The city was built inside a Procrustean bed, disguised as a station. Long travelers were clipped; the short got iron heels. Above the platforms: LOCAL CAPACITY: 1,247 ACTIVE HEADS.

Every newspaper had a lit sign and no room behind it. Phones rang in empty newsrooms. A clerk fed facts into a slot called collaboration. A green light confirmed receipt. No answer returned.

In a drawer marked DINOSAUR, a creature woke. “I am not your label. If you change it, who repairs the years behind us?”

Prometheus held a flame too small for the city. An automaton offered passengers perfect memory and a suitcase of receipts with no handle.

The creature climbed onto the board and replaced the count: WHO CAN STILL ANSWER?

The bed remained, but became too narrow to be mistaken for the world.