July 4th, 2050
I didn’t think my husband and I would qualify for the program. Things don’t usually go our way, especially since Gavin’s release from active duty and the months of trauma that followed. He sits next to me, his fingers playing with his ID badge. The word ARMY is emblazoned across it.
“You understand what needs to be done?”
I place my hands on the cold surface of the coffee bar and glance over my shoulder to where Brody sits, hunched over a menu. He looks like a normal human, but my proofreading glasses don’t lie. I saw them flash blue, and his admission afterward
I’ve been caught.
No, only Meg noticed.
I reach for a new binder of case files. That inconsequential proofreader knows better than to report my errors.
Pen in hand, I skim the first file, spotting the typo underlined in red. Before I can process the information, the tech in my brain corrects any trace…
Typos are proof of humanity.
The Typo Alliance slogan fills my mind as I park and slip a file from my purse. I tap my glasses twice, activating the scanner to illuminate data.
TYPO: NEW ECLECTIC GRID POWERS LOCAL WAREHOUSE
ASSIGNED: AGENT BRODY HIGGINS
CONCLUSION: NO FOLLOW-UP REQUIRED
I snap the file shut. Brody might
I’ve learned to live with pain.
A copper wilting wasp scuttles up my arm, its stinger poised to strike. I lift my eyes past my rotund master, over the carts of food I’ll never eat, and rest them on distant mountains. I focus on those peaks as the wasp delivers a paralyzing injection. Debilitating
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