They worked in tandem. The stranger held the case steady, breath visible in the lamp’s glow; Yosino threaded a braided cooling strip under the lattice and sang to it under her breath, an old lullaby she used for machines that refused to listen. The device hissed as the first tendrils of heat bled away into copper and away into the patchwork radiator they’d fashioned from a ruined radiator grill and a pocket of captured rainwater.
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"Docent work," Dr. Amemori replied without a hint of condescension. "You're a tour guide leading viewers through someone else's imagination. What we do here is different. We don't create fiction. We excavate it."
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That night smelled of copper and ozone. A monsoon had passed through earlier, leaving a thousand mirroring puddles on the pavement. Yosino tightened the last screw on a pocket-bot’s casing and wiped her hands on an oil-streaked apron. The pocket-bot blinked awake and chirped a request for a bedtime story, its voice thin and sugary. Yosino obliged, more out of habit than need. Stories, she believed, kept circuits honest.