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  Although none of the mass-produced versions of the Forgetful line contain the surprise storylets, they do have a select number of “The Forgiveness Quilt” sentences screen-printed onto them. Within 24 hours of Mr. Lafitte’s unveiling, department store sales of the clothing skyrocketed 500 percent.

  “Auntie gave me gravy with peanuts in it. I nearly died. I forgive her.”

  —Malawi group project, “The Forgiveness Quilt”

  By the time Wenda dragged herself from sleep the next day, the gallery manager and Toulema had between them left seven messages in her voice mail. She texted them both to tell them she’d be at the gallery in an hour. When she got there, the manager was jigging around just inside the front door, waiting for her. He said, “Can you tell me what’s going on here, Wenda?”

  Wenda approached her project table. What she saw made her clap her hands in glee. The table was twice as full of manikins as it had been the day before. Having no further orders programmed into them, they milled around restlessly. But each of the original ones had done its job—raided the city’s antique and thrift stores, found another atrocity similar to itself, and touched it, imbuing it with iwin as well. Then they’d all come back here.

  Wenda used her cell phone to videotape documentation showing that there were now more poppets than before. The manager’s questions became more strident. She handed him her cell phone. “Would you record this next bit for me?” she asked. “No sound, though.” Wouldn’t do to have anyone be able to copy the tune.

  She stood in front of the table and played the “cease” notes. The manikins went still. Wenda ached to see their unlife taken away from them. Just memorabilia, she reminded herself. Not the real thing. She took her phone back from the manager and thanked him. “They’re deactivated now,” she told him. “Permanently.”

  Then she caught a bus to campus. Term wasn’t over yet. She had a discussion to lead that afternoon. Still needed that paycheck, after all.

  “Twelve hours working every day in running shoe factory. I have twelve years old. I forgive you.”

  —From the Malawi “Forgiveness Quilt,” author anonymous

  COUTURIER AGNETTA BURRI ARRESTED

  Oh my darlings, how the pricey have fallen! Hold on for the ride; this scandal’s going to be a bumpy one.

  Last year, we couldn’t get enough of tech-startup-whiz-kid-turned-designer Agnetta Burri’s Forgetful clothing line. We fell over ourselves in the department stores to pay a good portion of a month’s wages for “destructed” fashion that looked as though it’d been through a trash compactor, then vomited on by a toddler who’d eaten too many Skittles.

  But as expensive as the ready-to-wear version of the line was, customized pieces cost a pretty penny more. The 17 wealthy or famous-enough souls who snapped these pieces up received a little something extra woven right into the fabric: invisible micro-robots that sank into the wearer’s skin like shea butter, causing the wearers to randomly recite snappy little phrases from the Malawi “Forgiveness Quilt” project for a week. More about the quilt project later.

  After seven days of using their owners as their mouthpieces, the wee robots would deactivate, break down into their component parts, and be flushed harmlessly out of the body. I’m sure you can guess how. Does it all sound just a bit . . . science fiction-y, my dears? Of course it does. The future is here, and we must come to terms with it.

  There’s a catch, though—a glitch in the programming. The tiny micro-nanites don’t deactivate or break down before exiting their hosts and being flushed into our sewage systems. In fact, scientists are fearing that some of them may be replicating themselves. The problem was first detected when doctors began reporting on rare but mysterious cases of people developing short-lived urges to quote words of wisdom from “The Forgiveness Quilt” project. (For me, the real horror is imagining how the nanites are getting from our sewers into other people’s bodies. And now I bet you’re imagining it too, aren’t you? Good. I shouldn’t have to bear this burden alone.)

  It turns out that La Burri isn’t the hotshot programmer she told us she was. In fact, she didn’t do the work at all. She put a team of coders together, then snatched their work from them before it was finished because she wanted to have the Forgetful clothing line ready in time for the Paris season.

  And “The Forgiveness,” my darlings? That heart-warming meme about a group of young African girls using the power of knitting to forgive us all our sins? An utter fabrication, invented by Agnetta Burri to boost her sales! She took a chance on the tried-and-true technique of marrying fashion with light blackface, and as ever, scads of us found it irresistible. Burri didn’t even write the homilies herself! That was uncredited wordsmithing by the artisans who toil in her couture outfit, custom-fitting every dart, pleat, and cunningly shaped French seam.

