When the Patrons first appeared, we were not thinking about our jollies, or wealth and material benefits, or technological advancements they might share with our kind, so awed we were by their presence. Those first weeks felt like a dream, like the doctored images of aliens in the Weekly World News my mother used to leaf through at the kitchen table. Gradually, videos spread online, and not just footage from grainy dash cams. Drone footage captured the Patrons in HD, putting all conspiracy theories to rest. They were real, as beautiful as they were terrifying. And as much as you hoped the Patrons would select you, the lucky ones were always taken off guard, not thinking of recording the astonishing event on their phones. We guessed this was part of their power: you were so captivated by their presence that ordinary actions were lost. Others hypothesized one could endure staring at the Patrons for only so long; that after a certain amount of time, gazing upon them would send you into shock. We didn’t know the science behind it. Everything felt tentative and exhilarating, like swimming for the very first time; when your mother lets go of your body in the water and you discover you can float.  

The first time I saw videos of the Patrons, I was working in the library with Stephanie. We’d both gotten jobs at our community branch, taking different paths to get there. By the time I’d gotten my English degree, Stephanie had three kids. We’d become friends in high school speech therapy; Stephanie had been mute, and I stuttered, something that more or less resolved itself except when I was stressed or tired. We passed a notebook back and forth in English class, writing poems about boys we had crushes on, seeing who could come up with the most ridiculous line. Now that we shared most shifts together, we liked to get our jollies—that was what we called the small pleasures in life—reading horoscopes or watching online dance videos. We lacked the coordination to pull off the choreography, but on slow shifts, we recorded ourselves, laughing when we watched our ridiculous movements back.

I was late for work—my father had come home from his night shift as a janitor and I had to wait for him to shower before I could finish getting ready. The water was tainted with lead and the municipal government had recently sent new filters, which made the water stream out in a slow trickle. I didn’t know if it was the lead or the mold in the bathroom, but my father and I had both developed pale markings on our backs, which he’d taken to calling our “fawn spots.” We experimented with an array of antifungal shampoos, but nothing made the spots go away.

When I clocked in, Stephanie already had the video queued up at the front desk. The first few seconds resembled any other TMZ clip, showing the famous singer at a restaurant in Los Angeles. Then a cloud hovered over her, and from its billows, a long skinny arm reached out, its flesh so pale it appeared iridescent, delicate blue veins pulsing underneath. The singer’s sunglasses dropped from her face as a sound like a crackle of thunder blasted from the computer; the singer seemed to listen intently before tears streamed down her face, and the cloud vanished. This all happened in the span of a minute or less. The singer rose from the table as if in a daze, leaving her designer purse, and as we’d later learn, calling her manager to cancel all upcoming appearances. A press release stated she was humbled to have been selected by the Patrons and would spend the next few weeks preparing for “the journey of a lifetime.”

Slowly, videos featuring supermodels, influencers, and tech moguls trickled in. Each time, a cloud hovered above the chosen before a pale arm reached out, and the selected human heard a silent voice they were never able to fully recount. A few weeks later, the pods appeared outside their residences, the chosen boarding the ruby eggs with serene expressions, wearing athleisure and carrying no luggage. Soon after, documents leaked; the singer left her mother the entirety of her fortune, the wealthy son of a diplomat sold his penthouse. Neither planned a return trip.

“Would you go if you were chosen?” Stephanie asked one morning after the pods had just taken our favorite yoga influencer.

“I don’t think you have a choice, really,” I said. I was feeling tired and stumbled over my words a little. “An arm reaches out of a cloud and says, ‘You’ve been selected to leave Earth.’ What are you going to do, say no?”

“I would say no,” Stephanie said. “I wouldn’t leave my kids behind.”

We could only imagine where the chosen had gone. NASA was unable to trace the pods’ flight paths; it was as though they’d vanished into black holes. But we all had theories. Stephanie guessed they were forming a new race of superhumans on a planet not ravaged by climate change. My father thought the Patrons were from the future, taking their ancestors home. Evangelicals argued the Patrons were demons, punishing sinners in Hell.

