The bird is a beautiful silver-gray, and as she dies twitching in the lasernet I'm grateful for two things: First, that she didn't make a sound. Second, that this will be the very last time. They're called corpse doves--because the darkest part of their gray plumage surrounds the lighter part, giving the impression that skeleton faces are peeking out from behind trash cans and bushes--and their crime is having the ability to carry diseases that would be compatible with humans. I open my hand, triggering the display from my imprinted handheld, and record an image to verify the elimination. A ding from my palm lets me know I've reached my quota for the day and, with that, the year. I'm tempted to give this one a send-off, a real burial with holy words and some flowers, but then I hear a pack of streetrats hooting beside me. My city-issued vest is reflective and nanopainted so it projects a slight glow. I don't know if it's to keep us safe like they say, or if it's just that so many of us are ex-cons working court-ordered labor, and civilians want to be able to keep an eye on us. Either way, everyone treats us like we're invisible--everyone except children.