Click here to read part 1.

A month after Ren’s article on Larry is released, Larry’s out for his morning stroll again, Miami’s humidity settling into its familiar afternoon rhythm.

A man walks past and notices Larry and beams a smile at him, waving. Larry raises an eyebrow but gives him a nod, thinking about how often that’s been happening to him lately. One guy yesterday said something that sounded like “That guy!” but Larry barely heard him beneath the music coming from his earphones. A few days earlier, a grocery store manager asked him for a selfie. She looked too nervous to be doing it ironically, so Larry stood by a display of energy drinks while she held her phone out.

He’s gotten calls also, and messages. Journalists tagging his name on all the platforms he doesn’t use but which Jonah reports to him about. One of them must’ve dug up the landline for Larry’s house somehow, because an old wireless handset tucked in a dusty corner of his living room started ringing again, like some ancient relic brought to life. He answered once to see who it was, got an idea of what was going on and hasn’t answered since.

A week ago, someone from Time left a note in his mailbox, a silver envelope that shimmered like foil with the company’s embossed logo on the front. Larry tossed it in the recycling bin without opening it.

A flicker in the air, an AR overlay floating against the side of the building. Even without goggles, Larry can see the faint outline as the light hits the wall just right: the shape of a face with glasses perched low on the nose and a short gray beard.

His face.

The overlay shimmers, stabilizes, and he sees there’s a quote below it like a caption:

“I just didn’t want to trade my mental peace for the sake of keeping up with the times.”

Larry lets out a dry laugh and keeps walking. He passes a pair of teenagers wearing AR overlays, one of them glancing at Larry and doing a double take with widening eyes but Larry is already moving on.

Back at home, Larry slips his shoes off, wipes sweat from his brow and steps into the kitchen. The house is warm and quiet. He opens the back door and a faint breeze drifts through the screen. He glances at the stack of books by the couch - Baldwin, Morrison, a battered copy of Vonnegut’s Welcome to the Monkeyhouse .

Heading out back to the garden, Larry kneels in the dirt, presses a hand to the warm soil. The garden’s always been stubborn, bugs chewing the okra, weeds wrapping themselves around the vines no matter how many times he pulls them. Larry’s settling into the quiet when he hears a drone car landing out front, the hiss of the door opening, footsteps on the gravel path.

Jonah’s voice floats over from the other side of the fence. “What’s up, Pops?”

Larry brushes dirt off his hands as Jonah hops the fence. His AR suit’s blue today, scalp nodes flickering one by one as he disconnects his goggles and shoves them in his pockets. He walks over to where Larry is and drops into a crouch next to him, touching one of the pulled weeds lying in a pile. “You see it?” he asks without looking up.

Larry raises an eyebrow. “See what?”

“Your face,” Jonah says, glancing at him. “Saw it on two different billboards on the way over.”

Larry smiles, leaning back on his hands. “I saw something, yeah.”

Jonah plops down cross-legged in the dirt. “You’re famous, Pops,” he says. “Like, actually. You should see how much they’re talking about you in SimpliCity.”

“Feels like being hunted,” Larry says, eyes on his garden. “Can’t go to the store without someone quoting me back to myself.”

Jonah hesitates. “I talked to Ren.”

Larry looks over, waiting.

Jonah’s eyes flick away. “I kinda confronted her, actually.”

Larry looks confused. “Confronted her about what?”

“About all of this,” Jonah says, motioning vaguely in the air. “She made you into this…thing. Some, like symbol. Of…solitude or something.”

Larry’s mouth twitches. “What’d she say?”

Jonah picks up one of the weeds, ripping pieces of the leaves off and dropping them on top of the pile. “She said you already were a symbol,” he says. “Just nobody noticed until she pointed it out.”

They both let that hang, listening to the natural sounds of Miami around them. The afternoon breeze carries the scent of salt and wet earth.

Larry digs his fingers into the dirt. “Kind of poetic.”

Jonah wipes a hand across his forehead. “Yeah.”

“She was a nice girl,” Larry says. “Cute, too. Could see you two together.”

Jonah gives Larry a side-eye glance. “Don’t start.”

Larry smiles. “I think she’s right though,” he says. “It just feels odd. Not used to people paying attention.”

Jonah bumps his grandfather softly with his shoulder. “Do you want to say anything about what she wrote? Make a statement or something?”

Larry laughs. “I’m not trying to feed that fire,” he says. “Three more reporters stopped by this week. One guy said he wanted to ‘feel the air where I breathe.'” He looks at Jonah. “I asked him what the hell’s that supposed to mean.”

Jonah chuckles. “You ignoring all of them is making Ren even more famous. Which, by the way, is making you even more famous.”

Larry grunts. “Then I’ll keep ignoring them. Let her have the spotlight. She’s young, it’ll mean more to her.”

Jonah watches his grandfather then nods, standing and brushing off his hands. “Okay, Pops.”

Larry looks up at his grandson. “You staying for dinner?”

Jonah nods. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Larry pushes himself up, wincing a little. Jonah notices but says nothing, putting a hand on Larry’s elbow that Larry quickly brushes away, steadying his legs on his own.

