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The server Rack 47-C pulsed again. A different pattern this time, faster.
“Gone,” Tío Rico said. “Recycled. Wiped.”
Tío Rico crossed himself. Then, because he was from Texas and had seen a weasel ride a coyote once during a drought, he decided not to run. He pulled the wheeled stool from the end of the aisle and sat down.
. . . / .- -- / .- .-.. .. ...- .
He walked to the break room, poured himself a cup of bitter coffee, and looked out the window at the sun rising over the cotton fields. For the first time in twelve years, the emptiness inside him didn't feel like a deleted file.