Scientists were at a loss, but art historians did identify a billowing cloud with an arm reaching out in the margins of a fourteenth-century illuminated manuscript. Soon enough, archivists uncovered other depictions of arms reaching out of clouds, strengthening speculation that the Patrons were guardian angels. Though I’d never share this with Stephanie, I hoped the Patrons could somehow transport us to another dimension. If not quite heaven, maybe a close-enough  analogue where I could be reunited with the spirit of my mother.

Weeks passed when no new Patrons appeared. A few spoof videos spread, but these were quickly debunked—it was surprisingly difficult to fake a cloud on video, especially one with an arm reaching out of it. When no new Patrons appeared, we returned to normal life, Stephanie and I getting our jollies on 7-Eleven candy and taking her kids to the new trampoline park that had opened in the former newspaper building.

I leaned against the mesh netting as Stephanie bounced with her daughter in a massive space that had once held a printing press, holding hands as her son practiced back flips. Her daughter squealed with delight as they collapsed on the trampoline, holding their stomachs. Watching them, I yearned for the mother I didn’t have, silly moments of unfettered joy I would never experience again.

Seeing my face screwed up, Stephanie asked me to help her up. When I reached down, she pulled me on top of her, and soon we were laughing in a jumble of limbs, Stephanie’s daughter asking why I was crying.

“Aunty’s having a lot of feelings,” Stephanie said.

Six months after their departure, the pods returned to the exact locations from which they had left. The pods looked no worse for wear, which my father claimed validated his time travel theories.

“See?” he said, pointing at the television. “Those things haven’t left the atmosphere.”

Stephanie pulled up a livestream on the library computer, and we watched the celebrities in utter distress, weeping as they exited the pods, some trying to cover their faces as if caught in a shameful act. They shared vague press releases, acknowledging the public’s interest but asking for privacy during this difficult time.

One returning social media star did agree to an interview with CNN, though her testimony was so strange Stephanie posited she’d been body-swapped.

Were they benevolent? The host wanted to know. Could she share a little of what she had encountered?

The star nodded and dabbed her eyes. She referred to the beings as “Patrons,” which was how the term came into common usage. Her Patron had been good to her, she said. They housed and protected her. She had only desired to please her Patron, which she tried to do, wanting for nothing under their care. And the feeling they had given her was ecstasy, pure, unbridled joy. Her Patron had boundless love to give, and for a brief time, she’d experienced it.

How long was her journey? What did the planet look like?

She shook her head, too emotional to respond.

Why had the Patron returned her?

“It wasn’t a good fit,” she said, breaking into sobs.

Stephanie clicked away from the livestream as a woman approached the circulation desk.

“Not a good fit?” the woman asked. “Sounds like a bad break-up.”

“Or like a corporate layoff,” Stephanie said. “Did they even get severance?”

“Maybe the Patrons are fucking with us,” I said. “Maybe they’re bored and messing with the human race.”

“Honestly, I wouldn’t blame them.”

We had a cart of DVDs to shelve, but the interview had opened the floodgates, and I kept glancing at my phone as other testimonies poured in. One of the chosen gave a teary-filled update, and another was embroiled in a legal battle with his family, who moved into his condo in his absence and refused to leave.

The strange thing was, when asked directly about the physical environment they had inhabited, the chosen seemed lost for words, as if trying to describe a dream, half-remembered. Was it a petting zoo? one podcaster wanted to know. Is this what the chosen ones were describing? It didn’t feel like a zoo, not exactly. Each repeated only how, in the end, it hadn’t been a good fit, though one tearful celebrity conceded that the Patrons had returned them like unwanted pets. 

A year after their first appearance, the Patrons returned to Earth, this time selecting the chosen not by pedigree, but by peculiarities. Suddenly clouds appeared all over the world, not just in wealthy neighborhoods. They selected an albino named Archie, and others with freckles covering every inch of their bodies. My father mused that our fawn-spots made us good candidates, but the Patrons hadn’t appeared within a thousand kilometers of our city.

