I drove the McKenzie-Halsted route for six months. Package delivery, automated logistics support — my rig handled the heavy loads that the drones couldn't manage. I had seventeen confirmed deliveries to 4412 Linden Street, Linden Block. I know the address. I typed it into my manifest every time. The door was green — not painted green, but that oxidized copper green that old doors get when nobody repaints them. A woman named Desta signed for packages. She had short gray hair and she never smiled but she always said thank you. I delivered to her seventeen times.

One morning my route stopped resolving. The navigation overlay showed Linden Street, showed the turn off McKenzie, showed the alley that cut between the buildings and opened onto the block. But when I drove to the turn, there was no alley. I stopped the rig. I got out. I walked to where the alley should have been. There was a wall — continuous brick, old, weathered, no seam, no patch, no indication that anything had ever been different. I put my hand on it. It was real. It was cold. It had been there for what looked like decades.

My BCI navigation log shows me entering and exiting the Linden Block repeatedly over six months. The historical route data is intact — every turn, every stop, every delivery timestamp. I can pull up the map and watch my own path trace through streets that I walked, that I drove, that I physically occupied. The streets are still on the map. They are not on the ground. I went back to the dispatch office and pulled my delivery records. Seventeen successful deliveries. Seventeen signatures from Desta at 4412 Linden Street. The address doesn't exist on any current directory. I searched every database I could access. The address has never existed, according to every record except mine.

I filed a report with the logistics company. They told me it was a database error and closed the ticket. I went back to McKenzie and Halsted four more times. Each time I stood in front of a wall that my BCI said was a street. Each time I could see, on my overlay, the route I used to drive — the alley opening, the left turn, the row of buildings, the green door. I could see it on the map while I was touching the wall that said it wasn't there. I don't know what happened to Desta. I don't know what happened to the street. I know I was there. My logs prove I was there. The wall says I wasn't.