Cold Boot — Part 8: Knock

The next morning there was a knock at the door. But when I opened it, no one was there to greet me. My heart fell and, still thinking of sharks, I thought about logging into my work instance.

But a small glint of purple caught the corner of my eye. There, taped to my door, I found a drawing.

A real drawing, with markers and pencils and ink and all. (You could smell the supplies on the page!) I hadn't seen one in years—not since AI made artists obsolete. But there I was, holding what appeared to be paper salvaged from a BoxCo delivery manifest, and on it was a drawing that another real human being made.

What I saw took my breath away. Someone had drawn a sketch of my shark receiving her first hug in the Zoo. Whoever had drawn it was certainly there that night; they captured everything, from the details of my sharkskin to the way I winced at Kat's touch.

There was a dedication at the bottom:

"For the cool shark lady, care of the Kats and Geoff."

I felt ashamed; I felt proud. I felt renewed.

I felt whole.

Smiling, I taped the drawing over Stinky Pete's eye. Let them kiss shark, I thought.

Work passed in a blur, greige purgatory be damned. For the first time in a long time, I had something to come home to.

That night, I clicked my heels.

Rain on cobblestone, jazz in the warm dark. I caught my reflection in a puddle—shark skin, too-bright eyes, a smile too wide for any office. The tavern's amber windows glowed against the storm, and through them I could see Anabelle behind the bar, ears already flicking toward the door.

The door stayed open.

It always did.