As the pods reappeared, seeing those they were traded for proved devastating for the supermodels and actresses. Having glimpsed paradise, they now experienced life on Earth as a prison from which they could never escape. Even with all the luxuries money could buy, life was devoid of meaning. They sought psychedelics, attempting to replicate the wonders the Patrons had shown them. Some took ayahuasca, retreating for weeks of silent meditation. Others embarked on extreme plastic surgery, attempting to make themselves palatable to the Patrons’ tastes. They tattooed their skin in stripes, or implanted silicon beneath their shoulder blades in the shape of wings. They were desperate to attract the Patrons once again.

Their responses fuelled resentment in those of us who’d been left out. We began to look at our world differently, knowing a better one was possible. Why hadn’t we been chosen to experience supreme joy? Some crafted elaborate artwork devoted to the Patrons, shaping wheat fields into intricate designs. Cults formed, their devotees riding hot air balloons up to the clouds. Once again, the pods returned the chosen to Earth—but this time, not all of them. Archie, for one, was ostensibly satisfying his Patron. Hearing this, my father threw away his anti-fungal shampoo. What had once been a source of shame, he now proudly displayed, wearing tank tops to show off his fawn spots in hopes he might be noticed by the Patrons.

Sometimes, the clouds hovered over busy cities, scanning the vicinity. Humans flocked to the area, but nothing seemed to affect the outcome. The Patrons neglected those who had made recent cosmetic changes. They seemed partial to the way we appeared naturally, preferring those with a wonky eye or extra toe, traits typically considered ugly to our kind. All we could do was hope a cloud would appear while we were commuting to work or out grocery shopping and that a hand would reach out for us, followed by a ruby-colored pod, sent to bring us to a distant planet.

After another string of returns, the Patrons shifted their attention a third time. They now appeared in inner cities, in factories and bad neighborhoods, trawling for ordinary folks.

“That’s more like it,” my father said. “They’re sick of all these weirdos and want a taste of real life.”

Stephanie began to worry they would come for her kids, even though so far the Patrons had only taken adults. The Patrons neglected those with careers, families, and money. They now favored the poor, the orphaned, those who had never had a passport or left the province. Some were houseless, recovering from addictions, or out on parole. Right-wing pundits thanked the Patrons for cleaning up the streets, while liberals decried the phenomenon as a distraction from the devastation of climate change.

One day, my father was repairing water damage in my bedroom while ranting about the Patrons. He hypothesized they might not want anyone too smart because then they’d need to keep them busy, like a border collie who needs to be given a job. As he popped a blister in the drywall, brown water trickled onto my bookshelf, landing on the copy of Honing Happiness my mother had given me when I was a surly teen. I wiped the cover as my father patched the ceiling. He suggested the Patrons must have preferred earthlings who could devote themselves completely to a new life. I pushed back, saying that maybe the Patrons were selecting those who had been neglected by their communities on Earth, those whose needs were not being met.

“Pass me the putty knife,” he said, and I retreated to silence.

Two years after their initial arrival, the Patrons appeared outside the library. While the library was a haven for community members to warm up or use the computers, our city was in the middle of nowhere. We were shocked—and vindicated that we had something desirable to offer, even if we didn’t understand what it was.

My father texted, urging me to go outside. Stephanie and I stood in the plaza, hoping to see the Patron up close.

The cloud looked like a cartoon nimbus. Its arm had not yet extended. Below, people waved or called out. Some began to dance or sing, hoping to attract the Patron’s attention.  

“Should we try one of our routines?” I asked Stephanie. 

She rolled her eyes and said she was going back inside. She was happy on Earth—and besides, someone had to tend the front desk.

“Are you coming?” she asked.

I told her I would in a minute. I closed my eyes and envisioned what the utmost joy and serenity would feel like. It seemed too ridiculous to process. Did I really think I would be reunited with my mother’s spirit? As radio hosts arrived, I went back inside the library. Stephanie was already shelving a pile of magazines.

“You didn’t get chosen?” she asked.

“I don’t think it happens that quickly.”

