The sun was nearly gone when I finally woke up. Dusk was settling in, the last orange light slipping between the buildings. I was still alive, which meant I still had to try.
I figured I'd try to find a job again.
But in the year 2026, that's easier said than done—especially when your profession has been made obsolete. As a hardware technician, there wasn't much room left for me in a world built on replacement instead of repair. Machines weren't fixed anymore. They were discarded and swapped out by automated systems that worked faster and cheaper than any human could.
That's how I ended up here.
A back alley, hidden between tall buildings that trapped the humidity and heat like a furnace. I searched for somewhere to rest before the night air turned cold. Summer days burned, but the nights still had a bite to them.
The best shelter I could find was behind a trash container—one of those massive industrial dumpsters that only a truck could lift.
Not exactly home.
But it would have to do for the night.
I don't know how I ended up here.
When I was a kid—barely a teenager—I could cannibalize equipment just by looking at it. Robotic arms, computer parts, tiny gadgets that most people wouldn't even bother opening. If it had screws, wires, or circuits, I could take it apart and figure out how it worked.
I had a kind of technological hunger back then.
Not just curiosity—something stronger. A need to understand. To break things down, study them, and rebuild them into something better.
I was willing to do whatever it took to learn. Manuals, broken machines, scrap piles—anything was a classroom if you knew what to look for.
And somehow… that still wasn't enough.
The world changed faster than I did. Repair became replacement. Knowledge became obsolete overnight.
I laid there thinking about that, staring up at the thin strip of sky between the buildings, wondering what it would take just to find something to eat tomorrow.
Eventually the thoughts blurred together.
I fell asleep on the warm pavement, the dumpster behind me acting as a shield against the night air. It wasn't comfortable, but it was something—a small barrier between me and the cold.
For now, it was enough.
But I woke up suddenly in a pool of sweat.
At first I thought I heard a plane overhead. A deep buzzing sound cut through the quiet alley. That didn't make sense. In the United States, planes aren't allowed to go supersonic over cities or break the sound barrier above buildings.
Still half asleep, I looked up toward the sky between the rooftops.
Then I realized the truth.
It wasn't a plane.
It was the low electric whine of a garbage truck.
One of those massive, irritating electric ones that glide through the streets almost silently until they're right on top of you.
Before I could even react, the truck rolled into the alley and stopped beside the dumpster I had been sleeping behind.
The mechanical arms unfolded.
Slow.
Precise.
Automatic.
As the forks slid forward to grab the container, I scrambled to move out of the way. My body was sluggish from sleep and exhaustion.
Too slow.
One of the steel forks slammed into my chest.
The air exploded out of my lungs as I screamed and tried to pull myself free. I kicked, clawed, and shouted, but the truck didn't react. The automated system didn't see me. To it, I was just another piece of debris behind the dumpster.
The forks lifted.