“No,” he said. He set the scanner on the counter and watched it look at him, as if it had been storing impressions of him in its lens. “It’s…given me something.”
Nico’s fingers hovered over the items like a reader at a foreign market. “We scan the new,” said a voice behind the counter. It belonged to a woman with hair the color of pewter and eyes that watched shapes rather than people. She wore an apron that had tiny embroidered maps stitched into the corners. “We call them New. We keep what they teach us.” nico simonscans new
“This is one of mine,” she said. “You made it.” “No,” he said