Zero History

a perfect topic for conversation. Fiona was working, technically, because she had to
assemble the new drone from the parts in the two cartons, but she seemed to enjoy that. It
involved a set of small screwdrivers mainly, color-coded hex wrenches, and videos on a
website on his Air, via the red dongle. A company in Michigan, two brothers, twins, with
matching eyeglasses and chambray shirts.
It didn’t look like a helicopter, though it did have those eight rotors. It was built of
black foam, with a bumper of some other black material around its edge, and two rows of
four holes, in which the rotors were installed. It stood on four slanted wire legs now,
about six inches above the table. Its four batteries, currently charging at a wall socket,
slotted into each of the corners, equalizing weight. It had a slender, streamlined black
plastic fuselage underneath, housing the camera and electronics.
“No testing this indoors,” she said, putting down the screwdriver. “It’s together, though.
I’m exhausted. Up all night. Feel like a nap?”
“A nap?”
“On your foam. It’s wide enough. You sleep last night?”
“Not really.”
“Let’s have a nap.”
Milgrim looked from one blank white wall to the next, then up at the black ray and the
silver penguin. “Okay,” he said.
“Turn off your laptop.” She stood up while Milgrim shut the Air down. She walked
over to the umbrella light and dialed it down low. “I can’t sleep with these pants on,” she
said. “There’s Kevlar.”
“Right,” said Milgrim.
There was a ripping of Velcro, and then the sound of a zip. A big one, by the sound of
it. Something, maybe Kevlar, rustled to the floor. She stepped out of the armored pants,
already barefoot, and went to the white foam, which seemed to glow faintly. “Come on,”
she said, “I can barely keep my eyes open.”
“Okay,” said Milgrim.
“You can’t sleep in Tanky & Tojo,” she said.
“Right,” Milgrim said, and began to remove his shirt, which had far too many buttons
on each sleeve. When he’d gotten it off, he hung it on the back of the chair, over his new
jacket, and took off his pants.
He could see her, dimly, pulling the MontBell out of its bag. He felt like screaming, or
singing, something. He walked toward the foam, then realized he was wearing his black
socks from Galeries Lafayette. That seemed wrong. He stopped and removed them,
almost falling over.
“Get under,” Fiona said, having spread the open bag as wide as it would go. “Good
thing I never use a pillow.”
“Me neither,” lied Milgrim, sitting down, tucking his socks quickly under the edge of
the foam. He swung his legs under the Mont-Bell and lay down, very straight, beside her.