I carry a salad like armor and a linen-wrapped loaf like a peace offering, and the hallway elevator murmurs headlines as I pass—Countdown: Thirteen Days—the voice thin as floss between floors. The city breathes salt through the lobby doors; the bay has coughed fog up our block again, and somewhere a blimp reroutes, gossip stalling along the wind tunnel at the marina. I ring Sera’s bell and tuck my recorder pen into my sleeve, the clip warm against skin.
Sera opens with a smile that creaks. “You’re early,” she says, though I’m ten minutes late. Steam bursts from behind her shoulder and fogs my glasses in a breath; warmth becomes blur, and I stand in a cloud of oregano and cloves and something sweet she added to convince the apartment to be kind.
“Traffic,” I say. “I brought lettuce that refuses to be exciting.”
“I brought carbs that refuse to apologize,” she answers, and steps aside. The smell reaches for me—tomatoes, cinnamon tucked into meat the way our mother taught us when she wanted memory to linger on the tongue. I breathe in and the plastic tip of my glasses slides down my damp nose. I wipe the lenses with the edge of my sleeve, careful not to flash the recorder’s seam.
At the table, Sera has set two plates and a third stacked with napkins in a fan. Her reputation console sleeps face-down. She pours water into heavy glasses that soften every clink, gentling the noise as if good manners could dose away conflict.
“You look,” she says, placing a fork, moving it, placing it again, “less haunted than yesterday.”
“I filmed the chair,” I say, because I don’t want to be soothed into silence. “The interface used the same words as the deposition—authorized benevolence, narrative seam. Leo’s not a patient in their math; he’s a pivot.”
Sera presses the napkin fan flat with her palm. “You sent me drafts of your plan,” she says. “I read them twice, then I did the thing you hate: I asked for help.”
I feel the room tilt. “From who?”
“A friend,” she says, eyes flicking toward the door, guilt tinting the whites a shade darker. “Someone who knows how to talk to the clinic without burning everything.”
The doorbell gives a polite three-note chime. Steam from the casserole sneaks into my lenses again, fog rising like breath on glass, and for a second all I can see is the halo on the studio ceiling, the ring that pretended to declare me clean. I take the cloth from the bread and wipe my glasses dry.
Sera opens the door. The friend carries a winter coat folded over one forearm, and disinfectant rides their cuffs like a signature. They step into the light with a practiced neutral smile and a folder whose tab features two concentric rings. I know logos better than I know my pulse, and my pulse is sprinting.
“Mira,” they say, extending a hand that smells like citrus wipes and expensive lotion. “I’ve admired your work. I help Dr. Gray coordinate nonclinical resolution pathways. Tonight’s just a conversation.”
“Then let’s eat it,” I say, and gesture at the table. My recorder pen hums a confidence I don’t feel.
We serve ourselves. Warm dish steam fogs my glasses between bites; I keep putting them on and taking them off, a metronome for the civility we’re pretending to perform. The first mouthful is cinnamon-forward, sweet tucked into savory, and my tongue remembers our mother’s hospital nights, the way she snuck sugar into stew to keep us sitting at the table when grief made us skittish.
The associate holds the fork like a stylus. “Mira, your concerns are valid. Sera, your responsibilities are heavy. We propose a short-term healing package for Leo—non-invasive, compassionate guidance across two televised moments: pre-commitment and real-time reconciliation. The audience will understand your family’s love, and Leo will benefit from support cues.”
“Support cues,” I repeat, tasting the metal in those syllables. “Do the cues have units?”
“We don’t discuss units at dinner,” the associate says, amusement barely ruffling their voice. “Only outcomes.”
Sera adds salad to my plate without asking, a muscle memory from when we were kids and she portioned fairness like medicine. “What outcomes,” she asks, “for him.”
“Reduced panic. Clarity. Closure.” The associate touches the folder the way people touch hymnals. “And control of narrative across partner platforms. We want to protect you from bad actors online.”
“By becoming your actors on camera,” I say.
“By stewarding your story,” they correct gently, and the consonants land like felted hammers on a piano. “We ask for consent to curate recall guidance. It’s all standard. Tonight is simply informed.”
I put down my fork. “Bring out the forms,” I say. “Let’s taste those.”