The screen door creaks shut behind them when they head inside, the garden settling back into quiet, only the wind rustling through the plants as the sun descends towards a western horizon dotted with skyscrapers.

_____________________

On a Friday two months after Ren’s profile of Larry goes viral, a drone car drops Jonah in front of Pops’ house just past noon. He steps out of the car already keyed up, twelve hours of synthetic sunshine and curated conversations still humming in his skull.

Something about the block felt too quiet when he got in the drone car. The air heavy enough to taste, pressing sweat into his collar even before he steps out. Jonah’s AR suit flickers, lavender fading to gray.

Down the street, Jonah sees Larry coming up the block slower than usual, a plastic pharmacy bag swinging from one hand, the other hand wiping sweat from his brow. He stops to catch his breath, not noticing Jonah half a block away.

“Pops, you good?” Jonah calls out.

Larry glances up, waves Jonah off and keeps walking. Jonah’s close enough though to catch the tremor in his hand as it lowers, the stiffness in his gait.

Inside, the house is slightly cooler than outside. Larry drops the empty bag on the counter, heads to the sink and pours himself a glass of water, his hand shaking again as he raises the cup to his lips. Jonah leans against the fridge, arms crossed, eyes tracking his grandfather’s movements.

“They wouldn’t give you your pills, huh?” Jonah asks.

Larry doesn’t look at him, just stares out the kitchen window at his garden.

“Pharmacy’s fully switched over to neural ID verification,” he says. “Said they can’t process the refill without it.” Larry’s jaw tightens. “Didn’t even look at me. Just pointed at the scanner.”

Larry sets the glass down, the water rippling in his hands.

“Pops, you need those pills,” Jonah says.

Larry waves a hand. “I’ll figure it out.”

“How?” Jonah asks, sharper than he intends.

Larry’s eyes flick over. “I said I’ll figure it out.”

“You can’t keep brushing this off, Pops.”

Larry stares at his grandson, the lines on his face deepening as his mouth tightens.

“I’m just trying to help,” Jonah adds. “I like our Fridays. I’d like to keep having them for a little while longer, but that requires you…you know. Being alive.”

Larry’s shoulders slump, the fight draining from him. “What would you have me do, Jo?” he asks. “I’ve lived this long without barcodes in my blood.”

“Let me find you a private clinic,” Jonah says. “Run some tests and if necessary, fill the prescription right there.”

Larry studies him then nods. “Okay,” he says. “Fine.”

Jonah smiles, leaning back against the counter. “Tomorrow.”

Larry turns back to the sink, rinsing the glass slowly, carefully.

“Okay,” he repeats. “Tomorrow.”

They spend the rest of the afternoon in the garden, Jonah helping Larry pick up some dead leaves and tie the papaya tree’s drooping branches more securely to the fence. The breeze drifts in as they work, lulling them into a quiet spell.

Later, as the sky turns purple, they sit on the porch, sharing a plate of salted avocados. Jonah leans back, watching the streetlights flicker on, drones blinking in the distance, glowing against the darkening sky.

Jonah looks over at his grandfather. “Hard to believe the guy trending across every platform’s sitting here eating avocados in the dark.”

Larry smiles, a big toothy grin. “If fame don’t let you do that, I don’t want it.”

They chuckle together.

“Tomorrow,” Jonah repeats, quietly.

Giving a small nod, Larry’s eyes remain on the horizon, wind rustling the garden leaves.

_____________________

The clinic is in an old strip mall a couple of blocks inland, one of the few medical offices that doesn’t require neural implants (if you ask ahead). The windows are glowing with ads that flicker as people walk by and look at them with their goggles.

Jonah holds the door open and follows Larry inside, the little bell above it chiming with a sound that feels ancient even to Larry.

Inside, the AC hums loudly, barely hiding the quiet tick of the ceiling fan. The waiting room is small, just a few chairs and a table cluttered with QR magazine codes. The overhead speaker plays low, glitchy synth notes under layered, auto-tuned vocals in a language Larry doesn’t recognize.

At the check-in counter, the nurse scans Larry’s ID and hesitates. “Wait,” she says, smiling. “Aren’t you - ”

Jonah’s eyes snap to hers. “Can we just…do the appointment, please?”

The nurse smiles politely but her eyes linger on Larry as they head to the waiting area.

Larry sits and picks at a loose thread on his jeans, twisting it around his finger until it snaps. Jonah’s got his AR goggles pushed up on his head, drumming his fingers on his knees as they wait. Across from them, a young mother hums to her baby, rocking a stroller that projects holographic fish swimming in circles above the baby’s face.

Eventually, the nurse calls Larry’s name. Jonah stands to help him up, but Larry waves him off, pushing out of the chair and steadying himself on the armrest. Larry motions for his grandson to come along then follows the nurse down a short hallway lined with posters for Wellness Optimization Packages and Cognitive Health Sync Programs. Each one has a QR code blinking, waiting to be scanned.

In the room, they weigh Larry, take his blood pressure and prick his finger using a small circular device with a needle on the end. The nurse is young, polite, wearing goggles and looking at something Larry can’t see.

