Bottom of the Funnel, 09: Come On Home

“Oh, my Goddess. How is it 4:45?” I said to no one.

My body lapsed into its thoughtless mantra of muscle-memory: shutting down the smartphone tether, gathering my miniature notebooks and filing them into my satchel tidily, if firmly. “Lights: off,” I call out. “Power strip: off.” Clicks and darkness give me a marginal sense of potence as the smart office heeds my every last wish. Well, not every: I can’t tell it to make me a coffee or fabricate social justice, but I can initiate a lightswitch rave party with voice commands.

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