Carson is really out of touch, Brittany thought as she hurried toward her battered old hovercar parked on the roof of the building. He had never heard of Mercedes Jones, and she is the most well-known human being alive. And he's so touchy about where he's from. And he didn't seem to understand the ritual of offering a gift of food to a new neighbor. He was anxious about getting in touch with his friends. Can I give him any help? she asked herself. Although, what can I really do? A special, a chickenhead, what can I offer? I can't marry and I can't emigrate and the dust will eventually kill me.

Speeding through the air, already late to work, she thought about Carson's blue eyes, his sculpted torso, his tough exterior tinged with that hint of vulnerability. At least I can get him that phone, she resolved, touching down on the roof of the New Directions Animal Hospital – that carefully misnamed little enterprise which barely existed in the tough, competitive field of false-animal repair.

She rushed down the stairs, one tangled excuse mixing with the next as she struggled to find something acceptable to explain her tardiness. But when she burst through the door, Mr. Schuester wasn't there. Instead, her coworker Puck was sitting behind their boss's desk, feet propped up on his desk and hands behind his head.

“What bee got in your bonnet?” asked Puck in exaggerated tones, grinning in a way that made that innocent phrase seem dirty and forbidden.

“Lord Tubbington needed me – had to get a, uh, a knot out of his fur. He's fussy like that,” she said, looking at the ground and twirling her hair nervously.

“No need to make excuses to us, Britt,” said Mike, twirling across the linoleum floor to music only he could hear. “We already covered for you with Mr. Schue. You're supposed to be on a pick up. So hurry up.” He flung a set of keys her way and she caught them.

“Thanks, guys,” she said gratefully, laughing as Mike put one hand on her back and the other on her hip to dance her toward the door. “What's the address?”

“It's on the northwest side. I already plugged it into the GPS on the van,” Mike said, releasing Brittany from his grip and giving her a little bow. Turning to Puck, Mike added, “That girl can really move.”

“Don't I know it,” Puck said with a wink.

Grabbing her white coat off the hook by the door, Brittany flashed a huge grin and her outstretched middle finger in Puck's direction.

“Aw, baby, I didn't mean it that way,” he pleaded in an exaggerated manner. She turned and headed up toward the stairs, a genuine smile on her face this time. Yes, Mike and Puck were excellent coworkers. They were both still classed as regulars, and they knew exactly how to make her feel like one of them.

An hour later, Brittany was on her way back to office having picked up the first malfunctioning animal for the day: an electric cat. It lay in the plastic dust-proof carrying cage in the rear of the truck and panted erratically. You'd almost think it was real, Brittany observed. She still had about twenty minutes left to travel to get back to the shop. She glanced around and seeing no police vehicles, increased her speed.

The cat, in its travail, groaned.

Wow, Brittany said to herself. It really sounds as if it's dying. Maybe its ten-year battery has shorted, and all of its circuits are systematically burning out. A major job. Mike was going to have his hands full repairing this one. And I didn't give the owner an estimate, Brittany realized gloomily. The handsome man with dark hair and penetrating eyes had simply thrust the cat at Brittany, said it had begun failing during the night, and took off for work. Anyhow, all of a sudden the momentary verbal exchange had ceased; the cat's owner had gone roaring up into the sky in her sporty new hovercar. And the woman constituted a new customer. Damn it. Mr. Schuester was going to be pissed off. And on the first day Brittany ever really needed a favor.

To the cat, she said, “Can you hang on until we reach the shop?” The cat continued to wheeze. “Oh, all right already. I'll recharge you now.” Brittany dropped the truck toward the nearest available roof and with the motor still running, crawled into the back of the truck. She opened the plastic dust-proof carrying cage, which, in conjunction with her own white coat and the name on the truck, created a total impression of a true animal vet picking up a true animal.

