They thrust me into a grimy, industrial city, the kind one prays fate will never lead

one to, so I decided I should adapt to the milieu and light a cigarette, which sent

fumes into the overcast. As I arched my neck upwards to watch the smoke rise, I

noticed six holographic frames above my person, colour-coded and organised in a

three-by-three grid, which, I soon discovered, loomed over me wherever I walked.

Darkness never cloaked them, and they never shattered upon interception.

      In time, I confidently acknowledged that each of the six frames told others –

family, friends, passing strangers, employers, merchants and so forth – personal

details about yourself that you would rather hide. The first frame informed others

of whether you had committed a crime; the second, whether you had morally

questionable fantasies and, if so, what; the third, whether you had lost your

virginity, and, if so, at what age; the fourth, your intelligence quotient, proven or

estimated; the fifth, your medical past and present; and finally, compressed into

the sixth frame, all the aforementioned details, albeit your current partner’s.

      Everyone in the city had a hologram.

      People walked the streets with lowered faces, avoiding eye contact. Families

walked side by side, but without any sense of togetherness or belonging. Mothers

ordered their young to interact with no one, least of all members of the law, clergy

or faculty. Those publicly shamed for great crimes saw no reason for, or logic in,

remorse or contrition. The honourable and elderly watched the vice unravel from

the safety of apartment windows.

      Fumbling for my wallet’s crumpled notes, I waited by the kerb for the child,

homeless and experienced, to approach.