Jacqueline descends the curved concrete staircase to the foyer below. She appears to be around thirty years old, somewhat tall, and quite fit. Her hair is dyed platinum silver, and she’s tying the short bob up into a ponytail. Black, square-rimmed glasses accentuate her narrow heart-shaped jawline, and frame her icy blue eyes. She’s wearing a jogging outfit: light grey t-shirt and knee-length tights, and trainers that are light grey and white with neon-pink laces.

    Her assistant greets her below. “Good morning Miss Jacqueline,” Marlee says. She’s somewhere in her twenties and her voice is soft and quick. Her features suggest a mix of middle-eastern and south-asian heritage: dark almond eyes, prominent nose, and light olive skin. Her hair is done up in a pompadour, and her glasses are narrow and rectangular with green frames. She's wearing a black pinstripe suit and skirt over a grey blouse and stockings, and stiletto snakeskin pumps with buckles. Under one arm is a tablet.

    She says: “The security system has been successfully installed. Our bio signatures and all the staffs’ and regular guests’ have been entered into the system and won’t be affected. I can access the list from my tablet, and this remote will turn the system on and off. It’s calibrated to affect animals that may be harmful as well.”

    “Good,” Jacqueline says. Somehow everything about Jacqueline seems to fit perfectly with the house, or the house with her: sleek and modern. The house has stained-black cement flooring, ceiling-to-floor windows, and cold grey decor. She stands with her hands on her hips and looks through the large windows, out across the acres of lawn and garden surrounding her house. “Who is that man?” she says.

    In the distance, a man in overalls and a white hat is on his hands and knees below a large rhododendron.

    “Um,” Marlee says, flicking through her tablet. “I believe that is one Mr. Campbell. He’s, kind of a leftover from the former neighborhood. He used to do gardening pro-bono throughout the block before you bought the subdivision and demolished it-”

    “Almost all of it.”

    “-Yes. Our gardeners tolerate him; they say he does the job well.”

    “So he’s not on the payroll?” It’s apparent Jacqueline has a high-class english accent. Her voice is deep but sharp.

    “No Miss.”

    Jacqueline stares into the distance at a lone house by the road, completely surrounded by her lawn and property. “Has this been tested?” Jacqueline says, hefting the remote.

***

    On the outside, Jacqueline’s summer mansion is a modern, angular, three stories of wide, stacked platforms and glass, airy yet compact. It stands, black and grey, on the top of a hill surrounded by newly laid sod, rocky outcroppings and copses of red oak and sugar maple. From the top of the hill is a breathtaking view of the surrounding Ontario landscape. Part of the city lies in a shallow valley below, the river winding through it, and in the distance are low mountains.

    A morning breeze stirs Jacqueline’s hair as she walks down her driveway. Marlee’s heels click behind her. The sky is crisp and blue and chikadees flutter overhead.

    “You there,” Jacqueline calls to the man, “Come here please.”

    Mr. Campbell turns and gets to his feet stiffly. He looks to be somewhere in seventies, short, with a bulbous nose and wispy white hair. He shuffles over onto the driveway and gives them a grin. His clothes are ripped and dirty, and he holds a pair of sheers in one hand. “Hello,” he says. “I hope I’m not disturbing you?”

    “I understand you’re not an employee here, Mr. Campbell?” Jacqueline says.

    “That’s right. I’m here pro-bono,” he says proudly. ”I apologize. You see, I used to live down the block. Third house on the left. And I used to do everybody’s garden. After my wife died, it’s all I had left to do. I don’t have any other family. Not really. The boys all caught the shrinking virus and the girls just come around the retirement home now and ask for my money. It was very generous of you to buy all these houses for so much money, but I almost regret selling mine now, no offense to you. I don’t like the retirement home. It’s god-awful there, theres nothing to do and the nurses treat you like children and you can’t even go out in the garden without supervision. I like it here. That’s why I always come back and do the gardening, even if its not the same as it used to be. You’ve done a wonderful job landscaping here.”

    “Well thank you Mr. Cambell,” Jacqueline says, “that’s very sweet of you. Now-”

    “Please don’t make me go,” he says. He wrings his hands together and looks at her like an old dog. “Please.”

    Jacqueline laughs. “On the contrary Mr. Cambell, I need you to stay right where you are.” She looks at the remote in her hand.

    “Right here?” he says, pointing at the driveway in confusion.

    “Yep, right there please, thank you.” Jacqueline presses a button on the remote.

    Something in the air crackles and hums. Suddenly Mr. Campbell jerks and clutches at himself, groaning in pain, and starts to shrink. His sheers clatter to the ground and his clothes pool around him. In a few moments he’s gone.

    “Well,” Jacqueline says, stepping over to the puddle of clothes. “I’d say the security works quite well.” She prods the clothes with her trainer, tossing them over until she sees the tiny little old man. He’s half an inch tall, pink and naked like a worm. “Ah. There you are,” she says. “Thank you for your work, but we won’t be needing you anymore. You’ve done an excellent job as my test subject so far though. Only one more thing for you…” She lifts her foot over the little man.

    The trembling and terrified Mr. Campbell sees every tread, groove and crevasse of the rubber sole as it comes down on him slowly, blocking everything else from view. His bladder leaks uncontrollably and he wails, until the last second of his life.

    Jacqueline catches none of this, only the tiny crunching noise that greets her as her shoe presses to the pavement. She grinds her foot a bit, and then steps off. There’s a little wet spot the size of a quarter on her driveway with a few gristly bits. She wipes her shoe off on the discarded clothing, leaving a little blob of flattened meat in the folds, and some blood.

    She hands the remote to Marlee, but she’s staring at the lone house down the road again. It's a small, hand-built old two-story home from the fifties. It has a gabled black roof and faded green wood paneling with chipped white trim.

    “I forgot to mention, make sure his family doesn’t get any of his money,” she says. “It’s the least we can do. Now, I’m going for that run.”