The Breakfast Menu


The Machine had brought Root back to New York.

She was walking on the sidewalk casually—so slowly that some other pedestrians were rushing to overtake her, not that she minded. An old man leaning on an ornate cane had just walked past when—

Beep. "Three o'clock," the Machine said into her ear. Most would probably despise having a voice talking in their ear and telling them what to do, but Root enjoyed it. It was unpredictable. It was fun (most of the time).

She turned her head in the instructed direction and found herself staring into a homely little café. Root smiled, knowing the Machine would somehow see. She'd forgotten she was hungry, or that she'd skipped breakfast, until the scent of fried bacon and eggs filled her nostrils. She opened the door and a bell dinged to announce her arrival, not that anybody looked up from their plates.

Root had only taken one step. Beep. "Nine o'clock." A row of wooden stools faced out onto the street. She sat down on the stool of her choice—they were all vacant—and pulled over a menu. She was here for a reason that probably had nothing to do with her hunger, but it didn't mean Root couldn't eat. A waitress came over to take her order; the Machine stayed silent, the waitress irrelevant.

While Root sat and waited for her cooked breakfast and coffee, she watched as people continued with their daily lives right in front of her. Two tourists stopped to take a photo of a yellow taxi before getting into it; a man with unruly hair and a crumpled suit hurried along, carrying a briefcase; and a woman with a pet carrier stopped to switch the carrier from her left to right hand in order to answer her cell phone.

The waitress returned with her breakfast and the steaming coffee. Root let her attention turn away from the street, confident that the Machine would tell her where to look and when.

Beep. "Twelve o'clock," said the Machine a little while later. Root obediently looked up, a forkful of eggs and bacon halfway to her mouth. No one on the sidewalk outside the café caught her immediate attention, so she extended her surveillance to across the street.

And there was John Reese. Damn. He was walking slowly and when he passed a gap in the parked cars she saw why; Bear was walking alongside him. He didn't appear to be on any crazy mission for Harold—he looked casual, but not obviously casual.

Root stubbornly stayed sitting. She finished the little that was left of her breakfast as the Machine continued to relay Reese's location to her even after he had walked out of sight. She sounded to Root's ear increasingly frantic at being ignored. Beep. "Eleven o'clock." Beep. "Ten o'clock." And so on.

She set her empty coffee cup down on the table. Arguing with god was probably not one of the best plans, but the alternative—working with Reese, ugh—was much worse. The Machine, she listened to people all day, every day—so why was she finding it so difficult to listen to Root? A good god would be open to suggestions.

"I'm not working with him, not after last time," Root said aloud. The lady sitting on her own, talking to herself—she could already feel eyes on the back of her head. "It's simple. He doesn't like me, I don't like him. I'm sure he's a great guard dog for Harold, but me... no. So I kidnapped his boss once..." A single beep—Root could swear it was an incredulous snort. "...Okay, twice. The point is: I'd prefer a partner who's a bit more fun..."

Beep. "Twelve o'clock." Root looked up. Sameen Shaw was walking on the other side of the street where Reese and Bear had been just minutes before. One of her hands was in her coat pocket and the other was holding a half-eaten ice-cream cone—at eight in the morning.

Root smirked. "I love it when we're on the same page."


THE END