The electric mechanism, within its compellingly authentic-style gray pelt, gurgled and blew bubbles, its vid-lenses glassy, its metal jaws locked together. This had always amazed her, these “disease” circuits built into false animals. The construct which she now held on her lap had been put together in such a fashion that hen a primary component misfired, the whole thing appeared – not broken – but organically ill. It would have fooled me, Brittany said to herself as she groped within the ersatz stomach fur for the concealed control panel (quite small on this variety of false animal) plus the quick-charge battery terminals. She could find neither. Nor could she search very long; the mechanism had almost failed. If it does consist of a short, she reflected, which is busy burning out circuits, then maybe I should try to detach one of the battery cables. The mechanism will shut down, but no more harm will be done. And then, in the shop, Mike or Puck could charge it back up.

“Come on, little guy. Stay with me,” she muttered as she ran her fingers deftly along the pseudo bony spine. The cables should be about here. Damn expert workmanship; so absolutely perfect an imitation. Cables not apparent even under close scrutiny. Must be a Wheelright & Carpenter product – they cost more, but look what good work they do.

She gave up; the false animal had ceased functioning, so evidently the short – if that is what ailed the thing – had finished off the power supply and basic drive-train. That'll run into money, she thought pessimistically. Well, the guy evidently hadn't been getting the three-times-yearly preventive cleaning and lubricating, which made all the difference. Maybe this would teach the owner – the hard way.

Brittany wiped a tear from her cheek as she gazed at the crumpled body of the false cat reverently for a moment. Sniffing and shaking her head, she crawled back into the driver's set and resumed her flight back to the repair shop.

Funny, she thought, even though I know rationally it's faked, the sound of a false animal burning out its drivetrain and power supply ties my stomach in knots. This, she thought painfully, is the part of the job that I hate. If I hadn't failed the IQ test, I wouldn't be reduced to this thankless task with its emotional byproducts. On the other hand, the synthetic sufferings of false animals didn't bother Noah Puckerman or Mike Chang or William Schuester. So again, maybe it's just me. Maybe when you deteriorate back down the ladder of evolution as I have, when you sink into the underworld of being a special – well, best to abandon that line of inquiry. Nothing depressed her more than the moments in which she contrasted her current mental powers with what she had formerly possessed. Every day she declined in sagacity and vigor. She and the thousands of other specials throughout Earth, all of them moving toward the ash heap. Turning into living kipple.

When she parked the truck on the roof of the New Directions Animal Hospital, she quickly carried the plastic cage containing the inert false cat downstairs.

Mike was hunched over a workbench in the front room, tinkering with what looked like a false hamster. Puck was sweeping the floor lazily, keeping up a steady stream of chatter while Mike humored him with the occasional, noncommittal “mm-hmmm.”

Ignoring them, she heads straight to William Schuester's office. As she entered, Mr. Schuester glanced up from a parts-inventory page. “Hello, Brittany. What do you have there?” he asked.

“A cat with a short in its power supply.” Brittany set the cage down on the document-littered desk of her boss.

“Why are you showing it to me?” Schuester asked. “Just take it to Mike.” However, reflexively, he opened the cage and tugged the false animal out. Before he took over management of the shop, he had been a repairman. A very good one. He began a thorough examination of the cat as Brittany stood in front of his desk, shifting her weight awkwardly from one foot to the other.

“I'm serious,” Puck whines in the background. “There are actual androids, the kind you get when you emigrate to Mars, walking around here like they're people.”

“Um, Mr. Schuester?”

“Yes, Brittany?” Mr. Schuester said distractedly, turning the cat over and running his hands through its fur.

Mike's voice drifts through the door, “That's ridiculous. There aren't any androids on Earth. They don't even manufacture them here.”

Brittany shifted her weight again, her gaze bouncing around the room. “I was wondering if maybe I could – um, if it's not too much trouble…”

Peering up at her, Mr. Schuester asked, “What?”

“You should listen to me, man. I've got insider knowledge with the SFPD,” Puck says with self-importance.

 Brittany blinks a few times in an effort to regain her focus. “Well, I've been working here for a while now. And you and Mike and Puck are always telling me that I do a good job – ”

“That's right.” Mr. Schuester tilted his head, brow furrowed. “What are you getting at?”

Puck continued. “He's pretty high-up, my brother – ”

“Half-brother,” Mike cut in, bored and thoroughly unimpressed. “And when was the last time you talked to him anyway?”

