Billy blinks and he’s chopping vegetables, nine hours later: his rider has elected to suppress his memory of the evening. His calves and lower back ache, but there’s no sleep-grit in his eyes. Stimulants? Or a nap? He makes a note to run diagnostics.
First things, though. He tosses the carrots and broccoli in the steamer, purées them and takes his rider her dinner.
“You never ask where you’ve been,” she says, eyes bright above her white swaddling. “Doesn’t it bother you, not having free will?”
He puts the straw to her lips. “Why?” he asks. “Does it bother you?”