But yesterday, she had found a file she couldn't report. A family in Sector 4 had hidden a cat. Pets were forbidden in the ADZ—too messy, too unpredictable, a drain on resources. Yet the grainy footage showed a little girl laughing as a tabby cat knocked over a vase. The Jia had flagged it as Unstructured Joy , a category 3 violation.
“You’ll apologize today,” Mei said. “Bring him a packet of dried plums from the market.”
She took the mag-lev train. The windows displayed soothing animations of koi fish. Everyone stared ahead. No one spoke. Conversation was inefficient. The Jia discouraged it unless scheduled.
“Mother,” he said, using the formal ADZ address for parents. “My Collective Responsibility score dropped. Teacher Wei says I failed to yield the fast-walk lane to an elder yesterday.”
But a young man two seats away caught her eye. He was crying. Silently. Tears ran down his cheek, and his wristband was flashing red: Family Dissolution Notice . His wife had divorced him. In the ADZ, divorce was not a legal proceeding. It was a system failure . His Harmony Index was 14.
The Redemption Corridor was the only part of Sector 7-G where the Jia’s microphones went blind. Where the facial recognition scanners didn't judge. Where people went to whisper about the old world—before the Zones, before the Harmony Index, when you could be rude to a neighbor and simply move away.
Her index dropped to 88. Caution: Trajectory toward Instability.