“There is,” she says, then downs the rest of her drink. “And there will be. But maybe we like it that way. Maybe it’s always better waking up knowing you have somewhere to be.”
“Entonces, you getting along with your coworkers?” Papa says to me. “They nice?” His face pixelates and reforms as the uplink jumps satellites. I’ve been here three months, and I still haven’t quite worked that bug out. It’s almost midnight back home in Jersey City, 2,200 miles away, and Papa looks exhausted.
“Everyone’s been pretty great,” I say. “Nazdia has been showing me around.”
“Nazdia? She’s your mentor, right?”
“Yes, Papa.”
“And have you made any other friends?”
“Papa, please. Not tonight.”
“Mm,” he says, pursing his lips. “Okay.”
But I can see in Papa’s face that it’s not okay. Papa worries I’ll nev
