**FRIDAY, 4:30 PM**

The old man looked down at the gravestone. Tall and thin in a rumpled suit, he stood there for a few moments in silent contemplation, holding a handful of pink flowers.

“Hello, April, I brought you some daisies today. These are the pink ones with yellow centers. The lady at the flower shop called them Strawberry Blushes.” He slowly kneeled next to the headstone and carefully placed the bouquet in the adjacent basin.

“Thought you would like them—not your typical yellow or orange ones. Something a little different this time.” He sighed as he looked at the silent stone.

“Gonna cut the grass tomorrow. The yard is looking pretty good, though not much in the way of flowers the way that you used to like it, but I’m still keeping it tidy.” As he spoke, he brushed the letters and the runners free of pebbly dirt and bits of bark. He let his fingers linger on the words—APRIL G. KRANTZ, 4/23/1985–11/4/2050. God I miss her, he thought to himself.

This was his Friday ritual. He had kept it for the several years since her death. Every Friday after work he would bring her flowers. It was what she had always loved, bright colorful flowers.

“So, typical stuff this week. Young punks broke into some ninety-four-year-old Asian guy’s home and beat him senseless. Guy died a few days later. Apparently stole about two hundred dollars. Tragic—got DNA traces on all of ’em. Probably bring ’em in on Monday. The forensics guys are telling me they are probably fifteen by their epigenetic markers—whatever that means.

“I know I’ve said it in the past, but God, how young are criminals gonna get…” As the old man continued to recount the week’s events, blue letters appeared across his field of view.

DETECTIVE KRANTZ, COMMUNICATION REQUESTED. CONFERENCE CALL WITH SERGEANT ORTIZ IN 10 MINUTES. MATTER CONSIDERED URGENT. PLEASE CONNECT WITH DIVISION HUB 3. THIS IS AN AUTOMATED MESSAGE.

Krantz sighed. “Honestly, April, I don’t know how you convinced me to get these things put in.” The lawn, stone, and flowers remained silent in response. He could still hear her voice in his head. He remembered how she browbeat him into getting these neuroprosthetic implants—“Nobody is using cell phones or laptops anymore,” she had said. “How are we going to communicate with people? How are we going to shop? We need to keep up with the times,” she had said. She was always the modern one. Change was always exciting for her. Finally he had acquiesced, and after about thirty minutes, a few patches of shaved scalp, a little bit of lidocaine, and a brief pinching sensation, his mind and the outside world were forever connected—his thoughts were accessible—for better or worse.

“April, how are we gonna get any peace? That’s what I say.” He felt the small lump behind his ear where the power source was. He was almost tempted to turn it off for a few moments of mental silence.

MEETING IN 5 MINUTES. MATTER CONSIDERED URGENT. PLEASE CONNECT WITH DIVISION HUB 3. THIS IS AN AUTOMATED MESSAGE.

“Well babe, looks like I may have to cut this visit a bit short. Work is work, no escaping it. I’ll be back to see you next week.” The detective lifted himself up and walked toward his car. Amid the trees and shrubs and carved stone, blue-lettered highlights, names, and advertisements all floated in the air. Today it bothered him more than most; he reached behind his ear and pushed on the small bump. I need a break, just for a few minutes. He felt a click and all the images disappeared.