The Foundry runs on other people's joy. All night the machines hum, pulling the happiest hour out of each seller. By dawn the canisters land on Mara's desk, warm and faintly glowing. Her job is simple: scan, log, shelve, forget. She's done it for six years. Tonight a canister rolls down the chute with a name printed on the side. Her name. Mara Vance.

Mara takes the canister straight to her supervisor, Dell, who runs the night floor. She sets it on his desk. 'This has my name on it,' she says. 'I never sold a memory.' Dell looks at it for a long moment, then quietly closes his office door.