“Let's go, Mister Chen,” Kim interrupts thesilence. By the way, he is one of those few: brave enough to ask meabout my missing legs right away. And after he received a directanswer, he accepted me for a whole person.

“Sure, Deputy,” Mr Chen says. Then turns tome: “Have a nice evening, Ma'am.”

I nod back and smileagain. What a stupid idea – making show of myself. ‘Are youTaiwamerican, MisterChen?’, followed by my chair-riding, eye-opening demonstration. Helost his Dad! Even if he himself killed the old man, still mustshow some mercy.

***

I return my chair to the proper positionbehind the desk (the wheels complain again) and try to read throughTan's report scribble. No, today I can't concentrate any longer.Besides, the clock shows 4:59, my day is over. I'd rather slitherhome. The old report returns to its native pile.

I switch off the Police-issued tablet andlock it in the desk drawer. The cell phone goes into my bag. I amready to go. Squeezing the desktop with my left hand, I leanforward and extend my right arm towards the designated landingzone. In the hospital, they called this trick ‘chair to floortransfer for short above-knee amputees’. It's a controlled fall ofsorts. This world is not designed for girls, who are halved to thebutt and now stand only thirty-two inches tall (or ratherthirty-two inches short?) But I am almost used to it. My abandonedoffice chair rolls to the wall, sadly squeaking with its wheels.Don't cry, buddy. I will be back on Monday. From under the desk Iextract my trusty transportation kit: a pair of fingerless leathergloves, an oversized skateboard and two wooden blocks.

Next to the entrance doora cracked plastic label on the wall reads: ‘SAVE THE PLANET. Switch off air-condition, lights, andcomputer screens before leaving.’ Ofcourse, there is nothing to switch off in the Beat office now,except for the tablet. There has been no AC and no computer screensfor many years, and the only lights we have are solar-chargedlanterns and emergency flash-lights. But our Sergeant likes thislabel for some reason and does not allow us to peel it off. Thistime, the useless label reminds me of something I have forgotten.Leaving my bag, gloves, and wooden blocks at the door, I push theskate with bare hands. The floor in our Beat is exemplary clean.One of the things I do here besides sorting papers and calling theDispatch once in a while. I approach the coffee table, reach intothe storage compartment under it and pull out my Wonder-weapons: aspray bottle and a rag. Thirty seconds later, the glass surface isshiny. Viruses and bacteria from the bloodied gut-driver are on the way to theirMicrobiological Heaven. Or their Microbiological Hell, depending onthe bio-hazard level. I roll to the desk and wipe the water jug.Pull a plastic sink from under the desk and wash the used glass.All shipshape. Now the Beat will survive without me through theweekend.

Outside, the steaming-hotSeptember day slowly turns itself into pleasantly-warm evening. Ilock the Beat door and zip the key into the bag pocket. On the wayback, my hand automatically reaches inside the main compartment formy very special tobacco box. The voyage will be long. Over one-milelong (back in March I would call it ‘one-mile short’). Well, afterthe Cruise, for one-mile long voyages I make careful preparations.First of all – load the mandatory ammo. Surface-to-air missile,code name To-Ma-Gochi. ‘Ma’ is for ‘marijuana’ and ‘To’ is for ‘tobacco’.Wonder-blend, three-to-one. Since 2023, it's completely legal inTexas. Even the Police officers may use one occasionally, but notwhile on-duty and only for medicinal purposes. About me, the Policebrass can't say a word: phantom pain, sir! Once in a while, myabsent left foot makes me jumping on the absent right.

Besides the tobacco box,my bag holds a lighter: the military macho type, handicraft versionof Zippo. Thenickel-plated body has an engraving: a naughty mermaid. Thecreature sits not on your usual sea rocks, but on the pile of ammoboxes. As any self-respecting mermaid, she does not care for abikini top, but has her Navy cap and holds her favorite weapon.Exactly my choice in the goddamn Venezuela: the M240D machine gunwith turret mount, nine hundred and fifty Freedom-and-Democracyservings per minute. Below the ammo boxes, the ship name isstenciled: ‘Piranha-122’. Our Piranha is gone. Out of seven naughty mermaids on-board, only threeare alive. Including this one, who lost her tail, and now has toride home on her skate, pushing the dirt with her woodenblocks.

Talking of which… I pull the fingerlessgloves over my hands.

“Hey Kate! Targeting home? Want a ride?”

A cargo tricycle stops infront of the Beat. Two young men look like our neighbors fromthe Koreamerican Patch-3. To my shame, I have no idea about their names. Butthey know mine. Well, on the West side of the GRS, many people knowthe Police by our first names, and in my present legless staterefusing the ride is simply impolite.

“Sure. If this half-girl is not too heavyfor your trike.”

“Hey, you call yourself heavy? I can throwyou in with two fingers!” One of the boys replies, readily gettingoff the cargo platform.

“Don't help, bro. I'll manage.”

They surely don't teachthis in the military hospitals: ‘skateboard to cargo tricycletransfer for short above-knee amputees’. Slide from the skate toconcrete. Throw the skate, the blocks and the bag to the cargoplatform. Right hand on the platform railings, left hand on thefront wheel. Sharp push with both arms. A little flip in the air.Bang! And I am inside! Not too bad: have not caught much dirt andeven my To-Ma-Gochi is intact. Well, the dirt – the boys have plenty. On theplatform, there are bent bicycle wheels, rusty frames, sprockets,chains and other such stuff. Returning from the Landfill, whatelse.

“Nice jump,” the second man says, pushingthe pedals.

“Experience, bro. You mustsee how I deal with toilet seats. Are you coming from the'Fill?” I throw my magictobacco box to the first man. We all know the Slum Rule: if youshare the ride, you must share the smoke.

“Sure thing.” The trike's top speed isaround three miles per hour. On the concrete path, I can go wayfaster. But, why complain? Besides, the concrete path will be overat some point, and pushing the skate on dirt is not too easy.

“Good catch today?” I puff my ‘medicinal’cigarette.

“Excellent. A freshlydiscovered bike grave! Nice parts, all pre-Meltdown. Those frames – see?Japanese steel. They are the best.”

The cell phone from my baginterrupts our relaxing mood with the Police call tone. As always:as soon as you settle with a lazy chat and a smoke, you get anurgent call! The phone screen shows the standard Sheriff's staricon and the caller ID: ‘GRS-2’.

I press the green button. “Hey Tan.”

“Kate? What's the freaking address,again?”

“What address?”

“The stubbing. I got an SMS from theDispatch. Came to the address – there is nothing!”

“What do you mean: nothing?”

“Nothing means: nothing. Well, almostnothing. Several tiny spots on the floor, like dried blood, that'sall.”

“But… The body?” I extinguish thehalf-finished cigarette.

“The body! There is no freaking body!Whatsoever.”

“Wait a sec, Tan. Did you read the SMSright?”

“Just repeat me the goddamn address.”

I repeat the address.

“Positively. I was at the right place.”

“And what place are you now?”

“In theChinamerican-Three. Idid a little loop, just to be sure. Then, got on my bike and wentto give you a call. In the Patch-Five the phones don't work, as youmay know.”

Oops! I have screwed up again. I imagine howthe Homicide guys arrive to the address, just to have a goodlaughter. Kate Bowen! That legless Beat girl! Dead-bored with herpapers, right? Well, here is free entertainment for you: call thereal policemen to catch a ghost!