She eventually nods, says, “Dr. Baptiste will be right in,” then leaves.

The paper crinkles under him as Larry settles onto the exam table, his feet dangling like a kid’s. Jonah sits in the corner, goggles on now.

A few minutes later, there’s a knock at the door and a Haitian-American woman with kind eyes and a tired smile walks in holding a tablet, goggles resting on her forehead. She greets Larry and shakes his hand, her eyes flicking to her tablet as she scrolls through his information.

“We ran a basic neural scan when you sat down, Mr. Rollins,” she says, looking up at him. “And I’ve reviewed your blood work.”

“Wait,” Larry says. “You ran the tests already?”

Jonah snickers but says nothing.

The doctor looks from Jonah to Larry curiously, almost suspiciously. “Yes, we have a lab on premises.”

“Sorry,” Larry says, holding up a hand. “Just - ” Larry glances at Jonah.

Jonah leans forward. “If you can’t tell,” Jonah says. “He’s old. Back in his day, blood and brain tests took a lot longer than two minutes.” Jonah tosses a glare at his grandfather. “Tells you how long it’s been.”

Doctor Baptiste smiles. “Older labs had a much longer wait time for results, yes.” She looks around at the different mechanisms in the room. “Good thing for technology.”

Jonah laughs. Larry nods.

“Your grandson said you prefer to keep things simple,” Dr. Baptiste says, glancing down at her tablet again. “Straightforward.”

Larry nods, his heart feeling like it’s floating out of his chest suddenly.

“Okay then, straightforward: you’re showing signs of neurological degeneration.” She says this matter-of-factly. “Could be Parkinson’s. Could be something else in that family. We can’t say for sure without some monitoring.”

Larry’s stomach tightens. For a second, it feels like the room tilts. He grips the edge of his seat under the paper lining and stares past the doctor at the wall, at a poster that’s blurred into meaningless color. Thinking of a moment last week, standing in the garden, when he’d forgotten the word trowel. Couldn’t for the life of him remember it.

He suddenly feels the weight of his own body distinctly. How the knees don’t bend as easily, how his spine doesn’t straighten all the way without protest. Aging was always an abstract for him, something that happened in slow motion.

Larry nods, jaw tight. “And that would require…”

“A Neural ID implant,” Dr. Baptiste says. “It’s standard for treatments, medication scheduling, cognitive therapy. Without it, we can still give you basic care, but you’d be opting out of a lot of support.”

Jonah shifts in the corner of the room, crossing his arms, exhaling slowly.

“And what’s the - ” Larry’s throat catches and he coughs, clears it. “What’s the, uh, procedure? Like, how do you do it?”

“It’s very simple,” she said. “You can install it at home actually, by yourself.”

Larry meets the doctor’s eyes, then looks away, focusing back on the poster on the wall which he can see now shows a smiling family wearing neural bands, the words Connection Is Care floating above their heads.

“Thank you,” Larry says finally, his voice low, steady.

_____________________

The ride home is quiet, the drone car gliding close to the coast over former streets lined with mangroves, the water creeping ever closer to cracked sidewalks. Larry stares out the window, watching the gulls circle above the flooded lots where houses used to be and kids used to play.

Out back in his garden, Larry kneels in the dirt, hands trembling as he presses soil, savoring the cool grit.

Jonah watches him, thinking, I can’t watch the old man die.

“Pops,” Jonah says, voice soft but firm, “Let me set up the implant. Just for the monitoring. You don’t even have to use it for anything else.”

“And after that?” Larry says without looking up. “What else does it track, Jo?”

“I just need to know you’re safe,” Jonah says. “That you’re getting treated and someone knows where you are if something goes wrong.”

Larry brushes the comment off and Jonah groans, opening his hands in a helpless gesture.

“Pops,” he says. “You can’t keep hiding from this forever.”

“The poster in that office said connection is care,” he says, looking up at his grandson. “But it’s not, Jo. They just sold you on that.”

“Can we please drop the conspiracy theories,” Jonah says, his voice elevating, “and just be rational here?”

“You think that thing is some cure or something?” Larry snaps back.

“I think it’s the only way I’ll know for sure if you’re still here tomorrow,” Jonah says, quieter now. “And the days after that.”

Larry sits back. His eyes are tired, but there’s defiance in them.

“I’m not hiding, Jo,” Larry says. “Like I’ve told you a million times, I’m just trying to live my life.”

Jonah looks like he wants to argue, to say something that will change Larry’s mind. He opens his mouth then closes it instead, staying quiet.

Larry wipes his hands on his jeans, stands and walks over to his grandson, bringing a hand down on his shoulder gently. “We’ll figure it out,” he says.

Jonah stays frozen, eyes on the soil Larry just pressed down. He swallows hard, trying not to feel like a kid again.

That night, after dinner, Jonah slips back into the drone car, his AR suit flickering to life around him, the glow reflecting off the window as the city lights blur past. He dims the suit so he can see his reflection, his eyes wary. Outside, Miami hums quietly, the waves rolling in.

Jonah glances out and notices the water lapping higher than usual along 152nd Street.

Another inch lost, quiet as a thief.