The Sleepless

by Victor Manibo

Genres: Cyberpunk; Genetic Engineering; Hard Science Fiction

Synopsis

A mysterious pandemic causes a quarter of the world to permanently lose the ability to sleep—without any apparent health implications. The outbreak creates a new class of people who are both feared and ostracized, most of whom optimize their extra hours to earn more money.
Journalist Jamie Vega is Sleepless: he can’t sleep, nor does he need to. When his boss dies on the eve of a controversial corporate takeover, Jamie doesn’t buy the too-convenient explanation of suicide, and launches an investigation of his own.
But everything goes awry when Jamie discovers that he was the last person who saw Simon alive. Not only do the police suspect him, Jamie himself has no memory of that night. Alarmingly, his memory loss may have to do with how he
became Sleepless: not naturally, like other Sleepless people, but through a risky and illegal biohacking process.
As Jamie delves deeper into Simon’s final days, he tangles with extremist organizations and powerful corporate interests, all while confronting past traumas and unforeseen consequences of his medical experimentation. But Jamie soon
faces the most dangerous decision of all as he uncovers a terrifying truth about Sleeplessness that imperils him—and all of humanity.

Release date: August 2, 2022

Publisher: Erewhon Books

Print pages: 400

Sample

Wednesday, 07/​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​08/​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​2043, 06:56 PM

In the last dream I ever had, I was eating a big, bloody hunk of steak. The details are hazy now: crisp white linens and a side of roasted potatoes, wood paneling, other faceless people at my table, and not much else. I don’t recall the specific cut of meat, but it was definitely not a filet mignon; it was more like a porterhouse. The steak occupied the entire plate and threatened to spill over its border. I cut through the slab with a serrated knife, and, though I’ve had amazing steaks before, I have never felt anything as visceral as the frustration I felt when, before I could finish my plate, I woke up.

Dreams. It’s been so blissful since I stopped having them, but lately, against my nature, they’ve been surfacing in my mind.

That last one in particular keeps coming back. To exorcise these thoughts, I’ve decided the best way was to act it out in real life: I’ve added cooking to my mile-long list of hobbies. I think I’ve finally mastered the perfect porterhouse. Or, I should say, porterhouse cooked just the way I like it. Medium-rare, with the right amount of sear. It took eight tries, meticulous timing, and calibrated heat on both sides, not to mention hours of instructional videos and tons of new kitchen supplies that I didn’t yet own. My apartment has become a nightly test kitchen for steaks, but I got there eventually.

I admire the slab as it sizzles in the cast-iron pan. The timer counts down, and the stove promptly lowers the heat. The oven chimes as the roasted potatoes are done, and I move the spuds into the pan, gingerly placing each one in the right place and at the right angle. A sprig of rosemary across the top, and a dash of finishing salt, and it’s ready for its close-up.

I take several pictures with the kitchen counter’s top-view camera, scroll through the shots as they’re beamed onto my visor, and then pick out the one that looks best. I post it on my news feed, no caption necessary. After I do, holo-ads materialize before my eyes: one for a set of Japanese steak knives, one for a Midtown chophouse, and a third for a ceramic barbecue grill. I pause on this last one, and wonder if there’s enough space on the deck. Maybe after I have it redone. I wave the ads away with a flick of a finger, and they vanish.

I move the steak onto the carving board. A blood red jus seeps from its sinews. The firmness, the aroma, the right balance of browning and char—I nailed it.

After I’ve given the meat time to rest, I make one slice. One bite. It approaches, but does not quite reach, the sumptuousness of the steak in my last dream ever. As I did with the other failed attempts, I chuck the rest of the thing down the disposal.

The threat looms of another long night needing to be filled.

In the beginning, it was easy enough. I occupied myself by watching dozens of classic films that I’d always been meaning to watch. A lot of the movies I liked were adaptations, so I also read the source material. That’s when I seriously moved on to books, and around the time I devised my lists.

I made goal lists and doggedly finished every item. I saw every Oscar Best Picture movie, finished every Pulitzer-winning novel. All of Hitchcock’s films, Henry James’s books, the entirety of The Decline and Fall. Then there were TV shows, podcasts, and of course, video games. So many video games.

I was consuming so much that, after only a few months, I felt psychically bloated. My brain tired of all the media, and my lists felt like drudgery, like I had been masochistically giving myself unnecessary homework. That’s when I started to optimize my time by learning new skills.