“It did in Mexico,” she said, referring to a cloud that had appeared at a market. Almost instantly, it selected a pair of identical twins.

“They’re not going to pick me,” I said.

“But you want them to.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe.”

“Wouldn’t you miss Earth?” she asked.

A noisy clamor came from outside, and our boss appeared with a megaphone. She was worried about someone getting trampled in the growing crowd, and was calling the fire department. In the meantime, could one of us kindly ask folks to disperse?

“You go,” Stephanie said.

“They don’t take children,” I reminded her.

“It’s not that,” she said, looking down. “I don’t want to be tempted.”

I took the megaphone out to the library steps. I hated public speaking, the way that every time I opened my mouth, my words betrayed me.

Standing before the crowd of community members, police officers, and people from wealthier neighborhoods, my words twisted in my mouth, and I felt like I was choking on air.

When sound finally emerged, awkward and grating, the cloud seemed to shift its attention toward me. Maybe Stephanie knew this would happen, that the cloud would hover above before an arm reached out and I would be picked because of the thing I hated most about myself.

As a little girl, anytime I cried over my stutter, my mother would hold me in her arms, stroking my hair until I calmed. I wondered if Patron’s touch would feel similar. It was a thousand times better. As a loud crackle filled the air, I knew I would go with them anywhere, this hand, this cloud figure—my Patron. In a voice I intuited, my Patron told me they desired to bring me to their world, where they would keep me as their own. If I agreed to this, a pod would soon arrive. The cloud then vanished, and with it, the feeling of rapture. I was left with a ringing in my ears, my chest aching with the Patron’s absence. Stephanie gathered me up from the steps and led me back inside.

“Did you know this would happen?” I asked from the break room couch.

“Of course not,” she said, handing me a bottle of water.

“It was unlike anything I’ve ever experienced,” I said. “It was pure bliss.”

“You’re really going to go? You’re OK living in a cage and being their pet?”

“You don’t understand what it felt like,” I said.

“I’ll miss you,” she said, hugging me. 

My father, having heard the news on the radio, arrived soon to drive me home. As he navigated through the crowd of onlookers, he told me how his coworkers had shaken his hand, congratulating him on the honor. Imagine—his own daughter chosen by the Patrons.

“This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity,” he said. “Go and be happy, and don’t worry about me. I’ll be just fine if you don’t make it back.”

“Of course I’ll come back,” I said, but I wasn’t so sure.

A week later, I woke to a voice in my head telling me it was time. I dressed in sweatpants—those who’d returned said it felt like a really long flight. I texted Stephanie that it was happening, and she and her kids came to wait with me and my dad on the street, where a small group gathered. Up close, the pod looked like a strawberry smoothed of its seeds. 

I hugged Stephanie and told her kids to be good. When I returned, if I did at all, they might be adults. I hugged my dad, and he told me my mother would be proud. Seeing the pod before me, I wanted him to tell me not to go, to stay on Earth, that he needed me here.

When he didn’t, I broke into sobs.

“Be happy,” he said. “This is an adventure.”

The pod opened, and I sat on a spongy chair that seemed to be floating. When the door closed, a feeling of serenity overcame me. I felt the pod rise from the Earth like the anti-gravity ride at the fair. A whirring sound surrounded as the sponge absorbed my body, my chest tightening as I grieved the world as I knew it. And then I closed my eyes.

I woke on a wooden bed with a thin mattress. I was dizzy and vomited into a ceramic vessel on the floor. I thought of my mother, the way she would hold back my hair when I threw up as a child. Before falling asleep in the ruby pod, I had allowed myself to imagine she might be here to greet me, that I would feel her warmth once more. But now that I had arrived, I realized how foolish I had been. She wasn’t here; there was no way to find her where she had gone, and the deep gulf of her absence—not only on Earth but wherever I was now— felt even more painful.

My vision blurred, and it took a while to adjust to my surroundings. I poured a pitcher of water into a glass and drank. The small chamber was filled with wooden furniture, arched windows letting in soft light. I got out of bed, and my legs were weak. I was dressed in a long white gown. I wondered whether time had passed at all or if I had somehow teleported. I felt none of the bliss I thought I would, and I worried I’d made a mistake. 