Brittany dug her fingernails into her palms and forced herself to continue. “I was wondering if I could maybe have a raise. I've had some unexpected expenses come up just recently, you see – ”

“Damn it!” Mr. Schuester yelled, dropping the cat onto the table. Brittany stared silently, body tense as her boss stood up, spun around, tugged a hand savagely through his tight curls, and let out a string of abuse lasting what seemed to be a full minute. “This cat,” Mr. Schuester said finally, “isn't false. I knew sometime this would happen. And it's dead.” He turned again, staring down at the corpse of the cat. And cursed again.

Mike appeared at the office door. “What's the matter?” Seeing the cat he entered the office and picked up the animal.

“The chickenhead,” Schuester said, pointing an accusatory finger at Brittany, “brought it in.” Brittany sucked in a shocked breath and willed herself not to cry. Never before had he used that term in front of her. It was one of the reasons she had never looked for another job, in spite of the emotional challenge of dealing with sick animals – or at least very good imitations of sick animals –  every day.

“Damn, really?” Puck said, poking his head through the door. “Sorry, I couldn't help but hear that. Let me see it,” he said, taking the cat from Mike and turning it over in his hands. “If it was still alive, we could take it to a real animal vet. I wonder what it's worth. Anybody got their phone handy? I can look it up on the Sidney's app.”

“D-doesn't y-y-your insurance c-c-cover this?” Brittany asked. Her legs wavered under her and she felt the room begin to turn dark maroon cast over with specks of green.

“Yes,” Mr. Schuester said finally, almost snarling. “But it's the waste that gets me. The loss of one more living creature. Couldn't you tell, Brittany? Didn't you notice the difference?”

“I thought,” Brittany managed to say, “it was a really good job. So good it fooled me; I mean, it seemed alive and a job that good – ”

“I don't think Brittany can tell the difference,” Mike said mildly. “To her they're all alive, false animals included. You remember how she insisted that we let her have that giant false cat when Cooper Products made that horrible mistake with the measurements? She probably tried to save this one, too.” To Brittany he said, “What did you do, try to recharge its battery? Or locate a short in it?”

“Y-yes,” Brittany admitted, blinking back tears.

“It probably was so far gone it wouldn't have made it anyhow,” Mike said. “Let Brittany off the hook, Mr. Schue. She's got a point. The fakes are beginning to be darn near real, what with those disease circuits they're building into the new ones. And living animals do die; that's one of the risks in owning them. We're just not used to it because all we see are fakes.”

“The goddamn waste,” Mr. Schuester said, rubbing a hand over his face.

“According to Mercerism,” Brittany pointed out, “all life returns. The cycle is complete for animals, too. I mean, we all ascend the hill – ”

“Tell that to the guy that owned this cat,” Mr. Schuester said flatly.

Not sure if her boss was serious Brittany said, “You mean I have to? But you always handle calls.” She had a phobia about the phone and found making a call, especially to a stranger, virtually impossible. Mr. Schuester, of course, knew this.

“Don't make her,” Mike said. “I'll do it.”

“Yeah, or I will,” agreed Puck. He reached for the phone. “What's his number?”

“I've got it here somewhere.” Brittany fumbled in the pockets of her white coat.

“I want Brittany to do it,” Mr. Schuester said firmly.

“I c-c-can't use the phone. Especially with the video,” Brittany protested. “I'm nervous and I feel really ugly and dirty and stooped and gray. I feel sick from the radiation. I think I'm going to die.”

Mike smiled and said to Mr. Schuester, “I guess if I felt that way I wouldn't use the phone either. Come on, Britt. If you don't give me the owner's number I can't make the call and you'll have to.” He held out his hand amiably.

“Do you know that she had the gall to ask for a raise just now?” Mr. Schuester said, eyes straight ahead and fixed on nothing. “The chickenhead makes the call, or she's fired.”

“Aw, come on,” Puck protested.

Brittany said, “I d-don't like to be c-c-called a chickenhead. I mean, the d-d-dust has d-d-done a lot to you, too, physically. Although maybe not to your b-b-brain, as in my case.” I'm fired, she realized. I can't make the call. Sweat beaded and trickled under her arms and down the backs of her legs. She would lose her job, the one place where at least some people stood up for her and treated her like an equal. She would lose her chance to help Carson and he would probably stop talking to her. She would lose her ability to cover her expenses and would have to apply to an institution for specials.