The associate glides the folder open and slides a stack across the table, paper warm from being held. The top page wears the halo icon—a faint watermark that pretends purity. Clipped to the side is a pen heavier than mine, engraved with a ring. I touch the first sheet and it hums up my fingertips like a fridge motor. Fine print curls in paragraphs dense enough to suffocate.
Sera inhales through her nose. “It’s a lot,” she says, voice softening the letters.
I read quickly, lips barely moving, audio muscle trained for stealth. Participant and Family Member(s) consent to the curation and broadcast of narrative elements; Participant’s bio-telemetry may be used to enhance empathy alignment; derivative content may be generated to promote closure outcomes; all on-the-fly reconciliations are medically supervised by Curalis affiliates. The phrasing is maple syrup poured over barbed wire.
I slow at a clause mid-page because the words tilt the room: Authorized benevolence may be engaged to reduce interpretive friction during live proceedings.
My chest presses against bone like it wants out. I clear my throat. “Sera,” I say, “listen to how they bless control.”
I read the sentence aloud, letting each syllable touch air it can’t be edited out of later. “Authorized benevolence may be engaged to reduce interpretive friction during live proceedings.”
Sera’s fork stops midair. “Interpretive friction,” she repeats. “You mean Leo might disagree.”
The associate offers a smile that has never known a kitchen. “We mean the audience may misinterpret distress. Authorized benevolence corrects that.”
“With what,” I ask, “comfort injection? Compliance fade?” I keep my voice flat, but my wrists want to drum the table. Steam fogs my glasses again; the stew breath coats my mouth with sugar that tastes like a dare.
The associate hesitates just long enough to confirm I’m not guessing. “We don’t discuss units,” they say again, softer. “We discuss outcomes.”
I slip my hand under the tablecloth and nudge the recorder pen toward the edge of my plate so its mic can drink. “Another clause,” I say. “Family statements may be edited for clarity and brevity, including post-event reconciliation content. That means you can rewrite what Sera says to fit a length and tone.”
“We always honor intent,” the associate replies, and taps the halo watermark as if it’s proof.
“Who decides intent,” I ask, “the person with the pulse or the person with the switchboard?”
The room shrinks to the sound of the casserole settling and the soft traffic hiss behind fogged windows. Sera presses the paper flat, then folds one corner and unfolds it, folding again, crease louder each time.
“There’s a sponsor stipend,” the associate says, adjusting tone like a slider. “It offsets time off work, travel, any supportive care not covered. I know the ledger you carry, Sera.”
I feel Sera’s shoulders hitch beside me, a memory tugging her posture toward spreadsheets and IV invoices. The program targets families at their softest points, and my sister’s soft point is a ledger she thinks she should have balanced better than God.
“Read the stipend line,” I say, because love sometimes is a mean friend to fear. “Out loud with me.”
We read together, syllables mismatched like poorly trained singers: “Acceptance of stipend constitutes agreement that appearances and biometric patterns are content within the meaning of—” She stops. Her hands shake. The halo icon swims on the page when my glasses fog again; I clean the lenses with the hem of the linen that once wrapped the bread.
“They want to own his panic,” I say. “They want to own our mother’s words when we use them to steady him.”
The associate laces their fingers, pen-centered like a compass. “We want to honor your family,” they answer. “We want to create an environment where healing is not shouted down by noise.”
“You mean my archive,” I say. “You mean my audio. You mean anything that contradicts your camera.”
Sera’s voice lands low in her throat. “If we sign,” she asks, “can we withdraw Leo later if it’s not helping?”
The associate turns to the final page, the signature forest. “We can request edits to the plan,” they say. “Withdrawal mid-process creates narrative confusion that can—”
“Hurt the brand,” I cut in. “Say the quiet part.”
They blink, then counter with practiced gentleness. “Hurt the viewers who need closure.”
Micro-hook: My hand finds the recorder pen like a pulse and I hear the click I didn’t make; the room becomes a microphone swallowing itself.
I push my chair back an inch and let the legs scuff the tile, a small abrasion of sound to keep me awake in my body. “Sera,” I say, “I will back your choice in public even if I disagree in private. But I want you to see that this asks you to convert Leo into legal content. If he flinches, they get B-roll.”