  Overnight, Agnetta Burri has gone from Forbes woman of the year and youngest self-made billionaire to pariah. Forbes has revised its estimate of her net worth to zero, and Fortune magazine just declared her one of the “World’s Most Disappointing Leaders.” Her trial is set for later this year.

  In the meantime, my lovelies, if you find yourself mysteriously quoting the words of an overworked sequin setter in a Paris design house, don’t worry. It’ll pass in a week or so. It’s happening to more and more people nowadays. In fact, it’s all the rage.

  “Tourists come to see our dolphins. They leave trash that kills the dolphins. Do the dolphins forgive them?”

  —From Burri hoax “The Forgiveness Quilt”

  Wenda was surprised to see who her visitor was. Usually it was family coming to see her. Even though the charge had only been petty theft, the judge had decided to make an example of her Black ass. A ten-year sentence for making away with a handful of tchotchkes. Whereas this chick had thrown money at her even bigger problem, paid a few million in damages, and had never done a day of jail time. Wenda breathed down the bitter. She knew the way of the world. Had getting herself put in here made even a bit of difference?

  She sat at the long table. In a line on either side of her, other inmates were holding conversations with visitors through the plexiglass barrier. There was laughter, tears, shouting: the usual. She picked the phone up and stared at the chicly understated woman sitting across from her. “Ms. Burri,” Wenda said, “what can I do for you?”

  To Wenda’s surprise, Agnetta Burri’s eyes were glistening with tears. “How did you do it?” she said. “How did you get them to come back? How did you turn them off?”

  Idiot of a woman. Had other people do her work for her, and couldn’t even get that right. Her tech team had quit, had blacklisted her in the industry, and she couldn’t figure out how to undo her own mistake. Wenda replied, “I’ll tell you how. You’ll have to visit my friend for part of it. He graduated in my same year. But I’ll need you to do two things for me.”

  “So yeah,” said Mèdouze’s tinny voice over the phone. “Nobody knows who did it, but our whole graduating year had their student loans completely paid off! Undergrad, grad, every discipline, every major! Isn’t that wild?”

  “Really?” said Wenda. “Everyone?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Even me too, I guess. I should get my mom to check.” That’d be handy, to get out of prison with no school debt.

  Mèdouze said, “You don’t sound surprised.”

  “It’s hard to surprise me anymore. Listen, my phone time is almost up.”

  “Right. Hey, some woman called. She wants that creepy whistle of yours.”

  Huh. Agnetta was really going to try it. “I know who she is. Give it to her. Pretty sure she’ll get it back to you.” The guard was coming her way. “Gotta go, honey. Love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  Three days later, puzzled emptiness was echoing through the “Black Memorabilia” sections of the online auction platforms, at least for a moment; for a few blessed hours, there were no listings for “Cute Little Black Boy Figurines” or “Black Americana.” Vint
age shops were reporting thefts, though some people swore they’d watched the collectibles march out of the stores under their own steam. Agnetta Burri was keeping her second promise.

  2082

  “My parents are making me marry a man five times my age. Someday, I may forgive them.”

  —Phrase in the style of “The Forgiveness Quilt” coined by a rogue nanite

  In the middle of the night, Xiomara’s phone rang, waking her up.

  Why wasn’t Perry in bed beside her?

  The phone kept ringing. Scared now, she answered it. Her heart started slamming in her chest. She said, “I’ll be right there, Officer.”

  It was nearly 2:30 a.m. by the time she got herself and Perry safely back home. Xiomara put her purse on the living room table. “Come, sit,” she said to Perry. She took him by the hand and led him to the couch, but he just stood there in front of it. His face was drawn. So she said, “Let me tell you a story.” Six years married, and they still played this game with each other.

