Margin of Error

The city was clean and the money was good. Steel and glass buildings knifed into the blue morning sky as Wilson walked to work. His shoes clicked against swept pavements. The people wore good clothes and good watches. Everyone was looking at their screens. No one looked up. No one saw the sky.

Wilson’s flat was in the new district. He had a view of the river. The river was clean now, they said. No one swam in it. The economic metrics were positive for the eighth consecutive quarter.

In the lobby of his building, the projections played on every wall. Election coverage. Another cycle, another storm of faces and voices and promises. Polls and predictions. Wilson knew the faces. Everyone knew the faces.

“Morning, Wilson,” Jenkins said. Jenkins was always at his desk early. He had three screens running election simulations.

“Morning.”

“Did you see the polls? Chamberlain’s up two points.”

“I saw.”

“Massive. If he holds through the weekend, Lambert’s finished.”

Wilson nodded and went to his desk. He did not care about Chamberlain or Lambert. They wore different coloured ties. That was the difference he could see.

His company made prediction software. They sold it to news organisations, to corporations, to the parties themselves. The software was good. It predicted things. People liked predictions. They were comforting.

At lunch, Wilson went to the canteen. The projections played there too. A pundit was gesturing with his hands. Wilson could not hear the words. He did not need to. The words were always the same.

“You see this?” Miller asked. Miller sat down with his tray. His food was untouched. “Chamberlain’s team released their economic plan. It’s going to destroy Lambert.”

“You think so?”

“The algorithm gives it an 82% chance of swinging three percent of undecideds.”

Wilson ate his sandwich. It was not a bad sandwich. The bread was fresh. The meat was processed but good.

“We’re all going to Henley’s to watch the debate tonight,” Miller said. “You should come.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Come on, man. It’s the most important election of our lifetimes.”

Miller believed this. Wilson had heard it before. It was always the most important election.

“I’ve got plans,” Wilson said. He did not have plans.

The afternoon moved slowly. Wilson wrote code. The code would make the predictions more accurate. Two percent more accurate. This was valuable. The company’s stock would rise.

At five, Wilson shut down his terminal. The others were gathering their things. They would go to Henley’s. They would watch the debate. They would cheer and groan.

“Sure you won’t join?” Jenkins asked.

“Enjoy it,” Wilson said.

Outside, the evening was cool. Wilson did not go home. He walked to the old part of the city. The buildings were lower there. Some were made of brick. The economic metrics were not as positive in this district.

He came to a small building with no sign. Brick. Old. Real. Inside, there was a room with chairs arranged in a circle. People were sitting there. No projections played on the walls. No one held a screen. The room smelled of coffee and dust and human bodies.

“Wilson,” Anna said. She was thin with dark hair. Her eyes were tired but clear. Her hands were calloused. “We’re about to start.”

Wilson took a seat in the circle. There were twelve people. They were strangers and yet they were not.

“My name is Frank,” an old man said. “Yesterday I saw my neighbour struggling with his groceries. I held the door. We ended up talking about football for twenty minutes in the hallway.”

The others nodded.

“I’m Elena,” a young woman said. “I let someone merge in front of me in traffic today. The driver waved. I waved back. For a moment we were not just machines passing each other.”

“James,” said a man in work clothes. “I noticed a new hire looking lost at lunch. I sat with him. He’s from out of town. Knows no one here.”

“My name is Mei,” said a woman in her thirties. “I made eye contact with the barista this morning. Asked her name. She seemed surprised. Said no one ever asks.”

Around the circle they went. Small stories. Normal moments. Real things done by real hands. No grand gestures. Just humans acknowledging humans.

When it was Wilson’s turn, he spoke. “My name is Wilson. Yesterday I was afraid to speak to the homeless man outside my building. Today I did. His name is Thomas. He was a carpenter once. I’m going to bring him coffee tomorrow.”

Anna smiled at him. It was a real smile. Not a projection.

“This is the real work,” Anna said when they had all spoken. “This is the real power. Not the faces on the screens. Not the coloured ties. Not the predictions. The way we are with each other. That’s the society we live in.”

“They’d call this insignificant,” said the old man, Frank. “Small acts. They want grand gestures. Movements. Victories.”

“A million small acts make a world,” Anna said. “Always have. The headlines never mention the person who holds the door.”

Later, they left together. There were no screens in Anna’s flat. They made dinner. The knife made a sound when it hit the board. The water boiled in a real way. They talked. They were not afraid of silence.

“They’ll all be watching the debate,” Wilson said.

“Let them watch.” Anna passed him a plate. “We’ll be here, living.”

In the morning, Wilson would learn who had won the debate. The metrics would be clear. The predictions would adjust. The faces would still be there, talking, promising, demanding attention.

But for now, he was here, chopping vegetables with Anna, the knife solid in his hand, the sound of it on the cutting board like something real in a world of projections.

It was not a bad world, Wilson thought. The money was good. The river was clean, they said. But there was another world inside it, waiting. A world where people looked up from their screens. A world built not by the faces on the walls but by hands and voices and small, human kindnesses.

That was the world he chose, night after night, in this room with no projections. While the algorithms ran and the pundits talked and everyone waited for someone else to save them or doom them. While they all believed that power was something far away, something you could only watch, never touch.

Outside, the streets pulsed with election news. The buildings were full of people waiting to be rescued by the right coloured tie. Meanwhile, Frank talked football with his neighbour. Elena acknowledged another driver’s humanity. James sat with someone who was alone. Mei asked a barista her name. Wilson would bring coffee to Thomas tomorrow.

The choice was always there. It was the simplest thing and the hardest thing. To look up. To see. To touch the real world with your hands.

To be the society you wished to live in.