Bottom of the Funnel, 11: Listen, Pal

The city’s transport slowed down and my PRT obediently launched from it, buzzing rapidly and immediately decelerating to a more comfortable six km/h. We cruised up the sidewalk, thankfully empty: most of the kids in Karmen’s neighborhood were respectful, most of the dogs were tied up or behind fences. It was the teens you had to look out for, that transitional period where ideas like mercy went on hiatus. We rambled over the cracks in the pavement, commenting on the houses, no, not much in the way of Anthropole housing in this neighborhood. I pointed up to a BATH unit at the end of the block, but that was about it.

We pulled up to Karmen’s front step and I rang her on my Kobaretto. “Euen! You guys here already?”

“Right outside. Light rush-hour traffic for a Friday afternoon. Everyone probably took off early.”

“Okay, I’ll come getcha!”

He made a show of leaning over to peek at my watch. “She’s pretty hot!” he said, leering.

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