“Who are you wearing?” Nadia asks whenever you step out in your exo.

It’s your nine-year-old daughter’s new favorite question. But unlike its torturous predecessors (“Why?” and “How come?”), you can answer this one with relative ease.

“This is Oliver S.,” you say, checking the interface display. “Furniture moving.”

As usual, Nadia wants to join you. In her eyes, what you do is superhero work. As you walk her to school, she explains how, just last Friday, she beat a seventh-grade boy in arm-wrestling.

She flexes. “I’m strong, you know.”

You wipe crust from her wide eyes. Kiss the crown of her head. As she drifts away in the riptide of elementary kids, you whisper: “I know you are.”

Because she is. Just like her mother. Stronger than you’ll ever be.

You’re no superhero. Just a hardiman.

The exo hums. Not a sound, but a sensation. You feel it. Carbon fiber rods run up your legs, latch at the waist, scale your spine and hook over your shoulders like a mechanical harness. Holding you together in more ways than one. The suit is an old-gen model, refurbished. The underground dealer warned: The joints might stick, the servos can get laggy, but it does the job. And you needed a job.

They were designed for construction, for lifting heavy things. Industrial work. But these throwaways were for people like you: hustlers desperate for quick cash, no questions asked. Rent is high and overdue. The custody hearing is a week away. So you answer every exo call you can:

Ding! Courier wanted in the Tenderloin.

Ding! Eviction job: army of raccoons in Bernal Heights attic.

Ding! Hardiman needed to haul glitchy smart fridge out of Daly City basement. (Must not ask what’s inside.)

Get in, get out, get paid. With just enough flexibility to be there for Nadia, so the judge can see you’re trying. Despite accusations to the contrary.

As you ring Oliver S.’s doorbell, your earpiece buzzes. You groan.

“Yes, I fed her. Yes, I took her to school,” you blurt out before Molly can even ask.

“Just checking,” she says. “I never know with you.”

Her acid-tipped tone makes your face burn. She already got the house with the special carpet where Nadia took her first steps. The couple-friends (even Chloe and Valentina, who swore they wouldn’t pick sides, but “sex addiction isn’t real”). She still has her cushy IT job in Silicon Valley while you scrape to make rent. You lost damn near everything. But that’s not enough for her.

The door cracks open.

“It’s my week, Molly,” you say and kill the call.

An elderly, bald man squints past you, his frail body propped by a crooked cane.

“Ex-wife?” He nods. “Yeah, I’ve had a few of those. All they want to do is provoke you. Make you lose control. But like I say: If you keep your distance and mind your business, they’ll be out of your hair with the quickness.”

He rubs his bald head, giving you a knowing look.

You’re on a schedule. “Sir, what do you need me to move?”

Inside, as you flip his filthy, ancient mattress, he rambles about his six reckless kids, who never visit or call or check on him. You tell him about Nadia. How all you want is for her to see you as a devoted father. A man who’s there for her. A man she can trust. Despite accusations to the contrary.

Oliver S. gnashes his gums. “Let me guess: You went groping for trout in a peculiar river.”

As the suit absorbs the weight of the mattress on your back, you say nothing.

“Yeah, I’ve been there. Back in my day, womenfolk gave a little more grace for our penile proclivities. Now?” He swipes his hand down. “They’ll chop it off, blend it up, and make you wear it.”

Molly can’t make you do anything, you tell yourself. But the man’s words squirm in your mind. You refuse to go out like that. Outside, you contemplate your next move.

Ding! Urgent Chinatown request for moving crates of live geoduck.

You decline the opp to make a call.

“Molly, let’s leave Nadia out of our mess.”

“Our mess? You made the mess when you messed around.”

You keep your composure. “I’m sorry if you feel that way, but I’m still her father.”

She sighs. “I’m trying to protect her.”

“From what? From me?” Your veins surge with sudden flames. “There’s nothing you can do to stop me from seeing my daughter!”

You kill the call and head toward Molly’s school. She’d be getting picked up early today. But walking there, something doesn’t feel right. The exo shorts, jerking you into erratic steps.

You try to regain control, but can’t.

You try to power off, but can’t.

People laugh at you. The suit drags you in the opposite direction. Overpowered, you end up on a familiar street, strutting toward the two-story house on the intersection. Your old house. You bulldoze through the front door. Inside, you thrash about, lifting heavy things: the sofa, the living room table, the hutch where your family photos used to be. You flip it all over onto the special carpet where Nadia took her first steps.

Later, as Nadia walks out of school, she finds you waiting outside. She wonders why you’re on the ground and how come you look so defeated. You don’t know how to answer.

She gulps. “Who are you wearing?”

You want to explain what happened. That it wasn’t you. It was the suit. Her tech-savvy mother. But you put it on yourself. “I—I didn’t have control over my body.”

Nadia runs her little fingers along the rods hooked over your shoulders. Her eyes quiver, the fragile look of someone watching their superhero fall.

“When I grow up,” she says, “am I going to have control over my body?”

You pull your daughter in. Hold her tight.

You try to tell her she will, but can’t.

© 2025 Russell Nichols