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“You don’t mind me asking?” said a woman in the booth next to his, pointing at his face. Buster was about to answer when he felt something twitch in his brain, the long-dormant synapses that were programmed to lie without provocation, to create something better than what had come before.
He pressed the play button and listened to his father’s voice, serious and slow, say, “We live on the edge . . . a shantytown filled with gold-seekers. We are fugitives, and the law is skinny with hunger for us.”
He had desires, but they were complicated by his inability to understand those desires, and so he opted out of relationships.
Annie always smiled, always nodded, but she was amazed by these people, what kind of wiring they possessed that would cause a Fang event to occupy a pleasant place in their memories. And then she realized these people were probably talking about seeing a representation of the original Fang event in a museum, which was even more astonishing to Annie. Was this how trauma worked? she wondered. Those closest to it remained dumbfounded by the fact that those who weren’t present could derive meaning from it?