I’ve progressively grown the number of languages I can speak, and recently completed Arabic II through a VR exchange program. I’ve mastered lockpicking, non-digital locks at least. I garden, if the box of soil I have up on the roof deck can count as one. I’ve learned how to write Gothic calligraphy and how to read Braille. How to weld, metalsmith, woodwork, build furniture with my own hands. How to play the violin, the double bass, the harmonica. How to knit and sew. How to juggle. How to finish a Rubik’s cube with one hand tied behind my back. How to cook steaks.

And then there’s poker. Talk about optimizing. Now I can fill my nights and make some scratch too. It’s how I can afford this apartment, as well as all the toys and gear that I’ve accumulated for my less lucrative diversions. I’m quite good at it—I’ve had a lot of time to practice—though my online buddies keep teasing me about my tell, an alleged eye twitch when I’ve got a bad hand. I’m pretty sure that’s jealousy talking, and even if I did have a tell, it hasn’t stopped me yet from taking their money.

At some point in the past year, especially as the weather grew warmer, I felt the need to harness my extra time outdoors. At the turn of spring, I started running. I used my freed-up weekends to learn surfing and to train for dragon boat racing. I already have a blue belt in taekwondo, and as soon as I find a 24-hour dojo, I’m doing karate next. I’ve practiced all types of yoga, from Ashtanga to Vinyasa. I fence, I box, and once in a while, I get roped into a late-night game of pickup basketball with other folks in the building.

If for no other reason than this, I could never leave New York. Half the city’s already Sleepless, or at least a convincing facsimile. Everyone’s up at all hours, and up for doing any damn thing. No activity is too esoteric, no interest too specific. If I wanted to learn sailing, there are outfits all along the Hudson that can teach me. If I wanted to learn how to make chow fun from scratch, I know an eighty-year-old woman out in Flushing who gives private lessons. And if I wanted to join a grief support group for recently-dumped left-handed Asian male media professionals in their early thirties, I’m sure I could find one somewhere downtown.

As I wipe up the steak splatter on the counter, the buzzer beeps. I check the time. It’s too early for the delivery to arrive. And in any case, we agreed that it had to be auto-couriered. Can’t be too safe. Not with this package. I play the scenarios in my head, and I’m beginning to fume with anger as I approach the door.

I check the screen and am both relieved and petrified at the sight. Hannah.

For a second I think about not answering, but I can’t help myself. I comb my hair with my grease-splattered fingers before opening the door.

“Are you alright? You look surprised,” she says with no preliminaries.

“Well, this is a bit unexpected,” I say, leaning in for a hug that she limply accepts.

I leave the door wide open and move aside. Her feet shuffle, and I subconsciously mimic her, doing the out-of-step dance of two people unsure of their footing. She wants to come in, but she decides to stay in the hallway instead.

Even as she restrains herself from entering, her attention has already wandered into the den. She peeks surreptitiously, no doubt judging the state of disarray. The pile of jackets on the couch, the empty takeout containers, the stacks of boxes still unpacked. The contents of my life that haven’t quite reached their destinations: kitchen, bedroom, bath, storage.

I try to look unbothered. I would have cleaned if I had known she was dropping by, but the mess is also nothing she hasn’t seen before.

A couple of times since I moved out of our Chelsea apartment, Hannah and I have slipped into our old habits. Nights that start with an errant message and a crosstown trip, ending in a guilt-ridden, awkward goodbye. There’s always a twinge of regret the morning after, but one not strong enough to deter us from backsliding. She initiated, the last time.

It’s been a while since—maybe a couple of months? I wait for her to decide. She doesn’t meet my eyes.

“You might as well come in,” I finally say, sliding an arm around her waist. “You’ve come all this way.”

She flinches away from me. Slow enough to convey hesitation, but quick enough to show resolve. “I’m just here for the passport. Do you have it?”

For a second I think she’s making up some thin excuse to drop by unannounced. She’s not the type to forget things, and I myself have used the whole “I left something here” routine before. I have no idea what she’s talking about, and it must show on my face, because instantly she rolls her eyes.

“Of course you forgot. Classic Jamie.”

“I’m so sorry, I’m in the middle of this huge assignment and it’s been crazy, and I . . .”

“Totally forgot about it. Yeah, I’ve heard this before.”

