Argus Funkenstein missed the coffee cup by two inches. Hot liquid ran across the table and into his lap. He cursed and grabbed a towel. One eye, no depth. He had lived like this since the thieves took his second eye years ago. Tonight he meant to fix it. Tonight he would graft a bionic eye into the empty socket and see the world whole again. He stroked his long gray beard and spread his tools across the counter of his small studio. Neon light washed the walls pink and blue. His dog watched from the couch, blond hair piled high like a country singer's wig. His cat lounged nearby, black fur slicked into a dramatic wave. Both animals stared at the box he had ordered. Argus opened it with shaking hands. Inside lay a toy. A plastic eye on a keychain, painted to look real. A cheap joke. The seller had cheated him. The surgical-grade bionic eye he needed was not in the box, and it was not anywhere in his apartment. Without real parts, he could cut all night and solve nothing. Argus sank onto a stool. His dog whined and pressed against his knee. The cat flicked its tail and knocked something off the shelf. A small card fell to the floor. Argus picked it up. It was a receipt he had forgotten, from a parts dealer across the city. He had visited once and left empty-handed, scared off by the price. He turned the card in his fingers. The dealer sold the real thing. Medical-grade optics, nerve threads, the works. Everything a man needed to rebuild an eye. But the dealer wanted more money than Argus had ever held at once. He looked at his tools, useless without proper parts. He looked at the plastic toy, mocking him from the table. Then he looked at the card again. His cat strutted across the counter and sat on the receipt, as if daring him to move it. Argus lifted the cat and slid the card into his suit pocket. The decision settled in his chest like a swallowed stone. He could not graft anything with junk. He had to buy the real parts from the only dealer who carried them. That meant facing a price he could not pay. Argus zipped his leisure suit and clipped a leash on his dog. The cat jumped to his shoulder without asking. He switched off the neon and opened the door to the dark hall. His single eye ached, but his jaw was set. He would reach the dealer by morning. Then he would learn exactly how far he was willing to go to see in full again.