It was a tiny kitchen by Hollywood suburban standards, but large for a single-bedroom apartment. A toaster and microwave were shoved into one corner, collecting dust behind a battered rice cooker. The cupboards were finished in a grainy white laminate, stained with old finger smudges that wouldn’t come off, no matter how many times Gaynor scrubbed at them. Gaynor stood at the stove in an old satin robe, staring intently at the bacon curling in the pan.
“Morning, Mom,” JD said.
She grunted in response, not bothering to look at him.
“What?” he asked. His brain chugged slowly toward a guess, dangerously undercaffeinated. “I didn’t steal it.”
Gaynor raised her eyebrows and threw one hand up dismissively.
“I promise, Mom.” He crossed two feet of linoleum flooring and kissed her on the cheek.
“Where did it come from?” She bit off the words. Still she hadn’t taken her eyes off the meat.
JD swallowed, his tongue drowning in saliva at the fatty, salty smell. “Soo-hyun gave it to me. Someone at Liber killed the pig and cured the meat.”
“Probably diseased.”
“Then don’t eat any,” JD said, and immediately regretted talking back. His stomach lurched, either in anxiety or bacon-induced hunger. He chose to believe it was the latter, forcing back memories of the shouting matches that had punctuated his adolescence. “Do you want coffee?”
“Tea,” Gaynor said. She pushed the curling meat to one side of the pan and cracked three eggs into the middle. The translucent albumen ran across the oil-slicked pan and quickly turned white, bubbles forming in the hardening substance. JD set the kettle to boil, then took a coffee mug and one of his mom’s chipped china cups from the cupboard. He dropped a green tea bag into the cup and heaped two teaspoons of dirt-colored “coffee” powder into his mug, along with three teaspoons of raw sugar to balance out the bitter taste.
He switched the kettle off when he heard the first sign of simmering, and poured water into both cups—not so hot it would burn Gaynor’s tea, but warm enough to dissolve his coffee and sugar. He put them down on the small kitchenette table, black liquid slopping out of his cup and running hot down his knuckles. Gaynor carried two breakfast-laden plates over and sat opposite JD. She hadn’t bothered to toast the bread, which was slightly stale but still served to soak up oil, bacon grease, and egg yolk when JD pierced the yellow globes.
He ate hungrily, unable to slow down even when the hot oil burned his tongue.
“How is Soo-hyun, then?” Gaynor asked coolly. Her concerned scowl didn’t stop her from eating, the knife and fork held precisely, as though it were a formal meal and not breakfast with her son.
JD shrugged and chewed. After he swallowed, he said, “They seem happy.”
Gaynor pointed at JD’s plate with her knife. “Good bacon? Been so long since I cooked it.”
“It’s great, Mum.” JD flashed her a smile, then stabbed the last piece of meat with his fork and stuck the whole strip in his mouth, chewing slowly.
“I’d rather you were spending time with Troy. He’s a much better influence. Probably be tenured before Soo-hyun gets another job.”
JD’s head dropped. He chewed, swallowed. He opened his mouth to speak, but didn’t.
“You’re happier when you’re with him, Julius. And I want you to be happy.”
JD sighed. “I know, Mom.” He shifted on the plastic chair and pulled the envelope of cash from his back pocket. He took the bulk of the money from the envelope and slid it across the table. “That’s for your rent.”
“You don’t have to keep doing this,” Gaynor said quietly.
“How much did my hospital stay cost you?”
Gaynor sighed. She looked away from the money as though it were tainted, but she covered it with her hand. A moment later it had disappeared into the pocket of her robe. “Thank you.”
“Thanks for breakfast.”
JD washed his face and bathed his pits in the bathroom sink, using a chewed fingernail to scrape the remaining sleep from the corner of his eye. The skin hung loose and black under his eyes. He could have shaved, but didn’t bother.
He always kept fresh boxers and at least one spare T-shirt in his backpack, so he put these on before slipping back into his jeans.
Gaynor stopped him at the door, holding the rest of the bacon in one hand and two sandwiches sealed in plastic. “I didn’t have any tomatoes, so I couldn’t make you a BLT.”
“Did you heap the mayo on?”
Gaynor crossed her arms over her chest and glared, but it was playful this time, with a tiny smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Of course I did.”
“Then they’ll be amazing,” JD said. He took the sandwiches and placed them carefully into his bag. “The rest of the bacon is yours; if I take it home my roommates will just eat it all.”
“Jules, I can’t.”
JD ignored her protest. “Just save me some of your famous fried rice.”
“It has been a while,” she said, looking at the paper-wrapped meat.
“Ping me if you need anything.” He kissed her on the cheek and rushed out the front door.
The facial recognition camera by the elevator meant JD had to take the stairs. He kept one hand on the banister to take weight off his bad knee as he descended.
Gaynor’s apartment was one of hundreds in a tight tower complex. Lights in the corridors shone twenty-four-seven, abandoned rubbish and filthy concrete walls illuminated beneath the flickering, humming fluorescents. Gaynor—like her neighbors—rarely left the apartment. She worked random search-and-admin for cents per task—one of millions behind the algorithms that kept smart assistants and other “automated” systems running at all hours of the day and night. JD guessed half the building subsisted on that
