to live with us forever.”
“Sylvia,” I said.
She shot a single stiff finger into the air like a blade. “I think we’ve heard quite enough out of you on this matter.” That was the tone. The shipping-me-off-for-scrap tone.
“Ma’am, I—”
“Quite enough.” I could almost feel her reaching for my remote.
“Don’t let him go!” Ezra sobbed.
She became at once motherly, though the variations in her vocal cords suggested she was faking any sincerity toward me. “We won’t, baby. Why don’t you go into your room and play while Mommy and Pounce have a talk about how long he’ll be staying with us?”
Ezra wiped his eyes with his sleeves, the bubble of snot forming on his nostril once more. He nodded, then hugged her tight. Then he came over to me and hugged me just as tightly as he had her.
“I love you, Pounce.”
“I love you too, kid.”
Over his shoulder, I could see Sylvia fume, her eyes narrowed, her lips pursed into a tight, angry line.
All I could think about was that box and how, any moment now, I might find myself packed back up into it.
Ezra trudged his way around the corner and down the hall toward his playroom.
“Jarvis, music volume fifty,” she said.
The music once again blared, having moved on in the Kinks’ discography to “Lola.”
“Filter the song, Pounce.”
I did, and everything was silent again—save the quiet rattling of the windows.
“I can’t fucking believe you!” she shouted. “For fuck’s sake, what the actual fuck were you fucking thinking? You told him about your goddamn box? Are you the dumbest fucking robot this side of the sun, or do you just not give a single goddamn shit about Ezra?”
“Ma’am, I—”
“It was a rhetorical fucking question, Pounce,” she said coldly. “You have one fucking job to do. One. Protect my son. That means from both physical harm and emotional. He does not need to hear about your existential crisis of wondering where you’ll go when he grows up—if you’re even fucking around that long—”
“Sylvia, it’s not—”
“I’m not fucking done. That was goddamn irresponsible. That was a conversation between the two of us that was never meant to be repeated. When Ezra is old enough and ready, I will be the one to decide when we—”
“Isaac.”
“What?” she said, stammering a little, confused. “Jarvis, music volume zero.”
“Isaac.”
“What does this have anything to do with Isaac?”
“They taught the kids about Isaac in school today.”
“So? What does that . . .” She trailed off, her hand flying up to her mouth a second and a half later.
“He thinks I’m going to want to go off and live in Isaactown with the freed bots. I told him I would never leave him, but . . . you know how sensitive he is.”
“Oh my God, Pounce.”
“I know. I should have alerted you the second we got home.”
“No, I mean—”
“Ma’am, I understand. I didn’t say a word about our conversation or the box in the attic. He has no idea that any of this has been discussed. He’s just worried I’m going to want to leave.”
“And you told him you don’t.”
“Repeatedly.”
Tears formed in her eyes, a profound look of regret dripping over every inch of her face. She hugged me, almost as tightly as Ezra had. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I said, pulling away politely. “Ezra is what matters. This was just a misunderstanding.”
She nodded. And then the rage spilled out again, entirely without warning. “Those motherfuckers!” she shouted. She caught herself. “Jarvis, music level fifty.
“Motherfuckers! Who the fuck thought it was a good fucking idea to fucking tell goddamn eight-year-olds that their fucking robots were going to go off and live in some magical goddamn fucking city without their children? I am gonna kick seven different asses across three different fucking states for this bullshit! I swear to fucking Christ at Christmas, I’m going to kill the motherfucker who told my kid his robot is leaving!”
“I think it is because it is on TV tonight.”
“What? Jarvis, music volume eight.”
“I think it is because it is on TV tonight,” I repeated. “The commencement speech and official declaration of incorporation is being streamed on all the networks. The children . . . might be a little confused about what all of the adults are discussing. So I think they were trying to be . . . proactive.”
“They should have emailed permission slips.”
“I don’t think there’s a precedent for this,” I said. I didn’t. Nothing like this had ever happened in the history of mankind. “I don’t think anyone is quite sure what