The morning routine in the Presidential Palace was a well-oiled machine. Doors opened in sequence. Pets emerged. Guards patrolled.
Noah stepped into the hallway, keeping his head down. The lingering effects of the sedative made the red carpet look exceptionally bright, but the pebble at his ankle kept him grounded.
The door to the room next to his—Unit 43—slid open.
"Oh boy! Oh boy! Morning time!"
A man burst out of the room. He was in his forties, balding, wearing a jumpsuit that was torn at the knees. He dropped immediately to all fours, panting, his tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth.
It was Rex.
Noah had seen him before, during "Exercise Hour," chasing tennis balls with a desperation that was painful to watch. Rex had been an accountant once. Noah remembered seeing a name tag on a shredded shirt in the laundry bin: Rex Miller, CPA.
Now, Rex was a Golden Retriever. Or at least, he believed he was with every fiber of his broken being.
"Ball?" Rex asked, looking up at the Siamese guard standing by the door. "Walkies? Park?"
The guard, a sleek cat named Officer Hiss, looked down at Rex with undisguised contempt. "No park today, dog. Grooming. You smell like despair."
"Grooming!" Rex cheered, his tail (which was just a belt he had tied to his waist) wagging furiously. "I love grooming! I'm a good boy!"
Noah felt a wave of nausea roll over him. It wasn't disgust; it was terror.
Rex wasn't acting. There was no spark of rebellion in his eyes, no hidden pebble in his sock. Rex was gone. The city had swallowed him whole, digested his humanity, and left this husk that lived for the approval of a cat.
That was almost me, Noah realized, his hands trembling by his sides. If I hadn't found the Ark... if I had taken one more pill... I would be down there on the carpet, barking.
"Hey, Rex," Noah whispered as he fell into line behind the man.
Rex turned his head, panting. "Hello, friend! Do you have a ball? I lost my ball."
"No ball, Rex," Noah said softly, glancing at the camera in the corner of the ceiling. "Do you remember... do you remember numbers? Spreadsheets? Coffee?"
Rex cocked his head, a look of confusion clouding his eyes for a fraction of a second. "Coffee? No. Coffee bad for dogs. Make heart go boom-boom. Rex wants water."
He turned back around, trotting happily toward the elevators.
Noah leaned his forehead against the cold metal of the elevator doors as they waited. He felt a tear leak out, hot and angry. He couldn't save Rex. Not today. Rex was a warning sign posted in neon letters: THIS IS YOUR FUTURE IF YOU STOP FIGHTING.
"Move it, hairless," Officer Hiss snapped, nipping at Noah's heel.
Noah stepped into the elevator, standing tall while Rex sat on the floor. He wouldn't bark. He would never bark.