Az throttles power to his motorcycle components and transitions to the hum of standby mode outside our apartment. The change in sound is lost to the traffic, shouts, and echoes of the city’s night regimen. I slump over his power block, gritting my teeth.

  My joints ache. Twin stars of agony radiate from my knees, sharp knives have sheathed themselves in my elbows, and a deep burn has stepped onto each vertebrae to tiptoe down to my hips. My body tried to warn me this was coming earlier in the day. It’s why I needed the coffee from the ven mach before the bot delivery. I didn’t listen. Work didn’t need to be taxing on my body when it kept trying to ruin itself. Fatigue weighs heavily on my shoulders, threatening to drag me to the leaf plastered pavement. Leave me there with the confetti of autumn and the dying light of the day, soaked through with the delicious offerings of the Chinese restaurant on the corner. Az pressed against my chest keeps me from that fate. His blue light blinks and caresses my eyelids, waiting for me to be ready to move. A quiet declaration of love. At least that’s how I take it. With a sigh, I open my eyes to take in Az’s brilliance. It dances against the city behind him.

  Neon lights slice through the night sky. Brilliant blues, proud pinks, and garish greens overlap in strings between balconies, shine from stacks upon stacks of windows, and blare from signs to draw people into the first-floor shops of the towering scrapes. It casts everything in a wonderland of color. There is no darkness to be found in ‘Cuse. No stars to feed the ache within my heart.

  With a groan, I rise from Az’s power block. I pat his core and swing my leg over, teeth gritted against the pain. On the sidewalk, I slump into myself like a bag holding the ill-formed remnants of a person. All that exists nowadays is a walking wound.

  “Convert, Az,” I mumble.

  He flashes green, and the metal tucked along the sides of the bike unfolds to support his weight. The wheels slide up to rest against his shoulders at the same time as his hands spread against the ground and his feet plant themselves. Az picks himself up off the ground, his headlights falling forward to form the eye slits over his central core. He gives a small trill at the completion of his transformation.

  Az steps forward and offers me one bulky arm. The metal of it becomes a mirror ball for the lights around us, and for a split moment, Az becomes an idol to this neon world.

  “Ready to go in?” Az asks, voice bright. He has no other inflection. Learned through taking in the habits, manners, and tones of the humans around him, Az’s programming has become what I’ve needed. Someone who believes in me and is there no matter what.

  A smile limps across my lips in answer. “Sure, bud. Let’s get you situated.”

  Az holds my hand in the crook of his arm and leads me to the bot station against our apartment building. He towers over me by at least a foot, and with that comes weight. His metal feet ring against the asphalt, adding to the cacophony of the city. Mel and mine’s apartment straddles the line between Old ‘Cuse and the scrapes and gets the life of both.

  Under an overhang by the sliding glass door rests a bot charging station. Az finds his spot between two other bots for someone in the apartment. One is decked out in neon rope lighting, powered off, and the other is clad in hot pink. The charging light above Az’s street flickers on. His center console cracks open, revealing his orb form.

  “Hey there, bud,” I coo.

  He blinks a warm pink.

  I disconnect him and pull him into the crook of my arm. But there’s no way I can limp into the lobby without help. I smack the hidden component in his right arm, and it opens to reveal a slim piece of green metal. It comes out with ease, and I flip the handle of the cane up. It grips the asphalt beneath us. I limp towards the door.

  Mel had been apprehensive about us taking another third-story apartment due to the possibility of the lift breaking down and me having to take the stairs. I told her not to worry about it. That everything would be fine. We’d figured it out once.

  She hadn’t liked that comment. Mel still found it hard to talk about my illness, let alone joke about it.

