Reality comes with a warranty, apparently. After odd glitches—stairs shortening, traffic lights swapping colors—an insurance company sends adjuster Cole to investigate claims. He carries a clipboard and a scanner that beeps near anomalies. People file complaints: "My cat clipped through the couch." "Gravity flickered in the pantry." Cole interviews witnesses, fills forms. The warranty fine print states coverage for manufacturing defects within the first billion years. We are just past that. Still, the company wants goodwill. Cole traces glitches to a neighborhood built over an old particle collider. Residual energy frays physics.
The company offers patch kits: reality spackle for flickering walls, soundproofing for echoes of alternate timelines. Residents apply patches like duct tape. Glitches lessen. Cole files his report, suggesting a recall would be too expensive. Meanwhile, teenagers enjoy anomalies, practicing parkour through semi-solid fences. Cole watches, tempted to warn them, but he also sees joy. He approves a local variance, allowing minor anomalies to remain as long as reported. Reality is mended but not perfect. Cole goes home, notices his coffee mug glitching between full and empty. He smiles, decides not to file a claim. Some defects make life interesting. The company eventually releases a notice: "Warranty expired, but keep receipts anyway." People frame it as art, hanging it crooked on walls that sometimes ripple.
Months later, a big glitch hits downtown; buildings briefly swap locations. Chaos ensues. Cole returns with more spackle and a team. Residents ask if there is an extended warranty plan. Cole jokes about premium reality. He also suggests community maintenance: regular observation, shared reporting, fewer shortcuts through physics. The neighborhood forms a Reality Watch, logging oddities with humor. The world keeps glitching, but now people fix it together, less afraid, more aware that perfection was never in the contract.
On his last day before retirement, Cole finds his scanner beeping wildly at a playground where kids pretend the slide goes to another dimension. He closes the scanner, sits on a bench, and watches them invent rules. Maybe, he thinks, warranties were meant to run out so that people would learn to tinker with reality themselves.