I hold back the explanations. Work has been the standard scapegoat for my personal failures, and Hannah deserves better than the stock answer.

“Did we agree on Wednesday?” I ask. “I could have sworn . . .”

“Look, I really need it ASAP. I told you my flight’s in a week.”

“Yes, I remember now,” I say, still not quite remembering. “I still need to look for it, but I’ll get on that tonight.”

“That’s what you said last time.”

“I promise. I’ll do it right this second, just as soon as I—”

“Stop making promises and just do it.”

The push and pull and pushback has a comforting familiarity. Our patterns are so intractable, hardened by the last five years into grooves in our language, our glances, in the way we touch each other. The way we keep reverting to each other. We’re not together, not anymore, and though each of us sometimes forgets that, I’ve quit trying to figure out whatever this is.

“I’ll be back tomorrow night,” she warns. “You better have it ready.”

She walks away, not waiting for me to respond.

  

Thursday, 07/​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​09/​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​2043, 12:04 AM

The parcel drone beckons me onto the balcony, its red light blinking against the backdrop of the midnight cityscape. I rush out to meet it, assaulted by the whir of its propellers straining against the weight of its package. When I give it the all-clear, the drone sets down its delivery: a sturdy black box encased in a net of packing rope. A combination lock holds its lid shut.

The drone disengages and as soon as it flies out of my way, back into the cloudless sky, I drag the parcel into the apartment and slam the door shut behind me. I tear into the netting and, finding it too tight, I run to the kitchen to grab a knife. I slice through the cords then untangle the knots, fingers trembling, before finally pressing in the key code. The hiss and click are music to my ears. I then lift the lid as one does a treasure chest.

I’d searched and begged and dissembled and deceived, traded favors and secrets to get my hands on this. A thick stack of papers, maybe two reams’ worth, each page printed with dates and names and figures and codes. I’d been at this a while, but there’s still nothing as satisfying as holding a smoking gun in your hand.

For months, my energy’s been focused on the July installment of The Simon Parrish Files, C+P Media’s premier investigative news program. The episode will have been the culmination of hours upon hours of work, and when it airs on all the news feeds at month’s end, it’ll reveal a long-buried scheme involving Mason Dwyer, junior US senator from Minnesota, and how he funded his campaign with secret donations from anti-Sleepless hate groups.

Sleepless or not, I can’t help but hate the guy. Dwyer first ran in 2036, around the time that the fear against hyperinsomniacs was at its peak. The election cycle fanned the flames, and the regulation of Sleepless persons was a platform issue on both sides of the aisle. At first, Dwyer didn’t have a strong stance either way; he understood how deeply divided his purple state was. But by the time he ran for reelection, he was whistling a different tune: feeling the winds of change, he made pro-Sleepless legislation the centerpiece of his reelection campaign. Now the two-time junior senator—a former Marine reserve with dashing good looks and a picture-perfect middle American family—is rumored to be one of the frontrunners for the Republican primary in 2044.

As it turns out, the ’36 Dwyer campaign got most of its spending money from the Senate Freedom Fund, a super PAC with unlimited funds from mostly anonymous donors. I say mostly because they’re still required to keep a record of who’s giving what, but the names are almost always holding companies with their own holding companies. A nesting doll of campaign corruption.

If you don’t look too hard, you might miss the shell companies, the fictive entities through which organizations contribute to senate campaigns without having to report donor names. Organizations like the Alliance Defending Normalcy and Vanguards of Vigilance, which are still at the forefront of persecuting Sleepless persons. They advocate for the stringent monitoring of the Sleepless, and push for Sleepless discrimination in housing, the workplace, all spheres of social and political life. Those details alone would have been bad enough for Dwyer, but these groups also encouraged, funded, and sanctioned hate crimes. People died.

So you can imagine what kind of damage our piece could do to the good senator.

My boss Simon has been developing the Dwyer story for months, and since he has an entire team of dedicated professionals at his disposal, he delegated some pieces of the larger puzzle. As one of his assistant producers, my job has been to follow the money. I needed proof tying the Vanguards of Vigilance to the Freedom Fund super PAC and to Dwyer.

I spent hours sifting through bank records, stock purchase agreements, capital investment receipts, from dozens of companies. The payoff from pulling on that thread is my source, an investment banker favored by less-than-savory organizations.