And then all at once she remembered that the owner of the cat had zipped off to work. There would be no one home. “I guess I can call her,” she said, as she fished out the tag with the information on it.

“See?” Mr. Schuester said to Mike. “She can do it if she has to.”

Seated in front of the screen, Brittany dialed.

“Yeah,” Puck said, “but she shouldn't have to. And she's right. The dust has affected you. You're damn near blind and in a couple of years you won't be able to hear.”

Schuester said, “It's got to you too, Puck. Your skin is the color of dog manure.” Puck cheerfully held up his middle finger. Mr. Schuester opened his mouth to respond but just then the call connected and he stayed silent.

On the screen, a face appeared. A small woman with a sharp chin, red hair, and enormous eyes. “Yes?” he said.

“M-m-Mrs. Howell?” Brittany said, terror spewing through her. He had not thought of the fact that the owner might have a wife, who might be at home.

“Pillsbury,” the woman said.

“What?” Brittany asked blankly.

“My name Emma Pillsbury. My husband is Dr. Carl Howell,” she said precisely. Brittany found herself wondering what part of the country she could be from with an accent that sounds like speaking with cotton balls in one's cheeks. “May I help you?”

“Um, I want to t-talk to you about your c-c-c – ” Brittany broke off and took a deep breath, twirling her hair in her fingers. “Your cat.”

“Oh yes, you picked up Horace,” Ms. Pillsbury said. “Did it turn out to be pneumonitis? That's what my husband thought.”

Brittany said, “Your cat died.”

“Oh no, God in heaven.”

“We'll replace it,” Brittany said hurriedly. “We have insurance.” She glanced toward Mr. Schuester; he seemed to concur. “The owner of our firm, Mr. William Schuester – ” She floundered. “Will personally – ” 

“No,” Schuester mouthed in an exaggerated fashion. “We'll give them a check. Sidney's list price.”

“ – will personally pick the replacement cat out for you,” Brittany found herself saying. Having started a conversation which she could not endure she discovered herself unable to get back out. What she was saying possessed an intrinsic logic which she had no means of halting. It had to grind to its own conclusion. Mr. Schuester, Puck and Mike all stared at her as she rattled on. “Give us the specifications of the cat you desire. Color, sex, subtype, such as Manx, Persian, Abyssinian – ”

“Horace is dead,” Ms. Pillsbury said.

“He had pneumotitis,” Brittany said. “He died on the trip to the hospital. Our senior staff physician, Dr. William Schuester, expressed the belief that nothing at this point could have saved him. But isn't it fortunate, Dr. Howell, that we're going to replace him? Am I correct?”

Ms. Pillsbury, tears appearing in her eyes, said, “There is only one cat like Horace. He used to – when he was just a kitten – stand and stare up at us as if asking a question.  We never understood what the question was. Maybe now he knows the answer.” Fresh tears appeared. “I guess we all will eventually.”

“I-I understand, Ms. Pillsbury. I too, have a cat, Lord Tubbington, and there is no one else like him.” She resolutely ignored Puck's muffled snickers. Thinking of her own cat, inspiration struck her. “What about an exact electric duplicate of your cat? We can have a superb handcrafted job by Wheelright & Carpenter in which every detail of the old animal is faithfully repeated in permanent – ”

“Oh that's dreadful!” Ms. Pillsbury protested. “What are you saying? Don't tell my husband that; don't suggest that to Carl or he'll go mad. Oh God, I don't know what to do.” Her eyes opened impossibly wide and she sucked panicked, labored breaths in and out. “My marriage is on the rocks as it is. This can't be happening. Carl loved Horace more than any cat he ever had, and he's had a cat since he was a child.” 

Pushing Brittany gently out of the way, Mr. Schuester sat down in front of the screen. “We can give you a check in the amount of Sidney's list, or as Ms. Pierce suggested we can pick out a new cat for you. We're very sorry that your cat died, but as Ms. Pierce pointed out, the cat had pneumonitis, which is almost always fatal.” His tone rolled out professionally. Out of the four of them at the New Direction's Animal Hospital, Mr. Schuester performed the best in the matter of business calls.