  Az’s small form glows aquamarine as I hobble into the foyer and to the trade table sat in the corner. The table is a small white stretch on spindly legs against a hot pink wall and banana yellow tile. A miniature haven for gently used items or foodstuffs. It’s a part of my daily ritual to check it. Often, nothing strikes my fancy. However, today I have something for it. From the edge of the table, I take one of the small blue cards with free printed on it in big, bold black letters and pull out the extra coffee from earlier. I place it next to a box of cheese crackers, asking for someone to swap it for peanut butter crackers.

  An object catches my eye.

  Tucked next to a bright, cherry red sweater is a fish bowl with fake fluorescent fish meant to swim when water is added. I’d recognize it anywhere. I wanted one as a kid, but money was too tight. The card leaning against it matches the one I picked up for the coffee.

  Free.

  My luck has never been so good. Maybe it’s broken, but I could probably fix it. It’s worth far more than the coffee I’m leaving behind, but at the moment I don’t care. It’s mine. A childhood dream realized. It’s—

  The idea hits me like a freight train. I stare at the trade sign above the table, pain momentarily forgotten. In a roundabout way, I traded the coffee for the fishbowl. There was more value in the fish bowl than the coffee for me, and I’m sure I wouldn’t be the only one. I could keep it and realize a childhood dream. Or, I could use it for my adult dream. Trade it for something better. Something worth more. And trade that all the way to a ticket to the stars.

  The idea is crazy.

  But I wouldn’t have to worry about coming up with the astronomical amount of cost. I wouldn’t tax my body by working another job.

  The idea might work.

  It’s worth a shot.

  I pick up the fish bowl and place Az in its mouth. He blinks blue for a moment, thinking, and settles on green, deciding his temporary relaxation grounds are up to par. I smile and push past the pain to get to the lift and inside.

  Two floors up, the doors of the lift slide open to an enclosed hallway. Needed when the lake effect storms whistle through. The dirty neon green of the carpet glows phosphorescent under the gelatinous growth of lights that poke free from the wall. They ooze various colors of light and shade the electric azure walls in cloying tones.

  With a sigh, I lumber down the hallway.

  Music and tele shows leak out of the units. A child cries behind one door, and in another, two women scream-sing to a thumping bass. The scent of spiced meat curls around me. My stomach grumbles, ready for dinner. I round the corner and, much to my relief, our neighbors are quiet. The gentle murmur of voices leaks from our unit. My brow furrows. Mel wasn’t set to be home yet. I wave my holo over the lock and open the door.

  “Honey, I’m home,” I call, settling into the joke like a hot bath.

  Mel waves from the couch. Mirth lights her dark eyes. “Oh, darling, it’s been such a long day without you.”

  Our friendship has been a long series of jokes tied together with tears and serious talks about life. I crack up, my laughter drowning out whatever vid is on the tele.

  “How was your day?” I ask. “Weren’t you working until late?”

  Az’s apartment bod sits in its charger by the door. It’s small, about a foot tall, with two double-jointed legs and two little hands. Important appendages, rated first for cuteness, and then functionality. I put the fish bowl down and place Az’s ball form into the orb cradle, connecting him with gentle movements. Az blinks hot pink.

  “I quit,” Mel mumbles.

  Az teeters away towards the small dining room, playing an action movie soundtrack as he goes.

  Slow and steady, I take off my pack and hang it by the door. My mind whirls over what to say.

  “I thought you liked the waitress job,” I say, picking the fish bowl back up.

  Mel shakes her head. “Not enough to keep it. Besides, it was interfering with casting calls.”

  I nod, keeping my face neutral. I will always support Mel’s dream. But her decisions confuse me sometimes.

  She confessed her deepest want to me during a high school sleepover. When the deep blackness of night consumed the lights and we both lay in my twin bed, giggling about crushes. She had taken a sobering breath after laughing and dipped her voice low, the whisper no more than a breath driven by sudden courage unknown to her before. She wanted to be an actress. It was her heart’s wish.

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  Something so intertwined with her being, she’d never give it up. And in telling me, she gave me a knife-shaped key to the lock of her heart. I could help her cradle the dream, or slash it to pieces. It was a gift. And a place Mel’s mother wasn’t allowed to be.

