(to the drone) I used to mean something. Not truth. Not justice. Just… the feeling that Monday morning wasn’t the enemy.
FLASH: A suburban street, identical houses. Ms. Americana knocks on each door. Behind them, people scroll. Behind Door 7, a man watches her on Ring camera, then mutes the notification. Behind Door 12, a child asks, “Mom, is she a bot?” The mom says, “Close the blind, honey.”
Verdict is in. You are guilty of being nostalgic in a non-linear timeline. Sentencing: one final parade.
The drone’s battery dies. It falls silently.
(laughs, dry) I passed the bar in ’04. Doesn’t matter. You can’t sue a feeling.
She lights the sparkler. It hisses. Then fizzles.
Trial Two: The Loneliness Epidemic. You were supposed to be the girl next door. But the doors are all locked now.