35
Stepping into the artificial jungle of the atrium felt like leaving the world.
The dull thud of the door closing cut out the constant grumble of the Recompile hallways, blanketing Dale in blissful silence. The air tasted thick and humid, full of the lush scents of tropical trees and shrubs and flowers chemically tortured into growing thick and green despite being exiled to Michigan in October.
In another breath, Dale’s ears recovered enough to hear water trickling over fake rocks and down the plastic creek into the murderous koi pond.
A trapped sparrow chirped.
How long could a little bird live, trapped in an unnatural world it didn’t have a hope of understanding? It probably scavenged enough discarded workday biscotti to survive, but would it batter itself to death against the gla
