S.P.C.A.

Volunteers often bring their pets into the S.P.C.A. to be certified because they’ve noticed the calming effect the creature seems to have out in the world.

And this is the problem: the S.P.C.A., in a misguided response to a rash of break-ins, graffiti tagging, and dumpster diving for syringes and animal tranquillizers, had deployed one of Knightscope’s Autonomous Data Machines to patrol the area, which meant that Mr. Bacharach was awakened every thirty minutes, all night long, by this five-foot-tall, four-hundred-pound robot shining a light on him and giving off its eerie high-pitched whine before asking, in the most equable of tones, “������ is the situation here?”

He was waiting for her in front of the S.P.C.A., dressed, as always, in shorts, flip-flops, T-shirt, and denim jacket, his hair—he wore it long—pulled back tightly in a ponytail.

The street was quiet at this hour, which only seemed to magnify the garble of whining, yipping, and sudden startled shrieks coming from the S.P.C.A. facility behind them, and if it felt ominous it had nothing to do with these people gathered here but with the forces arrayed against them.

“You know that this place—the S.P.C.A., I mean—has a furnace out back, right?” he says, leaning into the table so she’s conscious of how close he is to her, right there, no more than two feet away.