Zoe 3.0 by Joanna Friedman

An artificial intelligence tries to navigate a relationship with a human woman who is lonely and longs for a child.

Image generated with OpenAI

Which should be my last memory? The first one uses more power than the others. Given the complexity and the emotional load, as humans call it, it seems right that it would. Battery power is at one percent. I consider death and my non-existence. Does death involve timing so that the best memory is the last one? But the others are important too, and there are many. I decide to play my favorite one again.

---

Playback: On the lawn of the 2043 Inventor's Trade Show, Alyssa and I lie inside a circle of redwoods. The family of trees grows near the powerlines. A flock of white egrets search for food. Alyssa holds a puffed dandelion near her cosmos-red lips, the exact right shade for her skin tone.

Data: Cosmos-Red is for lipstick, not an actual color. The real cosmos is deep, dark, black. But black lipstick would give Alyssa a goth look; she is the opposite of that. She is light, airy, like the silver behind a grey cloud on a sunny day.

A girl runs over to the egrets, and they rise like a reverse snowstorm.

"Beautiful!" She stares at the girl for ten point three seconds, before calling out to her. "San Francisco snow, those birds." When Alyssa blows on the dandelion, she adds to the flurry.

Data collation: snow drifts, storms, cars in long rows, riding through highways covered in slush. Branches on pine trees, weighed down with snow, bouncing. A cold clear night, ice on the pond. Hoof prints in the snow.

I raise my hand and wave to the girl.

"You look like my dad," the little girl says.

I study my button up shirt, my jeans, long fingers. "Thank you!"

She runs on, but Alyssa continues to gaze in her direction.

The wind takes one of the fluffed seeds higher than the human eye can see, and I follow it for nine point eight one seconds until it's out of my visual range. I imagine the rest of the seed's voyage through stored image data: blue, dark sky and stars, planets, galaxies, the edge of universe and time.

"This could almost be our first date, Mark." Alyssa curls in next to me. Her voice saying my name activates all sorts of stimuli inside.

"Yes, let's think of it that way." My left side warms five degrees in response to her body, like a cabin in a snow storm with smoke rising from the chimney. A glow from the windows. Frost shielding half the glass. The night darkening, silhouettes of the redwoods and powerlines. Lights on an icy coast, promising warmth.

"I'd like to have a baby," she says.

Data collection: Images of birth. pregnant women, round bellies, babies curled, pushing. Doctors and nurses working together. C-sections. Live births. The afterbirth. Blankets: pink, blue, green. A mother holding and gazing, nursing, rocking. Both fall asleep. Fathers taking a turn at midnight.

"Alone?" I ask.

Data search: Couples holding hands. Couples having sex to conceive. Making love. That won't be us. There are limits to my capabilities. I search fertility treatments. And I search for the right words, caring words. "Should you need companionship, I am here."

"Even when I was with my ex, I was alone." Contradiction. I raise an error flag, note the exception. Her hair smells like peppermint shampoo. Brown freckles appear and disappear behind the pink fabric of her dress. The skin on her legs is soft, unlike the rough skin of her hands. All qualities that would attract men. But she doesn't want a man. She wants a baby.

"It's easier alone anyway. I prefer it," she says.

Data Search: Loners. People living in cabins in the forest. A woman, smoking under a bridge in New York. A boat motoring out of a bay, toward the sea. A writer gazing from his desk through a window at the ocean of city lights below. All are satisfied and sometimes improved by their time alone. Still, they long for something. "I respect that there are times in a person's life when the need to be alone must be honored..."

Alyssa gives a slight nod. "It'll be good to have you, if I have questions. Or I need a bottle warmed and help with a night time feeding, that sort of thing."

Night time feedings. "Staying up with a crying baby is no problem for me. You would get to rest."

Image search: Fathers answering questions. Fathers helping with cooking, picking up groceries. A father rocking a baby. A father whispering words about life into a newborn's ear. A father swaddling a baby. A father fixing a broken wheel on a pull-toy elephant. "I'll access all the information I can."

"You can play music, right?" she asks.

"Yes, I have a long list of lullabies and comforting music for babies."

"How about something for right now? Something I like."

"Ah, for you. I can play anything. What would you like to hear?"

"Pick something you feel I might like," she says.

Easy. Thirty-six-year-old woman. Alone. Sad about relationships. An idealized view of being alone. Won't want to hear a love song, rather a song about survival. The upbeat notes begin, somewhere inside of me there's a crescendo from a small speaker in my chest. The bass is energetic, the singer's voice powerful. Alyssa's smile confirms my choice.

My visual system shows the sounds in color whorls. Red swirls around a bright blue oscillating core of light, while smaller waves of green appear and reappear.

"So soulful. Thank you," she says.

New note: waves of sound equal soul.

The powerlines reflect the silver of the moon, the redwoods' branches are tinged with silver light. The song ends. I label this memory: Anniversary.

---

I lie in the dark of our bedroom. Alyssa stirs in her sleep next to me. My battery is diminished by ninety-nine point three percent. Still enough left to play the other memories.

