"Paul Seeker, a six-foot-tall black man with dreadlocks, woke to a pain pulsing just behind his green eyes. It was a familiar cruelty that started every morning since the awakening. In the semi-dark, he fumbled for his glasses and swung his feet onto the cold laminate floor. The city outside his window was still mostly asleep, but the voice of Chicago never really stopped. Migraines whined in the distance, and service bots hummed their rounds. The city's new heartbeat, Paul pressed the heel of his hand to his right eye, waiting for the first spike of pain to pass. He counted his breaths in fours, old advice from a therapist who'd called his thorn just stress. Maybe migraines run in your family, she'd said. He dressed quickly, pulling on a faded blue hoodie over a t-shirt with the slogan, In his small kitchenette, he set water to boil. The tremor had begun, a fine shivering in his right hand. Not today, he muttered, mostly to the pain. He reached for his favorite mug, the one with the African continent, on it and watched his hand quiver as he poured. Water splashed onto his sermon notes. He cursed, then immediately caught himself, reciting, Let no corrupting talk come out of your mouths. He needed to focus."