“Mama, Mama! Watch how high I can go!” a little voice cries.

 

I follow the high-pitched instructions and see a little girl in a pink sweatshirt and dark jeans
swinging on one of the four swings a few yards away from her brother. Her face is full of fierce
determination as her little legs pump uselessly through the air. I stop and watch her, impressed at the
gradual momentum as she begins to climb higher and higher.

 

“Whoo-hoo! Mama, Mama, look at how fast I’m going!” she shouts again, her tiny voice
desperate.

 

I shove my hands in my fleece pocket and make my way to the unoccupied bench in front of the
playground, smiling even wider as the little girl’s white blonde ponytail bounces in the breeze.

 

“Mama, are you watching?” the girl asks again.

 

I glance around. Where is this child’s mother? Why isn’t she answering? A flash of white flickers
in the corner of my eye and I flinch, startled. Standing behind the bench I’m sitting on is a young woman
about my age. Her hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail and she isn’t wearing a coat. I’m shocked I
didn’t see her before. Her long-sleeved shirt is very bright against the stark brown landscape. Like me,
she’s wearing a pair of faded sweatpants.

 

“Mama, I’m over here,” the girl tries again.

 

I wrinkle my nose and follow the woman’s stare. Maybe she is looking at her daughter after
all—no, no she isn’t. The breeze shifts, picking up the woman’s ponytail and lifting it off her neck. A dark
blue Vertix clings there like a beautiful leech. I frown. She could be watching a million different things,
but I know for a fact it isn’t the cute little girl begging for her attention.

​

“Mama?” the little girl cries, tears in her voice. Her tiny legs stop pumping and the swing slows.
I hear a sniffle and look away from the dejected child, feeling tears sting the back of my eyes. It’s
none of my business, but the girl reminds me of the child I saw months ago at the Cheesecake Factory.
All he wanted was his mother’s attention as well, but like now, there was something bigger that pulled
her focus away.

​

Launch something. I’m careful not to look in the direction of the swings.
Maggie, I am sensing an intense shift in emotion. Is there anything in particular you’d like to
explore? the Vertix asks, already sending a slow wave of dopamine and serotonin to my brain. I close my
eyes to focus on Wall Art, but the sound of feet distracts me. I open my eyes to see the little boy
charging toward me, a giant grin on his chubby cheeks.

 

His tiny fist is closed and he runs holding it to his chest, as if there’s something precious hidden
inside. Unable to help myself, I lean forward, my task forgotten. I’m too eager to see what has made the
little boy so excited.

 

“Hi,” I say cheerfully, bending down to his level. The boy shoots me a wary glance and ignores
my greeting, pausing his stride to climb onto the wooden bench, careful not to release whatever it is
he’s holding in his hand. He regains his footing on the bench and raises his hand above his head toward
his mom.

 

“Mommy, look look, I’s find a bug!” he says with glee, releasing his clenched fist. “It’s a ladbug.”

 

He rotates his tiny fist as the ladybug scurries across his skin, fanning its wings every few steps. The
mother is quiet again, seemingly unaware that her son is standing right in front of her. “Mommy, it’s a
ladbug. I find it all by meself!” the toddler croons, but still the mother ignores him. “Mommy!” the little
boy shrieks, throwing his short arms out to hit his mom’s thighs.

 

The movement causes her to stumble back and look around, her expression wild. “Oh, what the
hell are you doing? Don’t hit me. I’ll hit you, see if you like it, huh?” she growls. “What are you doing
standing up there? Get down!” She reaches over the bench and grabs the little boy under his arms and
places him back on the wood chips.

 

“But, I’s find ladbug. I want show you,” the boy says, inspecting his arms, but the lady bug is
gone. “No, no, no, no! It right here. I had ladbug, Mommy.”

 

“A what? I don’t know what you’re saying. Now go play. Mommy’s trying to beat this level and
then we’re leaving,” the woman says, pointing to the yellow slide.

 

“But…but my ladbug,” the little child tries again.

 

Another pair of hurried footsteps rushes over to the bench. The boy’s sister has gotten off the
swing. “Come on, Tyler, let’s go hunt for another ladybug together, okay?” She takes him by the hand.