A voice like windchimes called me outside.

Under a pink sky, houses of wood, adobe, and brick were scattered. My own dwelling was a stone hut, with a small garden growing spiny blue and pink vegetables.

I heard a loud whirring, and then my Patron stood before me. They were tall, 10 or 12 feet, and composed of pure light that shielded their wings and arms from view. I couldn’t see my Patron’s face, and they seemed to have no gender. In words of music, they asked me to step closer, and reached out their long arm, patting my head. A feeling of ecstasy shivered through my hair, down my spine, and into the soles of my feet. All my worries vanished, and I understood my Patron wanted me to spend my time writing verses about my new surroundings. In exchange, they would visit each day, bringing the feeling of euphoria. This is how I would pass my days in their world.

I went inside, where I found the book and the quill. Immediately, I wrote a poem praising my Patron, which was all I wanted to do. The next day, my Patron arrived at my dwelling, and I wrote another. Other days I wandered about carrying my book with me, visiting the waterfalls where slick-furred creatures swam and gathered herbs in the garden.

Eventually, I met the others, those who made figures out of clay, or wove beautiful tapestries from flowers. One man carved flutes out of tree branches. Another built pots and pans to cook miniature food. Each day we got our jollies, and we never worried about where our jollies would come from. Rarely did we speak about life on our planet, but when newcomers appeared we were briefly reminded of the places we had left behind.

Occasionally, one of us would leave abruptly, and we learned their Patron had determined they weren’t the right fit. Often, we predicted this, eyeing those who tormented creatures that ran along the streams, plucking them by the tails and smashing their tiny brains on rocks. Others took ill, neglecting their gardening duties to lay in bed all day, laconic, waiting for their Patrons to rouse them.

One day a child appeared, wise for her age, who lived in a giant seashell beside the shore. The girl reminded me of Stephanie’s children, and then of myself as a child, my father, the world I had left behind. Instead of drinking fermented honey with the others, I returned to my dwelling, where I wrote my first elegy, lamenting the loss of my former life. Was Stephanie still working in the building filled with books? Had my father finished repairing my bedroom ceiling? I panicked thinking of my mother’s belongings I had left on Earth and slept poorly for the first time since taking my post.

The next morning, when my Patron came to visit, I read him my sad lines, stuttering badly from exhaustion, which only made the poem more beautiful to my Patron’s ears.

Once I finished, my Patron reached out their arm to pat my head and I felt the same elation as always. But in their chime-filled voice, they asked if I was certain I was the right fit. Did I desire to return?

I did not, but I missed my father and my friend. Was it possible to call home? My Patron, as it turned out, was powerful among their kind. This sort of arrangement was not typically permitted, but they were willing to make an exception. The next morning, a device resembling a rotary phone appeared in my chambers. The handset was made of the thick velvet of chanterelles, while the base was made of a springy foam, the cord of braided mycelium.

I stared at the phone, wondering how to dial home. It was one of two numbers I’d memorized, but did I have to dial something first to get an outside line? A country code? A planet code? I winged it, not bothering with any such prefixes, and heard a loud crackling before the familiar ring. My father picked up almost immediately. He was happy to hear from me, but the connection was poor. It was difficult to hear him over the vast distance between our planets.

He asked how I was, whether I liked my new home, and if I was getting along with the others. I described the cabin where I lived, the vista where animals frolicked, the garden we tended. After a few minutes, he said he was glad I was keeping busy but that he’d better let me go—he had to get ready for work.

I called Stephanie next, and she could barely hear me over the sound of her kids playing in the background. I told her about my new home, how I’d been writing a lot of poems and meeting new people.   

“Poems?” Stephanie asked. “So, it’s some sort of artist’s retreat?”

“Something like that.” I bragged that my Patron held a powerful position and asked her to visit sometime—I was certain that my Patron could arrange such a trip.

“I’d have to see if I can get the time off. I’ve been busy training the new girl.”

“You hired someone already?”

