Watchdog by Will McIntosh

Author:Will McIntosh
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Children's Books
Published: 2017-10-10T04:00:00+00:00

Heading into the nice part of the city was like traveling forward through time. In the ghettos there were no robots, and the buildings were dingy, the brick blackened by pollution. As they crossed West Fullerton on the el, there was less brick and steel, more carbon fiber, the clean, colorful buildings twisting and swooping into the sky like they were made of taffy. By the time they reached North Avenue, most people Vick saw out the window of the train had domestic robots trailing them. Some of the robots resembled people; a few were even dressed in human clothes. Others walked on all fours or sixes, like big, colorful cartoon bugs. Most of the vehicles were sleek, auto-driven jobs that looked like they were made of colored ice. Inside a passing shop Vick could see waist-high munchkin robots scurrying around.

The day they were kicked out of their apartment, Vick had headed toward this part of town, because it was safe here. There were lots of police around, both public and private. A half hour after Vick and Tara had arrived, they were picked up by the police. Vick had been so relieved. He’d thought they were saved, that the police would help them. The police drove them to the bad part of town and dropped them off in front of a shelter. Vick could still see the policewoman’s face as she opened the cruiser’s rear door to let them out, her eyes bored as she told them they’d have somewhere to sleep in that part of town.

“I feel much better here.” Tara was watching out the el’s window in the seat next to Vick. “The inside of my head always feels like whatever I’m looking at. When we’re in the dump, it feels like garbage; when we’re here, it feels neat and clean.”

Vick grinned at that. Tara had an odd way of putting things sometimes, but he understood what she was saying. “I’m glad you thought of it.” The train slowed. “Here’s our stop.” Vick glanced to the back of the car where Daisy was squatting in the robot storage area. He signaled that this was their stop. Daisy nodded.

Moments later they were on the clean streets of Grant Park. Tara raced past the twin lion statues that bookended the entrance to the Art Institute, reciting at high volume, “American Gothic by Grant Wood. Nighthawks by Edward Hopper. Paris Street; Rainy Day by Gustav Caillebotte. Yellow Hickory Leaves with Daisy by Georgia O’Keeffe…”

Vick was relieved to see that kids under fourteen were only five dollars each. The guards didn’t say a word about Daisy as they passed through the entrance. A few other people had domestic robots with them, pushing carriages or just following them.

Vick followed Tara as she headed toward the first work on her list. She always visited the same paintings, and it was exactly that—visiting. To Tara, the paintings were just as alive as her T-shirts and Chloe. Each painting was a friend. Sometimes Vick envied her imagination.

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