She doesn’t look at me. She looks at the line where her name would live, her mouth pressed into a pale hyphen. Her finger traces the halo icon and stops as if the rings might burn. “What if this helps him,” she whispers. “What if the chair calms him? What if we’re tired of being the family with storms?”
The associate hears the tremor and leans in, voice lowered like a secret placed in a palm. “This package is designed for families who carry too much and sleep too little. We will take some of that weight.”
I flip a page and point at a clause that tastes like copper when I read it, the way a bitten lip does. “Participant consents to environment sonic enhancement to optimize recall comfort. That’s not taking weight—that’s putting a hand on a scale.”
Sera’s eyes lift to mine and I watch two storms meet: one named Fear, one named Pride. She closes the folder. “Not tonight,” she says, and her voice is her school-office voice, the one that moves grown men off her carpet. “I won’t sign tonight.”
Relief staggers me, not victory—just breath I didn’t realize I was auctioning off to survive the hour. The associate catches the shift and paints their face with regret the way PR people fold napkins.
“I respect carefulness,” they say, rising. “I’ll leave the packet so you can consult counsel. A courier can collect tomorrow. We’re on your side.”
“Sides have contracts,” I say. “People have hands.” I don’t offer mine.
At the door, they pause and glance at the casserole like it might consent to an endorsement. “Wonderful meal,” they add, a final kindness sharpened to a hook. “Our audience loves meals.”
When the door shuts, deadbolt meeting strike with a flat kiss, the room exhales. The fog at the window presses to the glass, rearranging the streetlights into smudged halos that promise purity and hide capture.
Sera keeps her hand on the folder as if it might run. Her other hand curls around the table’s edge until the knuckles pale. “You recorded,” she says, not asking.
“Yes,” I answer. “For both of us.”
She nods, then shakes her head, two movements that cancel each other out. “I hate that we need machines to be believed,” she says softly. “I hate that I invited one into my kitchen.”
“To be believed,” I say, “I keep submitting to the machine that erases me. I’m trying to build another way.”
Her laugh is short and salt-stung. “Do you think they’re right?”
“About what?”
“About viewers who need closure.” She looks at the folder again. “About me.”
I take the linen from the bread and fold it into squares, press, breathe—my mother’s ritual hiding in my hands. “I think healing demands remembering,” I say. “They sell forgetting as cure.”
Sera sits, stands, sits again. She pours water and doesn’t drink. The elevator screen in her hallway whispers Thirteen Days like a lullaby written by litigation. Finally she says, “If I don’t sign, who will believe us? If I do, who will we be after?”
“I have an anchor,” I say. “A local. Sympathetic. Off the record for now.” I let the sentence hover, a bridge not yet crossed. “We can bring our packet.”
She stares at my recorder pen as if it might answer. “Do you trust them?”
“I trust timing,” I say, which is not the same and both of us know it.
She slides the packet toward me and then pulls it back halfway, a tug-of-war with paper. “I won’t sign tonight,” she repeats, pressing down until the halo watermark disappears under the oil from our dinner. “But I’m keeping this to read again.”
Micro-hook: The folder stays on her table like a primed device; my phone vibrates with a number I don’t recognize and a message preview that reads: We heard about dinner. Ready when you are. I don’t open it yet; the room already has its own detonator.
We eat the last bites cold. The cinnamon has sunk deeper into the sauce and the sugar has glazed the top like honesty that got sticky in the air. When I stand to leave, Sera grips my sleeve.
“If I change my mind,” she says, “promise you’ll come anyway. Even if you hate me for it.”
“I won’t hate you,” I say, because that promise is the only thing that survives shows. “I’ll fight the script.”
In the hallway, the fog has thickened until the drones blink through it like distant, tired saints. A blimp slides by in silhouette and the wind tunnel steals half its sound. I watch the shape pass and wonder how many families are being routed at this hour toward a studio that sells resolution by the pound.
The door behind me stays shut, the deadbolt a small, stubborn star. I hold the recorder pen and feel the dinner’s heat seep into its metal body. I scroll the file name with my thumb—Kitchen_Consent_1.wav—and tell myself not to publish.
The elevator whispers again: Thirteen Days. I pocket the pen and ask the night the question I can’t put back in my mouth: If we don’t let them heal us in public, will anyone count us healed?