“I can't tell my husband,” Ms. Pillsbury said.

“All right, ma'am,” Mr. Schuester said, holding back a grimace. “We'll call him. Would you please give me his number at his place of employment?” He groped for a pad and pen. Mike handed them to him.

“Listen,” said Ms. Pillsbury, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. “Maybe the young woman is right. Maybe I ought to commission an electric replacement of Horace but without Carl ever knowing. Could it be so faithful a reproduction that my husband wouldn't be able to tell?”

Dubiously, Mr. Schuester said, “If that's what you want. But it's been our experience that the owner of the animal is never fooled. It's only casual observers such as neighbors. You see, once you get real close to a false animal – ”

“Carl never got physically close to Horace, even though he loved him. I mean, he took care of his needs, like changing the litter box. That was something I just couldn't do. I don't do well with the – messy things. But I'm the one that pets him – wearing gloves, of course. I like to stay clean.” Mr. Schuester made eye contact with Mike who was standing behind and to the side of the screen. Mike raised an eyebrow and shrugged as if to say, to each his own.

“Yes, I think I would like to try a false animal,” Ms. Pillsbury said, clasping her hands in front of her determinedly. “If it didn't work, then you could find us a real cat to replace Horace. I just don't want my husband to know. I don't think he could live through it. That's why he never got close to Horace – he was afraid to. And when Horace got sick, Carl was panic-stricken and just wouldn't face it. That's why we waited so long to call you. Too long…as I knew before you called. I knew.” She nodded, her tears under control now. “How long will it take?”

“We'll have it ready in about a week,” Mr. Schuester said, looking to Mike for a nod of approval. I'll come by personally to deliver it – during the day, while your husband is at work. We can set up a time over email.” He chatted for a few moments, winding up the call. As soon as he hung up, he looked at his three employees soberly. “Mike, I want you to take this cat over to Wheelright & Carpenter and make sure they get the measurements right. I don't want a repeat of what happened with that monstrosity that Brittany ended up taking home.”

“I don't think we have to worry about that, Mr. Schue. Wheelright is the best. But I'll take it over there, no problem.” After a pause, Mike added, “He'll know, her husband. In about five seconds.”

“Damn shame,” Mr. Schuester said, shaking his head ruefully. “I feel so badly for that poor woman, though. I really wish we could help her.”

“I hear they've got some souped up models, might just do the trick,” Puck said. “Realer than real, I think the slogan is. But our insurance probably won't cover the extra dough.”

“I'll cover it,” Mr. Schuester said immediately. “I'd like to see Ms. Pillsbury smile when I bring over the replacement. Owners who get to love their animals,” he added somberly. “They go to pieces. I'm glad we're not usually involved with real animals. You realize that actual animal vets have to make calls like that all the time?” He contemplated Brittany, who was still shaking a bit, eyes pointed at the floor. “You know, you're not so stupid after all, Brittany. You handled that call really well. I probably didn't even have to come in and take over. I just felt badly for that woman and wanted to talk with her myself.”

“She did great,” Mike agreed. He picked up the dead cat. “I'll take this over right now.”

“Okay, I'll give them a call and let them know you're on the way,” Mr. Schuester said. “Oh, and Mike?” Mike paused at the doorway. “On your way back, swing by the north side and take a look at an electric sheep for me. A lady called just before this whole shit storm happened. Sounds minor. I think you can bring some tools with you and do the repair right in the truck. The address is on my desk.”

“Will do,” said Mike, carrying the cat into Mr. Schuester's office to collect the paper with the address. “I'll see you all later.”

Mike hurried out the door and Puck went back to sweeping the floor. Mr. Schuester headed back to his desk to make the call to Wheelright. Brittany trailed behind him.

“I'm really sorry, Mr. Schue – ”

“No, Brittany,” Mr. Schuester said with a soft smile, “don't apologize. I'm the one who should apologize to you. What happened wasn't your fault and I shouldn't have made you feel bad about something you can't help.”

