As Joe reached the bottom of the steps, he saw the young woman curled up on the sidewalk, just inside the bike shelter, covered by a shredded sleeping bag. Filthy knots of matted hair escaped from the stained blue bandana wrapped around her head. Over her eyes, she wore what Joe now knew as citspecs. Funny he hadn’t noticed how ubiquitous these things had become. At $20 a pop, they were virtually giving them away. He stepped gingerly over her, and unlocked his bicycle. It was a rare day when no one claimed this spot to bed for the night. He had an urge to leave his card on the sidewalk next to her, but it would be a futile gesture. A young woman with no children wouldn’t get through the door at The Agency.
 
     The mornings commute was slow, and bicycle traffic came to an abrupt halt at 122nd Avenue, which had been barricaded for a military convoy, heading south from the Edgefield Compound. The large Edgefield complex had once been a resort, before it was seized by the military, during The First Martial Law in 2019. In those days, it had an inn, several restaurants and brew pubs, and an outdoor concert venue. Frank and Amy had once taken him and Jolene there for a summer concert, when they were in college and struggling. The only thing he could remember about the band was that they were very good. Frank always had impeccable taste in music. Edgefield had begun its life as the Multnomah County Poor Farm, in 1911, housing a portion of Oregon’s indigent population. It had been a real, working farm, with a dairy, and light industry to keep its inhabitants employed, according to Frank, who delighted in sharing his knowledge of arcane Portland history. Now, it was a military base to house some of the thousands of soldiers, both government and private, needed to keep a lid on “Little Beirut,” as independent and rebellious Portland had once been nicknamed.
 
     The convoy consisted mostly of blackwaters, escorted by a small contingent of army regulars. The convoys often used this street, and this was the largest one he had seen, taking nearly twenty minutes to pass. The increasing frequency made him nervous. It often seemed as though conflict might break out in the city any day, and there were palpable signs of growing unrest among people on the street, even among his clients. He couldn’t help but think about the agency across town, shot up last summer by a client over the edge. Two Intake Specialists, and a Caseworker were dead. One of the Intake Specialists, Marla Coleridge, he knew slightly from training seminars. Shot dead by a clean-n-safe as she was held hostage. The distraught client’s body riddled with bullets in front of children and their parents, in front of office workers. It was too horrible to think about, because it filled him with an intense fear. This type of thing could happen at any of the agencies, and eventually, it probably would.
 
     By the time he arrived at the office, he had pushed his paranoia to the back of his mind, leaving himself borderline functional. That’s all he ever was. Borderline. At his desk, weaving a pencil in and out between his fingers, Joe waited impatiently while Windows 2020 loaded. Some of the computers in the office were fifteen or more years old, with software created in aught-nine, and The Agency was too god-damned cheap to purchase new ones, though the poorest transient on the street now had some portable device with ten times the power of these dinosaurs. It was a miracle that any of them could actually function at all on the grid. Some of his coworkers bought their own, using the Agency’s outdated machines only to access the county databases. But, Joe nourished a stubborn refusal to bend to his job’s demands on his private life. “I need food stamps to buy food,” he once complained to Susie, “I’ll be damned if I’ll supply my own computer.” Of course, that is just what he would have to do when ABW became his boss. He would technically be a subcontractor, then.
 
     He was keenly aware of the way his coworkers had avoided his eyes this morning, but, so far, Chandra, his supervisor, hadn’t spoken with him. He viewed this as a good sign. The closest thing to an acknowledgment of yesterday’s misbehavior was the smirk on Roger Howard’s face, as he passed Roger’s cubicle on the way to the copier. Roger, of course, had meant him to see it. Roger didn’t like Joe, and the feeling was mutual.
 
     Joe looked up to see Anya Dorena Kerenskaya leaning over his cubicle wall, a solemn look on her pretty face. Anya, a twenty-something whose parents were Ukrainian immigrants, eyed Joe for a moment, and gave him a little sad smile. Sometimes he thought maybe Anya was attracted to him, but he pushed it to the back of his mind, next to the paranoia. He wasn’t sure that he wanted to become involved with anyone just yet, especially someone from work.
 
     “Another one missing, Joe,” said Anya, “third one in two weeks. What the hell is going on here?”
 
     “I wish I knew, Anya,” Joe said. He actually wished no such thing. Anya was referring to a spate of missing teenagers among the client families, seven in three months, and now it appeared as though the rate was increasing. He suspected it all had something to do with the military. A legitimate draft was politically unfeasible, so what better way to get enough recruits for the wars in Africa and Asia than to kidnap kids out of their bedrooms? Or was this just his paranoia surfacing again?
 
     “Have the police said anything, yet?” he asked.
 
     “They’re still being all hush-hush. Damn Joe, I really care about these kids. I think we should do something, but I don’t know what.”
 
     “It would be better if we just let the police handle it, Anya,” he said. “Our hands are full enough as it is.”
 
     Anya’s face had a resigned look. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. Say, I heard about Connie Velasques, Joe. I’m sorry. That’s so tough when a client dies on you.”
 
     “Yeah,” Joe admitted, “I guess I made a fool of myself yesterday, flipping out like that.”
 
      “Don’t worry about it, Joe. Everyone understands. I talked to Chandra this morning, and she is worried about you. You are too valuable to The Agency.” She gave him a sympathetic smile. “Say, you eating in the break room today?”
 
     “Since the paychecks finally came in this morning, I thought I’d go for a burrito over at La Cocina.”
 
     “Mind if I join you?”
 
     “No…please join me.”
 
     She gave him another smile. “See you then.”