American Drifting in 2100 AD

He comes to town in the belly of an automated freight hauler. Worn jeans but a clean shirt. No oil in the EVs, he says. Whistling a song nobody’s heard.

It’s not a small town anymore, all the residents know, just the edge of a bigger Sprawl for now satisfied with its expanse. The Empty beyond is shrinking, sliced and diced by autonomous highways, glittering with high tech campuses and telltale dome-blisters of computation.

The Drifter gets a bit of work. His tune follows.

He works at a local diner, in the back. Someone sees his faded jeans and clean shirt checking power lines, hauling fresh battery charges between the hub data centers by the pond. Whistling to himself. He makes quick-cred busking, delivering, cleaning. He’s the prime suspect in a rash of porch piracy, and the lawn bots keep a close lookout. The flocks keep an eye but the Drifter keeps his eyes low, making histories in the cracked pavement and whistling all the while.

When he’s gone, and the whistling stops, the people go on. The automated trucks come in. The Sprawl gleams, a hungry look in its eyes, waiting to turn the lands beyond into steel and glass.