It was nearing the end of trash day on the south side of town, which meant that Sara had been fed well that morning. The gifted meal of five fresh doughnuts and two cups of hot coffee fueled her focus. The spike of sugar and caffeine made the artificial plasma around her spinal column tingle with potential. Her coworkers hardly ever touched her Monday breakfasts from friendly waste management customers, but two dozen specialty doughnuts was too much for a thin little woman. Her coworker begrudgingly decided to take one of the boxes home to his roommates.

She watched him leave the truck again and picked beneath her nails. Not even a little grime? she wondered, disappointed. Collecting foul dust and mold spores in her long purple hair for a living was near-inconceivable. Though she was perfectly capable of deadlifting 400 pounds, none of her coworkers allowed her to lift a finger if possible. She wouldn't admit it, but she enjoyed the preferential treatment society offered her. So, patiently, she'd sit in the truck and ponder that question she'd been asked so many times as a sanitation technician: What's a pretty girl like you doing here?

She'd think, silently of course, because I want to work. Was there anything else to it? She'd always had a vague interest in garbage disposal, and the process of turning all manner of trash into fuel. That didn't suffice as an answer to the strangers. Because people who care enough to notice me give me coffee and doughnuts every week. She managed to smile, but that wasn't the reason. Because I chose to work in a field I'm passionate about. None of the customers believed her when she said it. She'd giggle, if she didn't feel so insecure after their reactions. There must be something about passion I don't get. She chalked it up to the common issue of cyber-anhedonia. She must have had her dopaminergic wires crossed when she went in for modding. Yes, she knew that was it, even if not literally. The old "home" she used to live in with her "sisters" reigned through some tricky ideology she couldn't put pictures to. Only clinical descriptions of those old scars remained.

She sighed, discontent and demoralized by the question. Her mind was too muddy to summon the answer. I don't know how it's my fault. I'd feel a lot better if people didn't ask me those things she thought as she sank back into the driver's seat and wrestled her tear ducts.

Shuttle rides back to town kept her sane. She loved staring out the window and zoning out while wildflowers and old, abandoned houses whizzed by. But as she entered the city, she preferred to look at her external phone. Mindless scrolling through empty commentary on who got what's-her-face pregnant, cat videos, and the latest dances soothed her restless mind as she drifted to her apartment room. Seconds of mild amusement became hours spent sitting in the bathroom, kitchen, then bed. Only 6 hours of screen time had her ready for the rest of the night.

Sara dimmed the lights and played rhythm and blues through dusty old speakers. She knew each song well enough to glean lyrics from the muted expressions. She hummed along quietly as she opened her closet and looked through dozens of pleated skirts, polka dot-covered blouses, dark dresses, and towering high heels. She was proud of her collection, meticulously sorted by hue and shade. She opened her clothes drawer and fingered through nylon stockings and velvety leg warmers. There were so many memories between the old threads. Each remnant of perfume summoned a mirage of clattering plates, chandeliers in bars, and late nights on city rooftops.

She picked one of her oldest garments: a worn and velvety white thigh-high sock. It shimmered with all the colors of the rainbow when she held it up to her little white desk lamp. There was something about it that made her recall voices. She wondered if they were the whispers of an ex-lover, or an old forgotten friend. A glance at her semitransparent pink pumps reminded her that she'd forgotten something important. Putting the sock to her lips , she shuddered.

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

She remembered a man half-mumbling, half slurring, "I really quite enjoy seeing a woman who can take control." He giggled like a child. "I'll be thinking about this night for a long time, sexy Sara love." His name was on the tip of her tongue, but in a moment it was lost in the lyrics of the song. She shook her head, convinced that it was a stray daydream. There's no need to be. You are, you are she almost sang along with the music. She dried her tears with the sock, but most of them rolled right off onto the rug beneath her shins.

It was about time she did her new year's cleaning, and the witching hour never failed to motivate her. Two weeks late is better than never, she figured. Decluttering the shoes was her least favorite part of maintaining her closet; it was more convenient to space them out, then slide them on when she was ready to wear them. "Shit, how'd that paper get there," she mumbled, moving her black boots aside. She took the old manila folder and plucked off the dust bunnies. "Owlet Files?" she mouthed. Her old sisters used to call her that name. Their affectionate tone when calling her Owlet was one of the few things she could replay in her mind from those days. Despite that, Sara couldn't identify with the name at all.

As she opened the folder, an old and yellowed card fell out. It must have been her ID, since it said her name and birthday: "Sara Jean Whittaker, 29 Jul 2095". The image and other information didn't match at all. She was too tall, and too heavy. If it weren't for her near-identical teeth, she wouldn't have recognized the square-faced brunet in the photo. That's me, in 2122. What a goof, wearing horizontal stripes with those athletic shoulders and smiling for the photo. She couldn't help but smile back.

She didn't think twice about thumbing through the stack of papers at the back of the folder. The first page was simple, and only read "Owlet". She idly flipped through the mostly blank pages. "Owlet. Contents. Identifying diagram 1." The same teeth she saw in the mirror, the old ID, had been plucked out of her jaws laid out bloody in rows. She dropped the papers and jumped at the sound of their wobbling flop onto the floor. It was time to call her best friend.

"Nan, I need your help and I need it as soon as possible," Sara quavered as she paced around the kitchen. "I just found something fucked up in my closet, some kind of stalker diary or planted files or something! Should I call the police? They even put my old ID in there, and my teeth and—"

"Huh," Nan yawned, then took a sip of water. "Sara, you've called me about this thing before, remember? The manila folder behind your boots... Is that it?"

Sara stood in place and took a deep breath. Nan was right; they'd discussed this same exact thing with her before, at the same hour of night some time in the past. She settled into her kitchen stool, relieved. "Oh, oops." But it was long ago, and it'd since gathered dust. "Yeah. Sorry about that. I was just cleaning my closet when I noticed it, and I saw this picture of all my teeth pulled out and it was called the Owlet Files and I panicked. Like a nightmare."

"It's okay," they said, nodding along to Sara's familiar script despite the lack of video chat. "It's spooky for sure. Are you going to throw it out?" And then she'll say, "I don't know, it's so creepy. I don't even want to touch it. Can I come over and sleep at your place? Nan predicted as their head slowly dropped back into the pillow.

"I want you to look at it with me," Sara said, thrusting Nan into the waking world.

"You what?! Oh, this is huge!" they squeaked. "Bring it in, first thing tomorrow."