A cold front rolled in.
The kind that knifed through cheap coats and found every draft in old buildings.
Olivia woke to the sound of her radiator wheezing and then… nothing.
She lay there for a second, teeth already chattering.
“Come on,” she muttered, kicking off the covers and padding over in wool socks to smack the side of the metal behemoth.
No hiss. No gurgle. Just silence.
She checked her phone.
A text from the building’s group chat, where neighbors complained about everything from hallway smells to package theft.
*Super*: heat’s out. working on it. no ETA. welcome to old buildings ¯\\\_(ツ)\_/¯
She wrapped herself tighter in her sweater, breath puffing in the cold air.
December in Brooklyn with no heat. Great.
She put on coffee, watched her breath fog in the kitchen, and automatically reached for her phone.
Then stopped.
She almost laughed. *No.*
She was not texting Jake to complain that her radiator was out.
Even if his platform probably knew exactly which buildings were reporting heat complaints right now. Even if some part of her wanted to see him march into her landlord’s office and read him the riot act.
She sat at her table, fingers wrapped around her mug, and forced herself to focus on the glacial progress bar on her laptop instead.
Her TerraNova series had one more official installment: Part Three. The politics of private code in public spaces.
She had most of the reporting. Interviews with law professors. Case studies from other cities. A quote from a Berlin official who’d told her, “We nationalized before we privatized. The U.S. skipped a step.”
What she didn’t have yet was the spine.
The through-line.
The bus incident had shifted it.
This wasn’t just about theoretical risk anymore.
This was about what happened when code drifted thirty seconds in the wrong direction.
Her phone buzzed.
She sighed, checked it against her better judgment.
*Ma*: tu radiador sirve?
> No, she wrote back. > Yours?
*Ma*: lukewarm. > I yelled at the super. > Yell at yours.
> On my to-do list, Olivia replied. > Put on all the sweaters you own.
*Ma*: already wearing two. > don’t let that boy send his techs to “fix” it. > they’ll put cameras in the pipes.
Olivia almost spit out her coffee.
> That’s not how that works, she wrote. > Also, I haven’t told him.
> I’m not giving him more leverage over my basic needs.
*Ma*: good. > make him fix the whole building or nothing.
She snorted.
Her mother texted like a union organizer sometimes.
Her phone buzzed again, different thread this time.
*Jake*:
> Your building just popped red on the heat map. > You okay?
She stared at the screen.
Of course it did.
Of course he knew.
She could picture the internal dashboard—neighborhoods in shades of blue for normal complaints, yellow and red for clusters.
Her building would be a pixel somewhere in a sea of aging infrastructure.
> I have socks and rage, she replied. > I’ll survive.
> We’re flagging your landlord, he wrote. > Buildings over a certain complaint threshold get… extra attention.
> If my rent goes up because of your “extra attention,” she shot back, > I’m blaming you personally.
> I’ll subsidize your coffee for a month, he wrote. > That’s like… rent-adjacent.
Heat prickled her cheeks.
> I’m not taking your money, Jake, she typed.
> It wouldn’t be personal, he replied. > It’s… structural.
> *Metro* pays you to poke holes in me. I pay you in espresso.
She laughed despite herself.
> Focus on the grid, she wrote. > I’ve got Part Three to finish so the law professors can yell at me.
> Ah yes, he responded. > The people with PhDs in “You’re Doing It Wrong.”
> That’s the official degree, yes, she wrote.
He sent a photo.
His office, monitors glowing. A weather map overlay on TerraNova’s dashboard, little heat complaint icons dotting the city.
His caption: *Working on it.*
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.
> Good, she finally sent. > Because if my mother’s toes get cold, > she’s coming for *both* of us.
> Terrifying, he wrote.
They lapsed into a silence that wasn’t exactly comfortable, but wasn’t crackling either.
A neutral zone.
On screen, her cursor blinked.
She typed a sentence, deleted it, rewrote.
Her phone buzzed again.
*Raj*: space heater at the office with your name on it. > come work here. we’ll keep you warm and full of bad puns.
She considered.
Her apartment felt like a freezer. The office at least had reliable building infrastructure and someone’s forgotten protein bars.
> On my way, she replied.
***
By noon, *Metro*’s office was a patchwork of blankets and fleece, reporters huddled in sweaters, old radiators clanking valiantly.
“City’s old pipes are crying,” Raj said, waving a hand at the window. “We going to get a thinkpiece out of this?”
“We already have three,” Laura said dryly. “One on inequities in building maintenance, one on how landlords skirt the heat law, and one on whether cup noodles constitute a balanced cold-weather diet.”
“They don’t,” Olivia muttered, chewing.
She huddled at her desk, her borrowed space heater blowing on her legs, laptop balanced precariously to avoid the blast.
