Bread and Ashes

The lizard shifts on my shoulder.

Not a real lizard—though you’d never know from the way he blinks, breathes, curls his tail around my collarbone. Habanero’s a Mk-4 scout droid, skinned like a standard bearded dragon and heat-synced to pass drone sweeps unnoticed. Illegal, of course. But Abuela says every good recipe starts with a little risk. Plus he keeps me grounded— my emotional support pet without the pain of ever losing him.

When the regime overtook democracy, my Tourette’s became a liability—because they like to kill the things that don’t fit.

Most people have a natural aversion to reptiles—even as pets. So they never think to question Habanero’s legitimacy or the fact that with him, despite my nickname, I no longer twitch.

I pause, dough on my hands, heart thudding from the slap of a car door outside. No one should be arriving this early. Not before sunrise. Not on a restricted movement day.

Habanero’s claws tighten just enough to let me know he’s recording. That something’s off.