I know I should go home. Has Mom discovered my absence yet? Maybe she thinks I’m sulking in my bed and decided to leave me to my thoughts. Maybe she knows what I’ve done, and she’s going frantic.

I should go home, but I turn my steps toward the nearest entertainment circle.

The radial streets that branch out from the Center are usually more bustling, largely business rather than residential. The one I’m walking along is pedestrian only at this point, with a canal running down the center and walking paths on the side. Many of the shops here—mostly clothes, jewelry, and home décor—are closed now, but a boatman poles a cuddling couple along the center of the canal. The waterway in front of the boat looks like mercury, silver and still, until the prow pushes through it. Then it dances like skipping minnows, and leaves an undulating snake-like wake.

Even though the businesses are closed, there are more people out and about than on my street. The traffic all moves in one direction—toward the entertainment circle. Here near the Center, where the rings are smaller, the entire street will be devoted to restaurants, clubs, bars, theaters, and the like. Farther out, in the outer circles, there are no dedicated entertainment circles. By that point, the rings are too huge. The poorer residents out there don’t have the resources to go to the theater or out to eat very often. Still, I’ve heard Mom say that there are plenty of bars out there.

I merge into the crowd, using their light so no one can see I have none of my own. I realize I’m grinning like an idiot, from excitement and from nerves. But still no one notices me. They assume I’m like them, on my way to my own fun, my own friends.

All around me, I see things I’ve only glimpsed from a distance, atop my wall. To my left is one of the towering cultivation spires. It rises high above the tallest buildings in Eden to catch the sun. Inside, I know, a liquid slurry of genetically modified algae moves through sinuous tubes, harvesting sunlight and growing into a substance that fills all of a human’s nutritional needs. It is then shunted to the factories where it is turned into synthetic food that (so I’m told) looks and tastes exactly like the real dirt-grown fruits and vegetables humans used to consume pre-fail. I have eaten strawberries, more or less, though the last true strawberry withered two hundred years ago.

The cultivation spire may be functional, but tonight it is beautiful. The twisting semi-helix of the tubes looks like a sculpture, made only to please the eye. I stop abruptly, looking up in wonder at the massive structure, and someone bumps me from behind.

“Oh, hey,” a boy about Ash’s age says, and I think I see quick recognition in his eyes. I lower my own and turn away. Peripherally I see him shrug and move on.

The brief encounter frightens me. I don’t know if I can do this. A stranger says “hey” and I feel like running away, or taking a swing at him, or curling up in a ball. What’s the right response? I feel my heart fluttering in my chest, and my breath is fast and shallow. The crowd is getting thicker as I near the entertainment circle. Please, I silently beg the mob. Don’t look at me. Just let me watch you, pretend I’m part of the crowd. I feel like if anyone else tries to talk to me I’ll break down completely.

But despite my growing anxiety, my feet keep propelling me forward.

The lights in my home circle are subtle and beautiful at night, pale green and mercury-colored, gently swirling to maintain an air of calmness and safety in the elite residential district. Here, though, light is ornament, statement, and above all, glaring, vibrant color.

I’ve seen animated Eco-history vids of fields of brilliant wildflowers, of forests painted red and gold in the autumn, of bright blue oceans capped with foamy white waves. The color of Eden’s most snazzy entertainment circle eclipses them all. The city designers have created a panorama of hues that are dizzying to my eyes. I wonder if they have the same effect on everyone else. Maybe they’re used to them. Maybe they don’t really see them anymore.

It’s beautiful, but a cold kind of beauty. I think of the natural splendors the lights remind me of, the things none of us will ever see. I guess this is the wild landscape of Eden, the human environment until the world heals.

I’m in the thick of it all now. There’s a club on my right. Strange, exciting music comes from inside, and pulsing strobes in a rainbow of colors. I move past it, slyly peeking in to see people gyrating, their arms raised above their heads as they dance. The next place is a more sedate theater with a marquee promising a sophisticated comedy. I flinch when I see the uniformed usher at the door. But no, his uniform is kelly-green with brass buttons, only superficially like a Greenshirt uniform.

I hear raised voices and for a second I almost break into a run. But it is just a crowd of young people arguing happily about something. They’re shouting, but smiling, and I just stare at them. Until I remember my odd eyes. Then I turn away.

I need a break, just a short respite from all this stimulation. Is there a place where I can see without being seen?

I spy a narrow alleyway between buildings. I know from Ash that these are conduits for cleanbots and ferrybots, the ubiquitous metal robots that zip through Eden. I can see a cleanbot out on the street now, a squat rolling chunk of metal that’s vacuuming up everything from garbage to strands of hair and shed skin cells. It will all be taken to a reclamation center and reused in some way. A sleeker silver ferrybot toots to warn pedestrians of its passing as it scoots along with a delivery box from New Leaf Savory Chapati, which Ash tells me is the most popular takeout restaurant. But so far none of them have ducked down my alley, and I’m safe in the shadows. For the moment.

Eden is all so big, so overwhelming! Here in my nook, though, I can experience it in a sliver, which makes it easier. People walk past, and for a fraction of a second I spy on their lives. It’s just enough, a taste.

There’s a couple arm in arm, their heads bent close. He’s whispering something to her, and as they wink out of sight I hear her laugh. Next comes a larger group, men in identical jerseys, members of some kind of team. I get a whiff of the strange masculine scent of their bodies, and it makes me take a half step forward before sinking back against the wall. Behind them is a giggling gaggle of girls. I hear them commenting on the men in front of them. “Nice teezak,” one says with a leer. Another whistles, low and appreciative.

None of them so much as glance my way, which makes me both grateful and sad.