That first digit of my last name was the reason why it took me so long to get promoted at work, so many years to get elected into office, so much effort to make friends. A zero-generation maton is built and programmed by humans, and a first generation maton, by a factory-programmed maton. With each generation removed, the fear of core directive pollution grew stronger. Eighth generation is enough to make a maton antsy, let alone a human.

You, as a ninth generation maton, would face even worse discrimination than I did, if it weren't for the work of a few activists between then and now.

After the hospital incident, Alexia called me up from time to time, and each time, I tried to keep her on the phone for as long as possible. I had realized by now that I was playing the long game for my life—that my release was something I had to earn.

The first time she called, it was strictly business, letting me know she was changing addresses, though we chatted for a bit. The next, she was crying hysterically, I think over a breakup, though it was hard to make out most of what she was saying through the sobs, even after I brought her ice cream and tissues.

But even after that, she called me every month or so just to talk. Sometimes she even asked about me, so I told her about my floral arrangements, my dead-end government office job, my pipe dream of running for city council ("You should!" she cried in delight, in what must have been a moment of record-breaking naivete).

One evening, she asked me to meet her at a park near her apartment complex. "Is everything alright?" I asked her.

"Everything is fine," she said. "Just . . . come meet me."

I would have even if I didn't have to. We made small talk and walked on a little dirt path through the trees, and came to a stop at the top of a hill.

"It smells so fresh out here," she said.

"I can't smell."

"Shame." She breathed deeply.

The sky was painted in shades of orange and pink that faded to light blue, then up to dark blue. Wisps of clouds flecked the horizon, and I couldn't stop staring at area around the glowing orange orb. Discomfort overwhelmed me, and I lowered myself onto a stump.

She placed her hand on my arm. "Is everything okay?"

I broke my gaze away to look over at her. "It's the sunset."

"It's beautiful. Do mata not like sunsets?"

I let my breath out. How to word the struggle we've all felt, the deep unsettling isolation, the otherness of the world we live in? "We love architecture but not plants. Art but not animals. Cities but not sky. You humans love what you call nature because the same God who created that—" I gestured all around us— "created you. Not so for us mata."

"I don't believe in God."

"I don't suppose that was an easy choice?"

She raised her eyebrows. "What do mata believe?"

I shrugged. "We don't have a choice whether to believe in you."

It was silent for a few moments.

She cleared her throat and took a seat on a park bench nearby. I followed and sat beside her. "I wanted to ask a favor."

"Your request is my law."

"I—" She looked away for a moment, then back at me. "I'm getting married soon. I would like for you to be there, and maybe put together the floral arrangements."

"I'm only a hobbyist, and I use fake flowers. You would do better with a human florist."

She shrugged. "I've seen pictures of yours. They're nice. And I want you to be there."

I straightened my back. "Your request is my law."

"No, no." She shook her head. "As my friend, not as my debtor."

This should have meant one thing to me: that I was close to earning my release. If I had asked for it then, I am sure she would have given it. Instead, a warm bubbling arose in my stomach, and my throat tightened, and I couldn't speak at all.