I open the fridge door to face a rancid jug of orange juice. I hated the stuff. Ronnie left it there last week when he stayed over to test the communications app for the company, making me message back and forth and click all the buttons while he listened to me grumble.

I would periodically give up to pick up the bowl beside me and spoon sugar fruit cereal into my mouth. Between crunches, I would watch the glowing lines of code extending and rearranging across his computer screen and ask myself if this was his way of checking on me. It wasn't like we had school, not like other kids our age. Nor did we need to worry about the travel time with the teleporters, but Ronnie seemed to find reasons to be over. 

And… I needed him to have reasons. 

Either way. There it was. The orange juice. I notice that the vial with the drug I carry to clients is not in the fridge before I shut the door. 

No point in worrying. 

Ronnie must have taken it. We had stayed up to watch the news on my tiny 4D projector until I was too tired to think. And he had tucked me to my bed.

I wander over to a LiveSmart panel in the wall beside the stove and scroll through my food options. Ten minutes delivery time. I always notice this little promise of theirs. I think to test it out, but most of the time the idea of food is...unappetizing. I stop scrolling, leaving myself to stare at the glorified picture of a piece of steak. 

I...

I don't want to be happy the way other people are. 

Besides, what I wanted was impossible. I remember the bowls of fruit and flavored rice conveniently left out that mother would have cut by hand or boiled herself. If she saw me now, I didn't know what to tell her. 

I move my finger up the screen and hold down the circular power button until the panel flickers off. Some things just aren't worth it.

Giving up breakfast I return to my room. I move to get dressed. Pulling something from the top shirt drawer, tossing my slept in t-shirt to the bin in the corner. I find a pair of pants draped over a decorative chair. I give them a sniff. I set a reminder to do the laundry as I wander out the front door. The too heavy door slams behind me and clicks. 

I pause. Shit the key. No wait. I lift my hand and swipe my scorpion tattoo over the keypad. It clicks. Thank gods for smart boyfriends. 

I get to the rattling elevator that services the building and press the little down button three times for good measure. It jerks to a stop on my floor and the door jams halfway open. I turn sideways and push inside. 

The trouble with always having new technology like PortPads is that you either have it or it's broken. I swear the customer service email must be a hoax. 

Out on the street, most people wear VR Glasses. Their pixilated view shows them arrows to guide them past obstacles like an expensive game of frogger, but unlike them, I see my destination and everything else in between. Like the kids picking pockets as they run passing a basketball.

I hold up a hand and get a complimentary hi-five as one passes. They respect the low-teckers like me, like them. Then there are the technophiles who walk around practically flirting with their custom handmade robots, which mostly look like crap, all loose wiring and dented casing. Ugh.

I finally stop by the nearly extinct hot dog stand which sadly hit its peak evolution with the sale of tofu dogs. I don't get very close because I want to give this weardo-guy in a white suit ahead of me his space. 

I suspiciously eye the cash he hands over in exchange for a cheese covered meatdog. I thought I was the only cash carrying sucker left. 

I show an appropriately horrified face which reflects his condiment choice. He notices the face, I think, because he looks at me a good minute longer than he needs to. And for some reason, I keep looking at him in an awkward stare-off. Until he speaks. Well, questions.

"Do you live around here?"

This is like, predator question number one and he just asked it. Maybe, some girls would be happy to say. He is better dressed and richer looking than most.

“Uh, no. If you would excuse me…”  

Instead of moving aside, the man in a white suit is suddenly holding out an equity white card. Blank. White. 

"Keep it," he says.

"What? Sir, I don't think…”

"It's the key. Keep it.”

When I make no move he sets the card on the edge of the hot dog stand and takes his leave.

I ignored it and place an order.

“Are you going to take that?” the stall owner asks about the card.

“Do you want it?”

“There are rumors of secret money giveaways.” 

Not possible, I thought. But…

I walk away with the card in my pocket. If it was to signal kidnappers at least the hotdogs wouldn't suffer. 

And you know what. Maybe I could sell it. 

I never told myself that I wanted anything more.