I can’t say that the source has the purest intentions, but at least they’re reliable. The sheafs of paper I hold in my hands prove it. The funds movements are all in here; I only need to assemble the data, separate wheat from chaff. My source previously gave me backdoor access to the firm’s digital records, and if that were enough, my job would be done in an hour at most. But I can’t sneak into their mainframe for extended periods of time, and besides, everything needs to be on paper. Simon wants the data quadruple-checked, and I very well can’t have Simon himself hacking into an investment bank just so he can review what I’ve found. It’s already a minor miracle I even got hard copies. So yeah, I gotta do this old-school. Pen and paper and marker and highlighter and stickie notes and flags. Good thing I’ve got an entire night with nothing to do.

  

Thursday, 07/​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​09/​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​2043, 03:22 AM

I’m on hour three of poring through the Vanguards of Vigilance records when I hear a loud crash coming from the hallway outside my apartment. I go and check, and find that a luggage cart has tipped sideways, spilling its load of end tables and ottomans and throw pillows onto the carpeted floor. A thin old man with a full head of curly gray hair scratches his head in exasperation. I step out barefoot and in lounge pants, and offer to give him a hand.

“Moving in?” I ask as I lift the upright cart from its side. A beeping sound issues from its motor, and the wheels lock into place.

“Yes. I’m 9G,” he replies, pointing behind him.

“Welcome to the building. I recently moved here myself.”

“Where from?”

“Locally. Used to live downtown.”

“Yeah? Me too. NYC, born and raised,” he says. “They told me moving at this hour was fine. I hope the racket didn’t wake you.”

“Not at all. No chance of that in this building,” I assure him. Pretty much all the tenants here at the Everbright are Sleepless, I almost add, but if he’s heard of the building’s history, then it’s probably the reason he’s moving here to begin with. I reposition his small furniture, balancing them on the platform of the robotic cart. An elevator dings open and another cart rolls by to join us, carrying an assortment of potted palms.

“What happened to the freight elevator?” I ask. “Movers usually go in through a separate back hallway.”

“The men we hired are downstairs figuring it out. Apparently some bums broke the locks trying to get in through the service entrance,” he explains. “That doesn’t happen a lot around here, does it?”

I wonder what would be more comforting to him—reinforcing this rumor he heard, or explaining that it’s most likely anti-Sleepless vandalism. He’s a born-and-raised New Yorker, which means he’s seen it all, but I don’t know his experience with being Sleepless. Maybe he’s used to light property damage and crude graffiti. Maybe he’s used to delivery folks scurrying away after dropping off goods to his door. Maybe he’s used to living in a building that gets groundless noise complaints almost every other day. Maybe he’s all right with added security protocols and the higher building maintenance fees that come with them.

“Nah, homeless folks don’t do that. I’m sure that’s not what happened.” I leave the last part open for his imagination.

He gives the luggage cart a firm tug once we load the last of the furniture. The motor remains unresponsive, though the wheels are no longer braked. I offer to guide the cart along with him, and he thanks me effusively.

We slowly inch toward the far end of the wide hallway typical of the Everbright Apartments. If I squint, I can still see the former hospital building’s old bones. The corridors that used to lead into different wards, the open entryways that once featured swinging double doors. Tasteful sconces have replaced the industrial light fixtures, but the carpeting and its minimalist lines remind me of the linoleum floors, the multicolored directional tape that one uses to navigate a hospital. As I lose myself in these thoughts, the luggage cart I’m steering starts to feel like a gurney.

“I was a patient here once,” the old man says as though reading my mind. “Decades ago, before they closed it down. Nothing serious, just a bum knee. Never thought I’d be back to actually live here.”

“The developers did a great job fixing up the building and repackaging it,” I reply.

“Yes, I don’t think anyone even remembers this was a quarantine site.”

It’s subtle, but the message is delivered with the old man’s downcast glance. The stealth is not necessary, not here, but I understand the impulse. I’ve had to deploy the coded words and read the clandestine cues, balancing the need to protect myself and the desire to know.

“Did you recently become Sleepless?” I ask without ceremony or hesitation.

“Around New Year’s,” he replies, with some vigor. That takes me aback, though not in a bad way. Less than a year Sleepless. He’s in for a journey. I’m only half a year ahead of him, and I’m still figuring it all out.

“You don’t see that very often anymore,” I say. “A new case, I mean.”

