TOXIC WEST · HYBRID
Zuri Bwehani
I open dead machines in the rain yards for whatever still hums inside them. The buyers in the Flow pay by the gram, and every gram goes to the clinic that sells my little sister her breath.
Zuri came back from the rain yards with sparks still caught in her hair and a vial of airway compound in her fist, and she would not say what she had cut open to pay for it. She only put her tail around my shoulders the way she did when we were small, and told me to sleep.
Zuri opens dead machines in the rain. Every gram she sells buys her little sister another week of breathing. — L.


