"The lawn needs mowing, Elias," the silhouette said, its voice a discordant layering of his neighbors’ tones. "The symmetry is breaking."
It started with the "glitches." A neighbor, Mr. Henderson, standing perfectly still on his porch for forty minutes, staring at a dead mailbox. The rhythmic, synchronized clicking of every sprinkler system on the street, firing off at 3:14 AM exactly. Disturbia
The suburb wasn't a place. It was a circuit. And Elias was the surge that had to be grounded. "The lawn needs mowing, Elias," the silhouette said,