Mr. Biscuit is my best friend. Every morning around sunrise, I wake to his soft, staccato chirp at my bedside, and I peel back the covers to make room for him to join me. With a tiny grunt he springs up to the bed’s surface; it’s about the highest leap he can muster with his lone rear leg. I touch my left-hand fingertips to my side, making a ring of my arm and ribcage, and he curls himself therein. I pull the covers over him. He purrs happily. I go back to sleep until my alarm sounds.
In the town of Andover, in the bowels of a stark IRS building, racks of blinking servers hum gently as they ingest packets of e-file data via ZMODEM protocol.