Her draft crawled forward.
She wove in the hearings, the bus, the potential legislative responses.
She refrained—barely—from calling any council member a coward outright.
At three, her phone buzzed.
*Unknown.*
She frowned.
“Martinez,” she answered.
“Ms. Martinez, this is Councilwoman Reyes,” came the clipped voice.
Olivia straightened.
“Councilwoman,” she said. “What can I do for you?”
“I read your pieces,” Reyes said. “All three.”
Olivia’s pulse spiked.
“I gather that, since I’m on this call, you didn’t hate them,” she said cautiously.
“I didn’t,” Reyes said. “I don’t… love having my quotes used to make me sound like an idiot, but that’s on me, not you.”
Olivia filed that away for later self-flagellation.
“Your series has… made some people in my office uncomfortable,” Reyes continued. “But it’s also done something useful. It’s given us cover.”
“Cover?” Olivia echoed.
“To push harder on things we should have already been pushing on,” Reyes said. “We’re drafting a bill. Stronger public oversight of any private infrastructure code used in city systems. Clarity on exit options. Regular independent audits with community input.”
Olivia’s pen flew.
“You’re not just doing this because of a bus and a news cycle,” she said. “Right?”
“No,” Reyes said. “But the bus helped. You don’t get political will without a little blood, unfortunately.”
The bluntness shook Olivia.
“What do you need from me?” she asked.
“Nothing,” Reyes said. “Except maybe… a fair shot. When this comes to the floor, the lobbyists are going to call it anti-innovation, anti-business, anti-progress. I could use someone who understands the nuances to cover it… as more than just grandstanding.”
Warmth flickered under Olivia’s skin.
“I’ll be there,” she said.
“One more thing,” Reyes added. “Off the record?”
“Off,” Olivia said.
“I don’t trust Morrison,” Reyes said. “Not really. Not as much as some of my colleagues do. But I trust that he cares more than most of the people who come in here talking about ‘solutions.’ That’s… something. I just don’t want our systems held hostage to any one man’s conscience, no matter how earnest.”
Olivia swallowed.
“Me neither,” she said.
After they hung up, she stared at her screen for a long moment.
Slowly, an outline began to take shape.
Not just *TerraNova good or bad.*
But *What do we do about a world where private code already runs our public lives?*
She started typing.
Words came easier this time.
Like the shape of the problem had finally resolved.
***
That night, back in her still-chilly apartment, she layered socks and hoodies and burrowed under her comforter with her laptop.
Her phone buzzed.
*Jake*:
> Councilwoman Reyes just emailed me a draft of something.
> You talk to her?
> She did, Olivia replied. > Off the record. > Ish.
> Ish, he echoed.
> She wants to make my life harder.
> She wants to make the city less dependent on you, Olivia wrote. > Those aren’t the same thing.
> And if you mean what you said about not wanting godhood, > you should be glad.
There was a long pause.
> You’re right, he wrote.
> It still stings.
> Ego is a hell of a drug.
She smiled faintly.
> Welcome to withdrawal, she typed.
> You’d be a terrible rehab counselor, he replied.
> I’d be excellent, she wrote. > Step 1: admit you’re not the center of the universe. > Step 2: read your hate mail out loud in group.
He sent a groaning emoji.
Then:
> You done writing?
> Need a break? > I can distract you with tales of how Samir almost cried when a unit test failed.
She hesitated.
Distance, she reminded herself.
Lines.
Also: bed. Sleep. Sanity.
> Rain check, she typed. > My eyeballs hurt.
> And my radiator still hates me.
> I think we fixed that, he wrote.
> TerraNova flagged your building twice. > Your landlord finally called in a real plumber.
> You should feel a faint gurgle any minute now.
As if on cue, a hiss sounded from the radiator.
Heat.
She blinked.
Walked over.
Put her hand near the metal.
Warmth radiated out, slow but undeniable.
Damn him.
> Don’t get smug, she typed. > I’m still mad at you.
> I know, he wrote.
> I’m getting used to it.
> Warm toes though?
She looked down at her socked feet.
Already less numb.
> Warm toes, she admitted. > You win this round, Morrison.
> I’ll take the W, he wrote.
> Sleep. > Raise hell tomorrow.
She set the phone down, climbed into bed, and let the heat seep into her bones.
She was still mad.
She was also… grateful.
Life with him in it again was, she realized, like her damn radiator.
Temperamental. Noisy. Capable of cutting out at the worst possible time.
But when it worked, even a little, it made the cold more bearable.
She wasn’t sure yet if that was worth the potential for another freeze.
But for now, she let herself enjoy the warmth.
Just a little.
Knowing the next storm was already on the horizon.
And that when it hit, it would shake more than just pipes.
It would shake the ground beneath both of them.