she thought of that alleyway and which she valued more, her pride or her survival. She took the money.
“Don’t come here again,” Kala said, unable to look Con in the eyes.
“I won’t.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For which part?”
Kala didn’t have an answer and fled into the safety of the house. The door slammed shut. It didn’t open again.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Con’s first stop was a nearby diner. The money Kala had given her wouldn’t get her a room for the night, but if she counted her pennies, it might keep her from starving for a few days. Hopefully that would be time enough to come up with a plan. But first things definitely first. Her brain was staging an aggressive sit-down strike, refusing to do its job until it got fed. The protein shakes had worn out their welcome, and the only word she seemed capable of forming was bacon.
After a night on the streets, the air-conditioning felt like heaven. She looked around for somewhere to sit, aware that the normally bustling diner had fallen quiet with her arrival. She lowered her head, feeling the weight of their eyes on her. Was she being paranoid, or could they tell? Had they recognized her for what she was? A waiter blocked her way, scratching the back of his head. He was a young white guy, with the awkward body language of someone who’d never been in a fight and avoided confrontation at all costs.
“Come on,” he said with a mixture of embarrassment and exasperation. “You can’t come in here.”
The air was acutely still, everyone waiting to see how the standoff played out.
“Why not?” she said. Fresh off her encounter with Kala Solomon, she wanted to know how he knew she was a clone.
“Come on,” he said again as if why should be obvious.
“I just want something to eat.”
“I’m sorry. Can’t have you bothering the customers.”
The way she looked, the way she probably smelled—he didn’t know she was a clone—they thought she was homeless. She felt an unpleasant jolt of humiliation. She wasn’t homeless. Well, what else would you call sleeping in an alley? the voice in her head that liked to play devil’s advocate asked. Maybe this was what being homeless was. Maybe you didn’t realize you were homeless until someone treated you that way. One more unpleasant, urban cautionary tale to be stepped over or around.
“I can pay,” she said, holding her money up defiantly.
The waiter retreated to his manager, where he pleaded her case. Finally, the manager relented. The waiter returned and showed her to a seat at the end of the counter, away from the other customers.
“My manager says you need to pay up front.”
She pushed bills across the counter. The waiter scooped them up, apologized a second time, and asked her what she wanted. The menu listed calories for customers watching their waistlines. Con went the other way, ordering the Filibuster Breakfast, the most caloric item on the menu. Three eggs, two pancakes, bacon, toast, grits, fruit, coffee. And an extra side of bacon.
The waiter shook his head. “No bacon. Our food printer’s down.”
Disappointed, Con substituted soy sausage.
Laleh had warned her to ease into solid food, but Con was starving and way past half measures. When her food arrived, she ate like a feral castaway. Walking had become more natural since last night, but her hands struggled with the mechanics of a knife and fork.
Strangely, it went better the less attention she paid, so to distract herself, she watched the news on the monitor mounted above the counter. Some people still missed the communal aspect of watching the same channel rather than disappearing into their LFDs. Disappearing would have suited Con fine. Anything to shut out the diner and all the watchful eyes. Still, she hesitated to turn her LFD back on. She’d have to eventually—it was her only lifeline to the larger world—but for now, it could stay in her backpack.
The news felt all too familiar—the same wars dragged on, and the debates ahead of the forthcoming election only served to underline that the country’s racial, regional, and socioeconomic divides remained as entrenched as ever. The Independent Secessionist Party looked on the path to winning its first congressional seat. Last night, on the way to Silver Spring, she’d worried that the world would be unrecognizable to her after her eighteen-month absence. That she’d feel like a time traveler in some old movie, lost in a jet-pack future she couldn’t comprehend. But, in truth, remarkably little had changed. Mostly it was in the details—a restaurant had shuttered and reopened under new management, a hole in the ground had sprouted a six-story building. It didn’t make the differences any less jarring, but at least she didn’t have to deal with flying cars.