Mara thought about handing them over. She thought of the light in people's eyes when the repacks arrived, of the vendor lit by a clumsy battery lamp, of a woman crying at the market because a repack had shown her how to make a life she had thought gone. She thought of the gray men and their cooled smiles. She thought of the words Toma had said: heal. Or burn.
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This one was a city in slow collapse: leached concrete, children coaxing an old automated billboard into telling jokes, people in patched coats reciting recipes to each other. The scene slowed her pulse until she could hear its rhythms more plainly than her own. A woman in the image cupped a used battery and spoke to it like one might speak to a sleeping dog. Mara felt a dizzy empathy for the battery, for the woman's hands, for the smell of frying oil. Afterward the sheet's colors flattened and became ordinary again. Mara thought about handing them over