“We had to!” she said. “We’ve been swamped with influencers.”

There was a noise like a pile of dishes being knocked over, followed by a child screaming. Stephanie said she had to go—she’d call me later. It wasn’t until after she hung up that I realized I hadn’t given her my number, nor did I know what it was.

The next day, my Patron told me I could call home whenever I liked. Did this help with my feelings of homesickness?

I nodded, and my Patron patted my head.

In the gardens, I spoke to the other humans, but they weren’t interested in commiserating.

“Why do you miss it so much?” asked Archie. “You’ve told us your house was falling apart, and it wasn’t even safe to drink the water.”

“That’s true,” I said.

“You’re thriving here,” he said. “Even your fawn spots have disappeared.”

I looked at my reflection in the water. My skin was the clearest it had been, blotches of hormonal acne no longer dotting my jawline.

“You’d better be careful,” said a girl who made sandcastles that washed away each day. “Your Patron might say you’re not a good fit.”

That evening, I called my father, but he didn’t pick up. I wondered if the stupid mushroom phone was even working. I slammed down the receiver and in moments, I heard the mechanical sound reminiscent of a dot matrix printer. A thin slot discharged a gooey sheet that hardened in the air. In the message, my father said he was watching a movie and would call me later. You gotta check it out! he wrote. On the bottom of the phone, I discovered a keypad. I typed a message back, saying that I didn’t have movie streaming. That sucks, he wrote back, and suggested I ask my Patron about getting a subscription.

I asked Stephanie to visit but she’s too busy, I wrote. You should think about coming too! There’s a lot of cool fruit we don’t have on Earth.

My father’s response came in moments: Have 2 see. Can’t eat fruit w my dentures.

Days later, a new pod arrived in front of a habitat that looked like a treehouse. When the newcomer awoke, my Patron floated to their door.

“That’s unusual,” said an old man who built ships in a bottle. “Usually just one of us serves each Patron.”

“Do you think I’m being replaced?” I asked.

“I don’t think so,” said the girl who imitated bird songs. “You wouldn’t overlap.”

For a moment, I wondered whether my Patron had arranged a surprise visit. Had Stephanie gotten the time off work? Was it my father, with an old laptop and my favourite snacks?

But the newcomer wasn’t Stephanie, and it wasn’t my father. It was a man with dark hair.

I went back to my habitat, fearful that my Patron was replacing me, that they would soon tell me I wasn’t a good fit. When my Patron appeared, I read them my poem, which ended with a question: Am I right for this world?

My Patron patted my head and, smiling gently as if explaining the death of a hamster to a small child, said that was a question for me to answer.

I went down to the river, where the others were sucking the sticky insides from the thick stems of translucent flowers and lazing in the sun.

The newcomer was there, and he turned to me. He introduced himself, and his voice was clear as song. I asked how he liked his habitat, and he said it was fine, but he wasn’t here to draw pretty pictures. He was going to build a tower from the objects of this world. He hoped to build a tower tall enough to install streaming services and video-messaging.

“Oh,” I said. “You’re the internet guy!”

“That’s offensive,” the man said. “I’m one of Earth’s most visionary builders.”

Having exhausted the extent of his abilities on Earth, his only remaining challenge was working with these strange materials in an environment where gravity was completely different.

“I hadn’t noticed a difference.”

“Of course not,” he replied. “Did you even notice the air is lighter?”

It was true. My spine felt as though it was held upright by a string of invisible balloons.

The man asked if I wanted to see his habitat, and I followed him into the treehouse, where climbing the ladder was like springing up from the bottom of a saltwater pool. Inside, the shelves were filled with rows of cork-bound books, illustrated volumes cataloguing the flora and fauna of this planet.

“You’ll never run out of jollies,” I said.

The man asked what I meant. I said it was an inside joke I’d shared with my best friend.

“I thought you were talking about fucking,” he said, and I knew our Patron was wise.

I woke late the next morning, and the man was already outside, stripping fur from tree branches and gathering a pile of glittering stones on the highest hill.

