by M. Coronado
A surveillance-age love story: two activists, a man selling invisibility, and a floor that stays warm long after the deal is done.
*Fifty Thousand Strangers*
I told her not to call the man, and now the man is sitting in my shop at eleven at night drinking a cortado I did not make him, and I am the one wiping the machine like wiping it hard enough will change anything.
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