 

The little boy rubs his eye with his fingers, nods and looks away from his mother. “Okay.”

 

The siblings run off toward a small pile of leaves, the little girl laughing too loud as though trying
to distract the boy. Behind me I hear a scoff and turn around to see the young mother staring after her
children.

 

“You have kids?” she asks aloud, addressing me for the first time.

 

“No, no I don’t,” I stammer, caught off guard by her question.

 

“Hmpf,” the woman replies with a snort. “You’re lucky.”

 

  

 

I disconnect my Vertix, drop it in my sweatshirt pocket and leave the park to take a walk down
Tremont Street, which runs parallel. I don’t want to be tempted to interfere with the mother and her
children.

 

She’s missing it. Her kids are young and full of wonder and she’s missing it. I feel hypocritical in a
way. I love my copper baby so I understand the appeal. But that woman has children who depend on her
and want to share their delights with her, and she acted as though they were an inconvenience.
I wander down the quiet street, taking everything in around me as if seeing it for the first time. I
see beauty in the way the sunshine reflects off the tall glass buildings, smile as a dad carries his laughing
daughter on his shoulders, marvel watching a mama duck round all her fluffy ducklings together in an
orderly line.

 

“It’s beautiful,” I say aloud.

 

I glance up, nearing one of the only store fronts on this street. It’s a little coffee shop Sarah and I
used to frequent during finals. I’m impressed it’s still here. Every other store has switched to online
retail channels.

 

A Delightful Moment, the sign reads. I frown, not recognizing the name. They must have
changed owners. I deliberate going inside from the sidewalk. I don’t have any cash, but if I connect I can
use Enyo to pay.

 

“Might as well,” I tell myself. “Get something warm for the walk home.”

 

I open the door and hear a tinkling bell as I step inside the dimly lit coffee shop. Small tables are
scattered about the room along with large pillows designed for seating. The whole shop gives off a
Moroccan or Indian vibe, which is further cemented by the spicy scent of cinnamon and chocolate
permeating the air. Nearly every table is occupied, but there’s something off about the cozy
atmosphere.

 

I wander through the randomly placed consumers toward the long snaking line. Numerous
screens are suspended from the ceiling, detailing the day’s specials along with brightly lit ads.

 

“Oh, pumpkin marshmallow sounds yummy,” I say to myself, and shrink back as my voice
echoes loudly in the circular shop. “Oops.”

 

I look around, surprised my voice carried that far. I take in the individuals and couples seated
and standing around me, and my suspicions are confirmed. Apart from the grinding of the coffee beans
and automatic stirring machines, no one is speaking. No one is even looking at one another. It’s as if I’ve
entered a museum filled with wax mannequins, all wearing the same faraway, dazed expression.
My gaze turns to the people standing in line and my mouth forms a small o as the barista calls
for the next person in line. As one, the line advances, everyone taking a step forward in unison. Like a
trained army. Like robots. All of a sudden, the rich scent of the different spices becomes too much and I
feel as if I’m choking.

​

“I have to get out of here.” I gasp, taking a step backward, almost tripping over a young guy with
dark black hair. I skirt one of the larger tables and spin, pulling open the door with more force than
necessary. The little bell jingles again, but this time it sends a chill up my spine.

​

The cool November air welcomes me, sliding down the length of my fingers and wrapping
around my neck like a well-worn scarf. I shiver once more and exhale my breath in a visible puff of white
vapor. Wow, it’s really getting cold. Now that I’m away from the creepy assembly of statues, my
shoulders slump and my body relaxes.

 

“That was too weird,” I speak, picking up my pace to distance myself from the shop. I wonder
how long those people have been in there, enjoying their moment. I picture several of them with a fine
layer of gray dust coating their soft skin and my feet increase in tempo. “No, don’t think about it. Stay in
control,” I will myself as another flash of a decaying body with a coffee cup in hand plagues my
thoughts. “No, don’t think about it.” I grab my temples, but the scary thoughts are giving way to
stronger hallucinations and those I can’t stop.

 

I’ve been disconnected for too long. They’ve found me once again.