  He gave her a quizzical look; her timing was odd, and she knew it. But he lay on the couch. He had to bend his knees in order to fit. He put his head in her lap. He was trembling. So was she. She took three fibrillating breaths to collect her thoughts and began. “There once was a woman who collected ghosts.” Now, where in the world had that come from? Oh, right. Her grandmother and her precious iwin. Xiomara hadn’t thought about that story in years.

  “Was she a sister?” Perry’s voice shook. “The ghost collector?”

  “Yes, a sister. Beautifully Black as a moonless night, with one hell of a ’fro. Like Angela Davis in the 1970s big. No, twice as big. A ’fro high as mountains.”

  “Old-school woman, then.”

  “The oldest. And curves like LA freeways.”

  “Yes, Lord.” His body had relaxed a little against her thighs.

  Xiomara snapped her fingers to get the house’s attention. She conjured up a drawing pad. The transparent rectangle hung in the air, outlined in green light. She tapped the screen to get the haptics going, selected a clean pencil line of deep, warm brown. A few strokes with her index finger to outline the suggestion of a face, sturdy nose, chewy lips. Lines of experience deepening the face’s beauty. A calm resolve in the eyes. Sure, that could be Nan-Nan as Xiomara remembered her.

  “And in that hair,” Xiomara said, “was where she kept the ghosts.”

  Perry’s eyes were closed, as though he was drifting off to sleep. After a few seconds, he muttered, “What kinds of ghosts in her hair?”

  “What kinds do you want?”

  “Happy ones.”

  She shook her head. “No Caspers. Not in my story. Think again.”

  He considered for a second. He sat up and leaned over her lap so he too could draw on the screen. “Ghosts of the should,” he said. He used his index finger to tap all around the woman’s head. “Ghosts of the will. Hoodoo spirits, their hearts overflowing with centuries of rage. H’ants holding their torn-out eyes in their hands, yet still bearing witness. Duppies and jumbies, and their jamboree is a revolution.” He kept going until Nan-Nan was adorned with a halo of hair. And still he kept tapping at the screen till he was jabbing, stabbing with those fingers and the screen was flashing REDUCE FORCE, REDUCE FORCE.

  Xiomara reached out and covered his hand with both of hers. Not that she could do so completely; those big hands were two of the many things she loved about her man. He curled his fingers into his palm and himself into her embrace. He was shaking again. She rocked him as best she could. He tilted his head back, letting her shoulder support it. His eyes were shut. After a time, he gave a shuddery sigh. Opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling. Low, he muttered, “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Don’t give them any reason to notice you. None.”

  “I didn’t!”

  “Did you put the renewal sticker on your license plate, like I told you?”

  “Two days ago.”

  “Did they think you were someone else?”

  He kept staring up into the white nothing of the ceiling above them. “No. They stopped me because they felt like it.” He bit his lips. “They impounded my car. But first they tore the seats apart. Tore them to shreds. Foam and cotton everywhere. I asked them what they were looking for. That’s when they slammed me down over the hood. One of them put his gun right in my face.”

  Her stomach leapt up into her throat. “Perry, they could have killed you!”

  “Let it go, Xiomara. Yes, they stopped me. Yes, they pulled their guns on me even though I had both hands in the air and they could clearly see I was unarmed. They wrenched my shoulder good; I could hear the joint creaking—”

  A single sob burst from Xiomara’s lips.

  “—but they didn’t shoot me. I’m not dead. I’m not the statistic this time.”

  “This time.”

  “Yeah, this time! In this world, in this country, that’s the best I can do!”

  “It isn’t good enough!”

  They were both breathing hard. Her arms around him had tightened into steel. He winced, trying to shift his shoulder. Xiomara relaxed her grip. Got her breathing under control. “I’m sorry, lover. I’m just glad you’re home.”

  He didn’t answer. She tried again: “Can I get you an ice pack for your shoulder?”

  He started shivering again. “No ice pack,” he said through chattering teeth. “A couple of ibuprofen would be nice. And some mint tea.”

  “That’s it? You sure?”

  “Yeah. I’ll take tomorrow off, go to the doctor first thing.”

  In the kitchen, Xiomara used the whistling of the kettle to hide the sound of her racking sobs. Then she washed her face and took Perry his tea and the meds.