He nods, smiling. “My own doctor was surprised; so was I. Had to get third, fourth, fifth opinions. Everyone keeps saying the Sleepless are a dying breed, but here I am bucking the trend.”

“Dying” is a bit of an overstatement. I’d describe us more like an increasingly rare find. There aren’t as many new incidences of Sleeplessness as there once were, which, depending who you ask, could be a good or bad thing.

“That’s why I moved,” he continues. “My old lease was up, and I’ve always thought this place was fascinating. All that history . . . and now, what’s come out from all that.”

“The community’s great too. Someone from the tenant’s association will catch you up on everything, and they also informally double as a counseling service for the newly Sleepless, if you ever need a hand.”

Behind us the elevator dings again. Two burly men in overalls emerge, struggling to extract a mattress from the cramped space.

“Oh, you still have a bed. Me too,“ I add. “Most tenants don’t anymore. Waste of space, they say.”

“It’s mostly for the missus. She’s not like us.”

The last bit rankles me, but I try to be generous. He is probably still learning how to talk about it, and the proper rules of etiquette shift with every passing day.

“Well, I’m sure she’ll feel welcome here nonetheless.”

With their brisk pace, the movers catch up to us as we reach our destination. The men take over in assisting their client, and I hand the cart off to them. I tell the old man to ring me at 9A if he ever needs anything. Just then, his wife arrives on our floor. She’s about his age, though not nearly as fragile. A woolen scarf hangs around her neck, an odd choice in this weather. She approaches us cautiously, her arms balancing a crate full of purple tropical orchids.

“Making friends already?” she asks. “Try not to talk the young man’s ear off, Ron.”

“Honestly, I’ve been doing most of the talking,” I reply. “Can I help you with that?”

My offer hangs in the air without acknowledgment. She surveys me from head to toe, unspoken questions written on her face. I try not to take offense. This is all new to her, as much as it is to him.

“We’ll manage. But thank you,” she says, punctuated with a cloying smile. Ron gives me a slight bow in gratitude, and, I’d like to think, solidarity. He then unburdens his wife of the crate and she clings to him, her arm around his shoulder, while I’m left watching them march down the hall into their new home.

As I reenter my apartment, an unexpected heaviness comes upon me. I linger in my foyer and gaze upon the open door of my own bedroom, its king-size bed falling into disuse. After all these months, it still smelled new. Even though I have no need for one, not for sleep at least, I bought it when I moved out of our old apartment. I guess I got one to maintain a sense of normalcy. Looking at it now, it just seems like a waste.

The futility of all that space, that remnant of a life I couldn’t leave behind.

I head to the kitchen and pour myself a shot of Bourbon. As I knock it back, my eye is drawn to Hannah’s passport card laying on the counter. Maybe when she comes back tomorrow, things will be different. Easier. Not back to where things were—she’s made it clear there’s no chance of that—but at least without disappointed looks or soul-deep sighs of frustration. No sense of me having failed her yet again.

The first one doesn’t ease the weight pressing down on my chest, and I pour myself another shot. Still nothing. I should get back to work, but my mind’s too muddled right now. I need a break, a way to exorcise distractions out of my system. Maybe a total sensory overload will do the trick.

I put on my full-body suit and scroll through the milieu options on my ReVRie: Swiss Ski Chalet, Hammock by a Private Beach, Mossy Cottage in a Highland Glen. None of them entice me, not even my go-to, Desert Campfire at Night.

I decide to load China Shop instead.

Within seconds I am standing in the center of a porcelain emporium, wall-to-wall shelves of jars, vases, dragon statues and potbellied Buddhas. Through plate-glass windows, the rendered milieu mimics Chinatown in the 1920s. My avatar stands by the entrance. I don’t need to look at myself to know that I’m decked out in a white tank and braces, with a newsboy cap covering my head. The system default.

By my side is a long rack of cudgels of all shapes and sorts. Golf clubs, two-by-fours, a lead pipe. There’s even a bullwhip. I vacillate between the Louisville slugger and the crowbar, but then the battle-axe catches my eye. I pick it up, feeling its heft in the haptics of my gloves. Suit pressure on my forearms further heightens the sensation. I make a couple of tentative swings in the air, and the weapon loudly swishes with each one.