Soon my Patron would appear at the bottom of the habitat, waiting for my offering. Instead of writing an ode thanking my Patron for bringing me this man, I found myself fantasizing about the websites I would visit once he finished installing the cell tower.

I turned to the drafting table and on the back of one of the man’s drawings, I wrote about the microcelebrities with whom I had formed parasocial relationships, memes I sent to Stephanie, dog photos I used to send to my mother before she died, the hours I’d spent on Street View. Late at night, I’d walk the digital streetscape of my neighbourhood, hoping to find a blurry image of my mother mowing the front lawn, or the two of us outside SARCAN, glass smashing as we fed bottles into the conveyor belt.

I was writing when the man called me outside. He was showing our Patron plans for a tower made of stone and wood, and something like steel at the top, shimmering.

Our Patron approved the blueprints, stroking the man’s head as he closed his eyes and sighed. Then I read our Patron the poem I had written, quickly, stumbling over the words.

For a moment, our Patron didn’t respond, and I worried the poem fixated on trivial details of a world they would never understand. Then they beamed with light and our Patron reached out a second arm—a gesture that looked grotesque after so many days seeing only the one.

They patted us with both arms, and I felt a static charge pass through me.

“Here,” the man said when our Patron left. He gave me what looked like a perfectly round paperweight, made of polished black stone. It was heavier than it appeared, warm to the touch and seemingly pulsing with veins of lightning. He said it was connected to the prototype of the tower. I turned the device in my hand, and a digital icon started spinning. “Give it a second to connect.”

We walked down to the quiet field of ferns and clover, where the others already clutched similar orbs, some larger or smaller, some carved of crystal instead of obsidian. Laying under the pink sky of our new planet, eating the salty flesh of stone fruit, we hardly noticed the iridescent insects buzzing overhead as we prodded the devices in our lap.

The devices seemed to intuit what we missed most from our planet. The shipbuilder’s pulsed with hundreds of pages of obscure whale facts. The child’s presented her with a game in which she could control human avatars in a suburban setting. The woman who made sandcastles was gifted videos of product reviews, spoken barely above a whisper, that sent shivers down her spine. Even Archie was transfixed by the images emanating from his orb, though he tried to muffle the strange moaning from the rest of us.

I settled into my seat of ferns, anxiously turning the smooth device, hoping to catch flickers of the dance routines I once imitated, feeds of celebrity gossip, or endless catalogs of trendy clothing I placed in a digital shopping cart I would later empty. A cloudy veil filled my device before revealing the ridges of my planet’s disappearing glaciers, the fault lines running underneath its oceans, and the flat expanse of my home province.

I pinched my fingers together, zooming in on the topography that wouldn’t fully load—some sort of patronal control had been placed on the device. Frantically, I opened the other apps; the loading screen for Gilmore Girls, which Stephanie and I had been in the middle of watching, remained blank, as did the page for my mother’s old Pinterest account. Nowhere could I view the recipes she made each Thanksgiving, the scores for the local football team, episodes of my father’s favorite unsolved mysteries podcast. Even the weather app wouldn’t load. The municipal elections must be underway, yet I had no news of polling numbers, the latest round of budget cuts affecting the library, earthquakes, or school shootings. The poems I wrote my Patron, I understood, could only speak into this absence, my daily offering unlocking another pixel of the world I had left behind, one byte of data at a time. It was the same for the others: devices went mute, videos froze, texts broke-off mid-sentence.

Our once benevolent Patrons became stringent captors, keeping our jollies at arms’ length. The former ecstasy of their touch succeeded only in delivering a faint flicker of pleasure as we unlocked one more frame of video, millisecond of sound, or string of text. Gone was the euphoria we’d previously experienced, but we wouldn’t reverse our circumstances. The act of refreshing our screens was as innately frustrating as it was necessary; none of the chosen were willing to abandon our devices and the possibilities they offered. When our Patrons arrived at our dwellings each morning, we greeted them with fervor, hopeful for the day we might glimpse visions of our home planet and its strange delights, like the murky contours of a half-forgotten dream, slowly crystallised once more.