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“You lifted another car, Edna,” sighs the extension agent.

“Only a little one.”

“We can’t keep this ‘human body is capable of extraordinary bullshit’ up forever!” He musses his combover. “Some blogger is going to put things together, and the old Women’s Auxiliary Cybernetic Corps papers will come out, and then what do we do? Put your grandkids in protective custody?”

Servos whining, Edna’s hand rotates at the wrist in three perfect circles, and she cracks her knuckles like a pneumatic three-volley salute.

“Although I suppose,” he says carefully, “they’re somewhat protected already.”

She smiles, and hands him a candy.