Cold in the Wrong Way

The cellar stairs are stone, and the cold comes up them. At the bottom, racks of wine run off in rows, the bottoms of the bottles toward you in the dark, dust on the rails. Paloma walks them with one flat hand held out beside the bottles. At the far end her hand stops, and you hold out your own. The air there is cold in the wrong way: dry, perfectly still, lying against your palm and not moving past it.

Three doors stand in the far wall, flush with the stone and painted to match it. You find them by the air on your hands. The first is open: servers, warm, running, rows of small green lights. The second is open on a wall of maps. On the maps, in red, every garden in the city, every water tank, every hive.

The third is shut. Paloma lays her hand flat on it. She does not turn around. She moves her hand a little to one side.