Nathan Cryogen was a cold man. When Nathan's boss fired him for allegedly doing law-breaking experiments with the human mind, Nathan stomped around his studio apartment in circles; when Nathan couldn't pay the rent and begged an extension out of his ancient landlady, Mildred, he took a silent bus ride out to a chilly, deserted state park in western Massachusetts and kicked snow until his feet started freezing; when the world invented smartphones, Nathan bought one eventually, but he glared at the clerk who sold it to him.
Nathan had been unhappy for most of his life and on the day he walked into the local 8-Bits and Bobs, and bought his smartphone, he'd come to the store after Mildred had informed him with a wagging finger and judgmental gray-blue eyes that he was at the end of his extension and he'd better come up with money from somewhere because she wasn't a fan of kicking people out of places.
Truth, Nathan had decided in the aftermath of getting fired, was a commodity. And like all commodities, it had a price, it had buyers, and it had sellers. Some commodities, Nathan explained to any of his couch cushions that would listen - which were all of them - were not worth selling. It was purely coincidental, he would say to his favorite plush burgundy cushion, that some commodities are truth and some commodities are not worth selling. And thus, he would say, turning his head slightly away from the cushion and watching in his peripheral to ensure it wasn't planning on leaving, some truths are not worth selling. To not sell is to not tell.
The cushions never moved on their own and this particular burgundy cushion was not an exception. It was, however, square-ish and pointed on the ends in a plump way that caused it to lose balance if you brought the right kind of airflow near it, so Nathan liked to rush by it once in a while to pretend that it had a mind of its own.
Nathan was in love with the mind, but even more than the mind, he was in love with having a place to live. So he didn't tell Mildred that he had six hundred dollars in his bank account - a month's rent exactly - and instead begged for the extension, knowing that her mind had a hard time with kicking people out of places. He had fully intended to pay her when the extension was over and had fully intended to have made a lot of money before the deadline came.
Neither had happened. Instead, he was sitting on the sidewalk outside 8-Bits and Bobs, trembling, with a brand new phone in his shaking hands. He was shaking because it was fifteen degrees outside and he hadn't worn any gloves. He'd stopped wearing gloves after the entire palm of both ripped open - it seemed like a waste of time to bother his hands with.
He made a cushion of his pulled up knees, to protect the phone in case he dropped it, and scrambled to open the back of the phone, going for the sensitive SIM card that he'd wanted all along. He'd paid six hundred dollars for the phone, on the dime, and skimped on the smiling clerk's offered coverage plan because he didn't have six hundred and twenty two and banks were good at figuring out what commodities people were selling, even if the people weren't enthusiastic about sharing them.
With a quiet gleam in his eye, he removed the SIM card and stared at it in wonder. He tossed the phone to the side without a second thought, pocketed the card, and with the remaining coins in his pocket, purchased a bus ride back home. There was no jingling in his pockets when he walked inside and locked the door - only the weight of a tiny piece of metal, with staggering potential locked within.
He set the special lock in place because he knew Mildred would hear his footsteps and come to talk. He had no interest in talking - not tonight. And if all went as planned, he wouldn't need to talk to her about the rent anymore.
Holding the SIM card reverently, he laid it atop his immaculately straightened bed cover and held there for a moment, drinking it in. Einstein, he thought. Edison, Tesla, and the guy who started Abercrombie and Fitch. And now me. Deftly, but with shaking hands, he got out the chest from under his bed and pulled out the chip with his life's work sitting on it. It was crazy to have your life on a chip, but his boss had given him no other choice; the equipment hadn't belonged to Nathan. The data chip was the only thing he had owned. That and the idea, but Trevor Marsupian would never understand the work he had rejected.
Or, thought Nathan, with a glimmer of mischief in his eye, maybe Trevor will understand one day.
With a deep breath, Nathan grabbed the two-pronged wire that extended from the data chip and plugged an end into the SIM card. The other wire he bent his head down to reach and touched it to his forehead.
Several things happened at once: A jolt, a man flying backwards, and a rap on the door. Nathan rubbed his forehead gingerly, feeling singed skin, and pulled himself up off the floor. The rap on the door came again, only this time Nathan heard it. He glanced at the bed, panicked, and scrambled over to the electronic contraption. There was a thin plume of smoke emanating from the data chip. Cursing, he dragged it and the attached SIM card off the bed, and stuffed them both in the metal chest, shoving it under the bed. He stifled the spark of a fire on his covers and breathed heavily, as the rap came again.
Mildred. He'd been planning to ignore her. Why did it feel like such a strange idea now? She was out there, he was in here, and there were multiple locks between them. He closed his eyes and immediately, a vivid image of her hand going for the door pasted itself across his vision. His eyes flashed open and he stared at the world around him, thankful that it was still there.
His eye caught his favorite burgundy cushion and he whimpered. With each passing second, he was feeling more and more guilty about ignoring Mildred. He whispered at the cushion, "I have to answer the door. I'm sorry. I know you don't like guests."
Now that the decision was made, he felt a surprising amount of energy. There was a spring in his step as he unbolted the door and swung it open, face to face with his landlady. She raised an eyebrow at him.
"May I come in?" she said. Mildred never needed to say a lot. Her stance spoke volumes.
Nathan nodded, swallowing, and closed the door softly behind her. She turned on him in the small space and as their eyes connected, Nathan felt a rush of images stampede at his conscious mind. Mildred sitting in a doctor's office, staring at an oak desk. The doctor speaking to her calmly, telling her she had six months to live. The image yanked itself away like a picture stripped from the wall and Nathan looked at a puzzled Mildred.
She put her hands on her hips in that particular way of hers and scowled. She opened her mouth to speak, but Nathan got there first.
"I lied to you," he said in a rush. "I spent my rent money on a phone. I had it back when I asked for the extension."
Mildred's scowl gathered a few more wrinkles for support, "Can I see the phone?"
"I stripped out the SIM card and threw it away," said Nathan. Then, with a heady rush, he added, "I've always known you were gullible."
"Get out," said Mildred. Her eyes watered, but he wasn't sure whether it was age or exhaustion. "If I ever see you in this building again, I'll call the cops on you."
Nathan gulped and nodded, feeling weightless. He grabbed his ratty coat, his ratty gloves, and ratty hat, and walked out the door into the cold evening air. For minutes, he just walked, with no idea where he was going. He'd never been sure what would happen when he connected the wires. The invention was supposed to give him insight into the minds of others in a way that he could use to his advantage. He hadn't expected to get thrown back like he was touching a lightning rod during a thunder storm, but the experiment had done something.
Mildred is going to die in six months. The thought touched him in a way that seemed impossible and he lurched into an alleyway, burying his sobs amid the littered, dirty streets.
As the evening lengthened and the temperature dropped, panic began to set in. He knew he needed to find a place to sleep where it was warm, or he'd perish in the night and wouldn't that be a way for the next Abercrombie and Fitch guy to go. Swallowing a mixture of his pride and a parched throat, he walked up the tiny steps to the nearest apartment on the block and knocked on the door. For a few moments no one answered and Nathan considered leaving. He couldn't wait all night to see if anyone was inside.
Then footsteps came from inside and as the door swung open, Nathan was hit by an image of a young woman, in her late twenties like himself, seeing a disgusting retch before her. The image yanked itself away and he saw through his own eyes the disdain written on her face.
"I'm sorry for disturbing you," said Nathan. He took off his hat, unsure why it seemed like a good idea when his head was already cold, and did a little bow. "I need a place to sleep for the night. That's all I ask, ma'am, and I'll be out of your way."