  There’s no way I’m ever crushing that dream.

  It does make it hard to talk about her quitting, though.

  Our agreement upon moving to the new apartment was that she would keep a job longer than two weeks. This one lasted for three, so I can’t be too mad. As long as she finds a new one soon.

  “I picked up dinner,” she says in way of an apology. “I got Taco Bell. It’s keeping warm in the microwave.”

  “You’re a blessing.”

  “Damn right,” Mel says, voice quieting on the curse. She rubs the back of her neck. Some childhood lessons never fade away to nothing, even when we’re adults and do what we want.

  With the fish bowl tucked against my side, I hobble on the cane into the kitchen. The unit works for two people, but it is a bit cramped. Our kitchen fits one person, our table two, and plants consume our windowsill. A singular mauve couch butts against the far wall, and each of our rooms are crowded with furniture needed to live. The carpet is a striking magenta, our walls are a faded electric blue, and the scarlet tile in the kitchen is cracked. The balcony door whistles with the wind, and there’s a hum we can’t find the source of, but it’s home. And far better than the leaking ceiling, stuck windows, and broken appliances of our last place.

  “What’s that?” Mel asks, pointing at my arm.

  “Fish bowl,” I say, holding it up. I set it down on the counter. “It was on the trade table with a free sign.”

  “It was?” Mel asks, incredulous. “It wasn’t there when I got home.”

  “Guess fate loves me better,” I joke, pulling the cig case out of my pocket. Dinner cig. I open the door a crack and light the small stick. With the first suck of nicotine, my body relaxes. Smoke trails out of my mouth and mixes with the late budding sunflowers Mel grew over the summer. The two form an acidic floral fragrance that creates the scent of home.

  We have no view other than the smooth metal side of the scrape next to us, coated in scrolling ads. For most of the day, it casts us in its shadow, darkening the deep red of our building’s bricks and old steel. Both are far out of fashion, a sign of a building owner who doesn’t care. Some corps try to make Old ‘Cuse more glamorous with colored glass in the windows and painting the old brick a shocking kaleidoscope of color. It works, in a way. ‘Cuse was still old, the buildings still brick, but a coat of paint covered all the cracks. Beauty distracts from ruin.

  “Does the fish bowl work?” Mel asks, coming close.

  “Not sure, do we have batteries? Let’s see.”

  Mel investigates the junk drawer while I smoke. Her bot cat, Zoe, jumps from the couch with a chirp of curiosity. She stretches up the counter’s side, one paw curled, to better investigate while Mel shoves batteries in. Zoe’s fiber optic fur shimmers from greens to oranges as she stands. Mel holds up the bowl with a frown.

  “It’s not working,” she says.

  I shrug. “I’ll take it into work tomorrow and fix it there. How was your day beyond the quitting?”

  Mel trades the fish bowl for Zoe and cradles the cat like a baby. “A weird thing happened. This guy came up to me when I was headed to my audition and started talking to me about getting cast in roles. I thought he was being nice, so I talked to him for a bit, but he asked me what I’d do to get lead roles. I brushed him off at that point because he got pushy.”

  I scowl. “You gotta stop believing everyone’s your friend. There are creeps out there.”

  Mel shrugs, forever the optimist. She rocks Zoe, eyes distant. I wait for the bomb. “My mom called today.”

  There it is. The arbiter of ‘no cursing allowed’. Mel has been trying to break that rule since I met her back in high school. No director will accept that her mom won’t let her curse in a role when we’re almost thirty.

  I swallow. “Oh?”

  “She’s still disappointed in me. Still wants me to follow in her footsteps or at least become a paralegal at the firm.”

  “Oh.”

  “I got beer and hair dye at the store.”

  Topic over. No surprise there.