“Thanks,” Brittany said quietly. “I appreciate your saying that.”

“No really, I mean it. And Mike is right, you did great with that call. And I really would like to give you that raise, but – ”

“It's okay, I don't really need a raise,” she said in a rush. “But maybe just a little bonus? That would really help me out right now.”

Mr. Schuester frowned. “I'm sorry, Brittany. Everything extra that I've got is going to have to go toward making sure that replica of Horace the cat is perfect. Maybe in a few months.”

“I understand,” she said resolutely. However, she couldn't help muttering, “I'm not going to need it in a few months, though, I need the money now,” under her breath as she headed back toward her work area.

Puck was close enough to whisper in an instant. “You need extra cash? You know I can hook you up. Those lonely, unemployed, stay-at-home wives are usually so happy for a little attention that they give me mad tips. There aren't usually as many guys at home during the day, but I know a few of our regular customers who might be willing to pony up some cash for a little one-on-one time with you.”

Puck had tried to include Brittany in his little side business before, but finding it distasteful, had always said no. This time, however, she nodded.

“You must really need the money,” he said curiously. “What's it for?”

“A cell phone,” she said.

“But don't you live out in the boonies where you can't get any reception?”

Before she could answer, Mr. Schuester yelled from his desk, “A call just came in. I need a pick up on a dog, for a tune-up.”

“Is the customer a man or a woman?” Puck asked.

“Why?”

“Humor me,” Puck said.

“Man. He's a regular customer. A Mr. Artie Abrams.”

“Oh, yeah. I know him. We're on it, Mr. Schue,” Puck calls loudly with a wave. Mr. Schuester looks a bit skeptical, but after a moment he waves back and closes the glass door to his office. Puck and Brittany watch him shuffle back to his desk and settle down behind it. Within a moment, he was absorbed in reading something on his computer again.

“You're up,” Puck says, waggling an eyebrow at Brittany.

“I – um – I don't know. I mean, after what just happened with the cat…” Brittany grinds the ball of her foot back and forth against the linoleum.

“No worries,” Puck said. “I've picked up this dog before, and it's definitely fake. And besides, you did great with that call. I think you handled it as well as any of us could have.”

“Really?” Brittany said, biting on her lip to keep her beaming smile in check.

“Really.” Puck clapped a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Seriously, Britt, this is perfect. I know this guy – he's totally my bro. And I know he can hook you up. He does something with electronic communications for his job. Works from home – isn't that sweet? It's easier for him, ‘cause he's in a wheelchair. That doesn't bother you does it?” Puck pauses until Brittany shakes her head and gives him a tentative smile. “Anyway, if anyone can find out a phone powerful enough to work out in the boonies where you live, it's my bro, Artie.” Puck releases his grip on Brittany's shoulder and pulls out his phone. “I'll send him a text to let him know you're coming.” Tapping rapidly on the keys, he casually adds, “And you probably won't even need to do much. Just a little making out – or maybe a hand job. A guy in a wheelchair won't be too particular.” Puck finishes his text and grabs a piece of paper and pen to scribble out the address.

“We'll see,” Brittany says, smiling more broadly now. “It might not be a bad idea for me to take it a little further than that. It might keep me from doing something really foolish when I get home.”

Puck stops typing and gives her an appraising look. “Well, well, well. What are you hiding? Do you have a crush on someone?”

“May – be,” she sing-songed, holding out her hand for the address.

“It's not Mike is it?” Puck asks with a frown, pulling back the slip of paper and holding it close to his chest.

“No, silly,” she laughed. Lowering her voice conspiratorially, she said, “It's a new guy who just moved in to my building.”

“Oh, is that why you suddenly are so desperate to have a phone?” Puck asked.

“He has some friends he wanted to contact. I thought I'd help him out,” she said, leaning forward and snatching the paper from him and striding toward the door.

“Well, take my advice. Don't let him use the phone until after he puts out,” Puck teased. Brittany snatched a rubber glove off the counter and launched it slingshot-style across the room, hitting Puck square in the crotch.

“Get back to work,” Mr. Schuester yelled, glaring at them from behind his desk.

Giggling, Brittany rushed out the door, taking the stairs two at a time.