  They went to bed. Eventually, Perry fell asleep, but Xiomara couldn’t. Ghosts of the should, he’d said. Ghosts of the will.

  Xiomara sat straight up in bed. She’d just had the most outrageous idea. I mean, who would do something like that? Who would even consider it?

  But the notion wouldn’t go away, so consider it she must. It was a terrible idea. She eased herself out of bed and went to the living room. She animated the drawing of the woman she and Perry had done together, giving it three dimensions. It did look a bit like her long-gone Nan-Nan. Xiomara hadn’t spoken with Wenda’s memory bank in years. Wenda’d been a badass. They put her in prison, but she went and found herself the best girlfriend ever in there. And when they were both finally out, they went and found themselves another. Together, the three of them had revived Agnetta Burri’s failed tech startup, the one from before Burri’s ill-fated designer exploits, and turned it into what it’d set out to be in the first place.

  Xiomara turned the image on the screen into an icon, linked it to her grandmother’s avatar, and called Wenda up.

  The avatar’s eyes brightened in recognition. It smiled at her with Nan-Nan’s mischievous grin. “Hey, Xiomara.”

  “Hey, Nan-Nan. It’s good to hear your voice.”

  “What’s up, sweetie? You look as though you have something on your mind.”

  Xiomara chuckled. Alive or dead, Nan-Nan could always tell. Her memory bank was a far cry from sentient. But it could be uncanny. She remembered that from just after Nan-Nan died. In her grief, Xiomara would talk to Nan-Nan’s avatar for hours every night, until it told her out of the blue that her friends were probably missing her, and she should start hanging out with them again.

  Xiomara said, “I just need someone to talk to. Perry’s asleep right now. Nan-Nan, there are still wild micro-nanites out there from that crazy designer lady, right?”

  “Yeah. They didn’t all come back to her. At least she managed to switch off their ability to replicate, and that was good enough. The few remaining ones will degrade eventually.”

  “I could turn it back on, though. The replication.”

  Nan-Nan smiled. “I know you could. You take after your grandma.” Then Nan-Nan’s eyes went wide, a convincing imitation of life. “But yo
u aren’t serious, are you? Why would you want to do that?”

  “First I’d have to reprogram them. Make them able to alter gene markers for race.”

  She told Nan-Nan her idea. When she was done, the AI busted out laughing, so loud that Xiomara had to turn the sound down so as not to wake Perry. “You want to make everyone Black!”

  “Maybe? But, Nan-Nan, here’s what I’m trying to figure out. Whiteness already tries to take everything they want from Blackness. Must they have our skins, too? What evidence would be left of our authentic selves?” As she spoke, Xiomara brought the avatar’s hair to life with ghost after angry, howling ghost. Ghosts that had been enslaved. “And what about everyone else’s identities? There are more than just white and Black people in the world.” She packed more and more ghosts into the image’s hair. Ghosts that had had a dream.

  Nan-Nan smiled. Quietly, she said: “Those already paranoid people who are convinced that whiteness is being bred out of existence would really lose their shit.”

  Xiomara chuckled. “Yeah.”

  “Darling, do you still have the whistle?”

  “Yes, Nan-Nan.” It was one of her most prized possessions.

  “Well, your name does mean ‘battle ready,’ after all. If you decide to do this, I’ll teach you the two tunes: start code and kill code.”

  “You’d do that for me?”

  “Of course, my lovely. It’s all up to you. Just say the word.”

  Xiomara thanked the memory bank and dismissed it. That left only the avatar on the screen. Xiomara stared at it for a long minute. The Nan-Nan that Xiomara knew had had a big ’fro, but she’d seen pics of a younger Nan-Nan, with fat, bouncy dreadlocs down to her hips.

  Xiomara began to work on the image again. She cloned the ghosts that made up its hair until the hair separated into sections and lengthened into thick black coils hanging down past its shoulders, each coil a tangled mass, strong and toothy as barbed wire, of striving and fighting and dying and loving and laughing and birthing and singing and worshipping and being uppity or cowed or jubilant or sad and fighting fighting fighting and never giving up. Ghosts that had led their people to freedom.