Chapter One
The Oldest Dream
2045, AN IMAGINED SATURDAY MORNING, IOWA
Lily Ibarra wakes up at a quarter past seven because the house smells of bread.
She pads downstairs in her socks. The kitchen is warm. A loaf is cooling on a rack by the window, and Moss, the household robot, is standing at the counter folding yesterday's laundry into neat little squares, its padded grey hands moving with the patience of something that has never once been in a hurry. The dishwasher finished in the night. The floor has been swept. On the wall, a small screen says that the house battery is full and that yesterday's spare sunshine was sold back to the town.
Lily climbs onto a stool and pulls the end crust off the loaf, which is the best part and technically not allowed.
Her father comes down a few minutes later, yawning, his hair standing up on one side. He pours a coffee that has already been made and sits beside her.
"Dad," she says, chewing. "What did people do on Saturdays, before?"
Marcus thinks about it. He thinks about his own father, who spent every Saturday of Marcus's childhood mowing, fixing, scrubbing and driving to the hardware store.
"Chores," he says.
"All day?"
"Most of it."
Lily looks at Moss, who is matching socks, and then at the bread, and then out of the window at the robot mower sitting on its pad in the dewy grass. "That sounds terrible," she says.
