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brittle. This guy standing over my stuff—he’s looking at me and what he sees is person shaped, but I don’t think he’s seeing a person.
    Charles is all pumped up. His face is flushed with blood and I can see a vein in his neck throbbing. His hands are shaking from adrenaline as he speaks. “Joe Vaughn’s been on the TV, warning us about you people for years. Taking our jobs and messing up the schools and blowing up buildings.”
    “You can’t kick me out. There’s still five months on my lease.”
    “Not no more. State law says you amps can’t go into contracts with normal people. Just like I can’t sign no contract with a retard, you can’t sign one with me. You’re too
smart
.”
    “That law is being challenged, Charles. It’s not official.”
    “Highest court in the country thinks it is. The Supremegoddamn Court of the United States of America says you ain’t protected. So I guess it
is
the law.”
    The word “law” rings in my ears. Dominoes are falling. No contracts? Meaning no lease, no marriage, no job. No life.
    A few more people have stopped to rubberneck. A couple. An older guy. Most are just curious. Others are scrutinizing my stuff, sizing it up.
    Charles curls his hands into fists, lets them hang by his sides like rotten fruit. Through clenched teeth he says, “You gotta go
now
.”
    I lean over and scrabble through the box, dig out an old duffel bag. “Give me a damn minute—”
    Now a couple of people are just grabbing stuff. Others watch, blinking slowly. The thieves walk away without looking at me. The old guy carefully steps over my hand like it was a crack in the sidewalk, holding my lamp.
    “I’m calling the goddamn cops,” says Charles.
    I drop to my knees and start shoving things into the duffel bag. Clothes, shoes, a box of granola bars. Appliances are too heavy to carry. Laptop is gone. Forget the furniture.
    As pedestrians gawk, silent people carry away the puzzle pieces of my life. They see through me, hear past me. The expressions in their eyes are unreadable. I wonder why this is. Do they pity me? Or are they afraid? Is it possible that they really feel nothing at all?
    I hope this scene isn’t playing out all over the nation. People like me struggling to grab what they can. Whole families, even. Grasping at the leftover shards of their lives. If that’s the case, it doesn’t really matter what these vulture people around me are thinking or feeling. Whether I’m less than human or more than human—animal or god—it’s all the same.
    I’m not a real citizen anymore. Rules no longer apply.
    When my bag is full, I move on. Leave Charles on the sidewalk,staring at me with clenched fists and a tight grin. I push past the onlookers and get myself on down the road.
    It’s all on little pieces of paper. Thou shalt not. Thou shalt. The rules are there so that we can remember them and follow them. If the rules were obvious, we wouldn’t have to write them down.
    I let my hair hang over the nub on my temple and step inside my bank and wait in line. I can feel the stares like cigarette burns on my skin. A security guard watches me, his back to the wall, beefy hands resting on his belt. I look around without seeing anything, push my breaths in and out through my nose. The teller is cautious but she lets me withdraw everything in my account. She stuffs about eighteen hundred dollars into an envelope.
    I walk out of the bank, forcing myself not to run. Keep walking. Thinking.
    In a frigid fast-food restaurant, I take my phone out of my pocket and call Allderdice High School. The administrative assistant tells me that all amps, I mean implantees, have been placed on unpaid leave. And the police called to speak to me, again.
    “Hey, buddy, let me see your temple,” calls a chubby guy a few seats over. He and his friend wear painter’s caps and overalls, eat burgers with stained fingers.
    I ignore him, hang up my phone. Then, I methodically dial my friends. Nobody answers.