  Mel and her mother have been at odds about Mel’s future since Mel was born. Her mother is nice enough, but her visits are short and courteous to a fault. Their relationship is built on arguments and frazzled nerves masked by familial love. Or at least respect. My parents and I don’t talk a lot, but not for those reasons at least. We have very little to say to each other. Our lives don’t change much.

  “Interesting combo,” I remark, giving Mel her out. I stub out the cig and flick it into a pail of water on the patio.

  “Both are an apology for quitting the job. Figured we would touch up your roots tonight?”

  “Forgiven.” I teeter toward the fridge. “You want a beer?”

  She shakes her head. “How’d Gen’s date go?”

  I grab a beer and cross to the microwave. A Crunchwrap and taco wait for me.

  “She didn’t want to talk about it,” I answer.

  “So it went bad.”

  “Yep,” I say. Metal clatters behind me.

  Az’s center console is a violent red; his small hands curled into fists. He waves them in front of his small form in the facsimile of a boxer. His target is Sunny, our solar powered plant holder that exists to move a croton on four thick legs from sunspot to sunspot. Sunny’s face, pixelated on a black screen, has furrowed brows and pinched eyes as it dances in place under its sun lamp. The green leaves, coated in orange and blood red, slap Az with every movement. It’s Sunny’s only defense.

  “Hey, hey! Leave her alone, Az,” I snap.

  Mel leaps forward with liquid grace captured in her lanky form that ends with knife sharp elbows and sharper cheekbones. She pulls Az away. Sunny sends a shiver through the plant and stills.

  Az blinks red in frustration. He’s never figured out how to make noises of frustration by himself, so he steals one from a show.

  “Relax, bud. Why is this happening every night?” Mel asks.

  “Sunny knocked Az over two weeks ago,” I say around a bite.

  “All this over that? Sunny is taking care of the plant, Az. She didn’t mean it.”

  “Az took it personally.” I finish off the taco and eye the Crunchwrap.

  Mel sighs and places Az on the couch next to Zoe.

  “Let’s dye my hair,’ I say, leaving the wrapped goodness for later, and head towards the bathroom with beer in one hand. Food can wait. The excitement of having fresh hair is too much. Az climbs down a blanket from the couch and runs to walk next to me. Zoe winds about him, meowing.

  The light in the bathroom is bright white. Needed for makeup and hair disasters. Mel opens the lemon cabinet and ducks in. She emerges with bleach and a bottle of lime green hair dye.

  “You found that quick,” I say.

  “I put it with the things it belongs with. You should try it sometime,” Mel snips.

  I take a swig of beer. “Sorry, too hard. I have this memory problem thing.”

  Mel shakes her head. Her usual response when I use humor to poke at the symptoms of my illnesses.

  “How are you feeling? You’re using the cane.” Her voice is soft. Care lacing every word.

  “Not so great.” I’ll lie to Gen, but not Mel. Never Mel. “Mild pain today that built into a moderate level, and I’ve been losing words as the day goes on. The foggy head is almost worse than the pain.”

  Mel screws up her face. She stares at the dye and opens and closes her mouth a few times, trying to find the words. She blows a raspberry. “I’ll get a chair.”

  She escapes the bathroom. It isn’t the first time in our almost fifteen-year friendship she’s done this. Her avoidance isn’t out of malice, but a loss of how to respond. When the autoimmune disease, the genetic condition, and the destruction of my mental health slunk into my body, Mel was a part of my life. She didn’t walk away without her own scars. And shared trauma can be the hardest to talk about.

  I take a swig of beer and catch myself in the mirror while petting Zoe. The glass reflects the dark circles that haunt my eyes. I’m fatigued all the time, but sleep doesn’t come easily. Or at all some nights. Because pain wasn’t enough, insomnia tagged along too.

  Being sick sucks.

  Tears prick the corners of my eyes. I avert my gaze from my reflection, searching for anything that isn’t my face. I settle on Az sitting at my feet and stroke my finger around his core light. He heartbeat pulses pink in response.