I raise the axe over my head. My palms are sweaty and I use both hands to grip the haft. With might, I bring it down on the nearest display case. Everything breaks in a booming crash. The dragons shatter into jagged shards; money toads and lucky cats crumble under the weight of my weapon’s double blades. I sweep it across the next rack and then the next, clearing each shelf like it’s my mission. Every clink and crack is rendered in precise, almost symphonic, audio. Slivers of jade and ceramic fly all around me, flung into sharp projectiles that instantly vaporize as they touch my avatar body. Soon enough, the entire store is leveled and I am the only thing standing amid the wreckage.

Before my physical momentum wanes, I quickly reload the milieu. Even though I’ve run this program many times over, there’s a newness to every fracture and every splinter. The objects return to how they were with each reload, but I get to break them differently every time. Endless replayability. I ramp up the Fragility setting to Highly Brittle, and take another first swing.

I clear and restart three times, switching out my weapon to nunchucks this go around. Once the latest round is done, I check the clock.

It hasn’t even been an hour.

Time still hasn’t passed, not in any meaningful way. There’s still so much of it to kill.

Thursday, 07/​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​09/​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​2043, 07:02 AM

I’m the first to arrive on our side of the floor. The C+P Media headquarters is quiet, though the overnight folks are surely deep at work downstairs. The rest of the news division doesn’t roll in until around ten, if they come in at all. Closer to the weekend, the staff work on the field or remotely from home, so the quiet isn’t too odd.

I head to my office, almost skipping in anticipation. First thing when he comes in, I’ll show Simon what I got from my source. He’s been waiting for this lead to pan out, and finally I can show him that my instincts were right. The source had exactly what we needed, and this package, along with the internal reports Simon got from his own whistleblower, is more than enough to bury Dwyer.

I drop off my bag at my desk, barely willing to let the documents leave my sight, and head to the break room to get a coffee. One of the perks working for C+P is the company’s understanding that the staff can only function when caffeinated, and they’re willing to pay for it, even with coffee prices being sky high.

On my way back, I pass by the hall that leads to Simon’s corner office. Through the clear glass walls, I catch a glimpse of Simon slumped facedown on his desk. His brambly head of black hair is turned away from me, looking out onto the floor-to-ceiling windows. Pulled another all-nighter, probably.

As I approach, I see that a wine glass is tipped over the stack of papers strewn around his desk. The carpet, pilly from foot traffic, now sports a soggy sunburst pattern of maroon. I knock tentatively at the closed door, but get no response. I walk in to take a closer look.

The spill has seeped under the left side of his face, which lays flat against the clear surface of the desk. A crimson halo frames his lifeless profile, mouth agape. His eyes are turned to a hazy view of midtown Manhattan.

I yell out his name, and then step around to shake his shoulder. He is motionless. I feel for a pulse by his jugular but it doesn’t stir. His neck is tight and forms a deep ridge where the muscles have stiffened.

Panicked, I dash out of his office and cry out for help. No one answers. My instincts tell me to run, but my body has not quite caught up with my head. I stand in the hallway, frozen. The quiet is stifling. Soon enough, I gather my wits enough to slide on my earcuff and voice-command 911. The AI voice talks me through the few details I incoherently relay.

As I wait for help to arrive, I dial Elliott.

“Boss is dead,” I say, trembling. “He’s dead, I just found him in his office.”

“What the fuck? How?”

“I don’t know, he’s lying there and I . . .”

“Call 911. I’m a block away.”

I close my eyes and inhale. The sight of Simon’s dead body is already seared in my head. It pulls at me, impels me to come closer. I hear his voice from deep within me, a faint echo of an oft-used directive.

Why the fuck are you just standing there? Do something.

I draw my visor from my jacket pocket. I place the lightweight glass-and-steel band over my eyes, its probes pressing up against my temples. My vision is filled with my default layers, icons for accessing calls, messages, and most critically at this moment, the record function. Instantly, the display tells me that it’s synced to my earcuffs and that its sensors are primed to detect my hand gestures. I shake my hands to confirm and, once convinced that the device is detecting my fingers’ fine muscle control, I press the red icon hovering on the left side of my field of view.

Recording.

With a deep breath, I step back into Simon’s office.

The bottle of red, the wine-logged papers, the sideways glass—I make sure the visor captures all the details. Simon’s body, the rolled-up sleeves and stringy hair, the look of death in his eyes. A top-view of the table.

Teetering on the edge of his desk, right by the wine bottle, is a clear pill tube. Empty, with its cap off and right nex