24

It was a ten-spot to rent a hygienic Pod for the night, and I was sick of sleeping in the filth of the street. You never really slept out there, anyway. Partly because you had to keep alert for thugs and cops (same difference, right?) but also because of the smell. It hadn't mattered I paid extra for a quality filtermask; I always ended up coughing and wheezing.

I chose a stationary Pod because I had a friend who had disappeared when a transit Pod went off course. Or somebody rigged it. It meant that I walked or took the train, awake, to wherever I wanted to go.

I lucked out when my ten called up one of the newer Pods. The cleaners still worked, all the lights still lit, and it smelled fresh. But what didn't, comparatively. I crawled in and the lid whooshed shut. Some people couldn't get over the coffin-like feel of them, but since when had they ever laid in a coffin, right? This was much better. I set the speakers to white noise, the cushions to extra soft, and the lights to their dimmest setting. I couldn't feel it, but the Pod should have been sliding into position among the other occupied Pods for my paid for up-to-twelve-hours. I figured I'd sleep at least nine or ten.

Not feeling the outside world in a Pod is usually a blessing. This time, it was a curse. I said my Pod should have been sliding into position; it wasn't.