  I take another swallow of beer. Mel comes back in with one of the kitchen chairs.

  “Ready?” she asks, voice chipper.

  A grin as fake as her excitement pulls across my lips. We’re acting. Pretending everything is fine. Mel outperforms me. “Yep, let’s….uh…touch up these roots.”

  Neither of us comments on my pause. That it took me a moment to find the right word.

  I sit in the chair and pull up music on my holo. The bracelet responds with a fuchsia light dancing through the metal around my wrist. Pop music leaks from Az. Zoe lounges between our sinks, tail flicking. Here, in this liminal bubble of peace, we’re two friends hanging out on a Tuesday night. Taking a break from clawing at the world to make our own way. Tonight, we laugh and ease the burdens from our shoulders.

  Zoe swipes at my beer, trying to knock it off the counter. I pick it up just in time and shoo her towards the other side of Mel’s sink. She meows and moves, batting a hair tie off the counter.

  We’re lucky to have two sinks in the shared bath. Hers and mine, each claimed by toothbrushes and makeup. They fit in with the bright neon pink bottle of face wash and the blinding turquoise of the sunscreen. Orange bottles stand like sentries on my side. Each one is larger than the last, creating a staircase towards a life without pain. Towards a body masquerading as healthy. Too bad I live with the constant dread that I’m running out of time.

  So much for tonight having laughter and easing burdens.

  “You doing OK?” Mel asks, voice soft.

  A small smile, a real one that doesn’t reach my eyes, limps onto my lips. “I’m noticing all the defects.”

  “Hey,” Mel says, sharp and unyielding.

  I pull my eyes up.

  “Don’t talk about my best friend like that.” She waves the brush at me as she speaks, each swish a flash of pink like a soft warning or Az’s pink light of love. “They’re not defects, because you’re not defective.”

  I chuckle. “Guess it’s a worse day than I thought.”

  She puts the brush down. Zoe bats it into the sink. Mel leans down from behind and hugs me, cheek pressed against mine so that her dark hair mingles with my green. In the mirror, our dark eyes meet, and Mel hugs me tighter. Her tan skin glows under the lights, healthy and vibrant. I’m wan and sickly. Dark bags under eyes and red slapped across my nose against too white skin since the sun triggers flares. My cheeks are too hollow, my collar bones too sharp, and sadness lurks in the darkness of my eyes. The genetic sickness, the fibromuscular dysplasia—fibro dysp I decided upon diagnosis—came first last year and made it hard to eat. And it’s been harder still to get the weight back on.

  “It’s fine,” she murmurs. “One day at a time, right?”

  I hum a note of agreement.

  Mel straightens and snaps on gloves. In a small black bowl, she mixes the bleach and developer together. The putridness permeates the stale air of the bathroom. Demands space within our noses to burn and threaten sneezing. Mel sections my hair, and the first icy sluice of the mixture finds my roots.

  I finish the beer as the bleach sits. Mel leaves and comes back with the fish bowl. “You said you found this downstairs?”

  “Yeah, on the trade table. I…have a silly idea.”

  Mel turns it in her hands. ‘What’s the idea?”

  I pick at the beer bottle label, peeling off the face of a lumberjack dressed in orange. “I thought about fixing it and trying to trade it for something better. And trading that for something better. All the way to a ticket to the stars.”

  Mel stares at the fish bowl, pondering the idea. “It’s not that outlandish, Jaqs. People love trading. We wouldn’t have three huge apps about it if people didn’t.”

  I stop my desecration of the beer bottle’s label and stare at Mel. “You think it’d work?”

  “Worth a shot,” she says, unknowingly mimicking my words from earlier.

  I swallow the lump in my throat. Trade for a trade for a trade. My heart thumps in my chest and breath freezes, caught in my throat. Hope, something that’s been absent from my life for the past year.

  The hope turns to determination.