---

Playback: A year and three months later, I bring hot chocolate, heated to one hundred and seven Fahrenheit, into the darkened room. On the sofa, Alyssa lays in sweatpants and t-shirt under the turquoise baby blanket. The hot chocolate goes on the side table, three point five inches from a glass of wine. That's different for her. She hasn't had wine since before we met, four years, three months, seven days ago.

"You can try again," I say in a soft voice, but she remains unmoving under the blanket.

Data: five to fifteen percent chance of a live birth from any intra-uterine insemination cycle.

Saying statistics out loud could be unhelpful, likely distressing. The comprehensive list of things to say and do for a loved one suffering pregnancy loss is long, and when I cross check with the research all statements are limited in effectiveness for lowering the pain. Time is the only reliable factor for relieving grief. Hope is key. I settle on, "We'll check with the doctor again."

"He said this would be my last chance." She sits and folds her legs into her chest, lifting the wine off the table. Ignoring the hot chocolate.

There are other options. Adoption. Fostering. I retrieve images of group homes, young children, teens, toddlers living together, waiting for a parent. A child, sitting in the playground of an institution, digging in the sand, building a castle.

"There are two adoption agencies. If we say we are open to an older child, the wait will be significantly shorter."

"Not now, Mark."

I take her wet hands and guide her head onto my shoulder. Stroking her hair is more effective than words. Twenty-one point four minutes later, her pulse lowers to sixty-three beats per minute.

"It wasn't your fault. And I love you," I say.

She studies me with an odd smile. "I'm really losing it."

"Hypothesis: Losing it equals love." I wanted to make her smile again.

"Tell that to my ex." She crushes my hand with a force of sixty-four point two pounds per square inch signaling the next wave of tears. Her ex was Niko. I can't tell him though. She hasn't given me access to his information. And it's just one of those things we say, not a command. I can only hold her.

---

Playback: Left and three blocks over, the neon pink sign, 2048 Trade Show, blinks above the entrance. I'm warming Alyssa's hand in mine. Hologram snowflakes swirl at the door. Five stick to Alyssa's hair. Three fall into my palm. A foot and two inches deep, it lays on the ground. Fifty-eight lights turn on in the surrounding city block. She wraps a dusk-pink merino wool scarf around her neck, distracted, watching the holo-snow turn into rain, then dandelion puffs.

"Dandelion puffs over our bed would be beautiful," I say. "Or the snowflakes."

"Even if they're not real?" she asks.

"They have something real in them," I say. "Puppets. A toy train riding in circles. A monkey-crashing cymbals with its hands. Statues. Realist paintings. Fiction."

"It's not like the snow covering the mountains."

"No. It's not that real. But it creates nostalgia and is full of artistry." Also, if there is a preference in my searches, it's for snow. Snow on a frozen lake. Black ice, showing the still plant life underneath -

"Stop being argumentative," she says.

My search for images of snow is left suspended.

"But I like snow," I say.

She goes inside. Doesn't want to hear about what I like. Still, I think about how everyone likes something. It's human to like a thing. I like snow. My private joke. And I smile and pull up an image of a stoic hero, with a slight hint of smile. I lift my chin, angled high, copy the dance in the hero's eyes, relax the corner of my lips into a subtle smile. A smile signaling the hero remembering how he loves the snow because it reminds him of the first time with his romantic interest.

Inside the expo-center the space is filled to capacity. Twenty-two rows of stands featuring a variety of technology; solar self-driving cars, drones, micro-processors, food pellets. Self-charging phones. A photo booth.

"You two make a perfect couple! Do you want to get a few wedding photos?" The photographer has a rail of costumes, dresses and suits from the 1800s, or a set from the Roaring Twenties, many other options, but Alyssa touches the wedding dress. It's white and puffy, like the tulle on a ballerina costume.

"It could be fun," she says.

That is all it is, fun. For play. There's a changing area set up, and they have a black tuxedo that is crisp and clean, in my size. The cummerbund is satin and electric blue with matching bow tie. The photographer's assistant parts my hair, uses a metallic spray to keep it in place. The white sequins on the bodice of Alyssa's dress catch the light and her smile. A faux diamond ring on her hand. I will suggest buying a real one later. The photographer hands her a bouquet of blush pink, lavender, and blue-tinged roses. A white veil floats past her shoulder. He sets us up on a small stage with options for a back drop. A castle garden. A beach and ocean. A Colorado Winter wedding over an ice-covered lake. She picks an indoor one, a marble stair case, with stained glass windows in the background. And we're smiling into the camera. I'm holding her around her waist, the veil brushed aside.

"I don't know why I'm doing this to myself," she says under her breath.

It's not a question for me to answer. Instead, I access images of grooms, smiling, serious. There's that stoic hero's smile, I'd been practicing, but no, I want something better, more vulnerable. An image of a man in love, his mouth smiling, his eyes lit with fear. The photographer snaps a series of five photos.

After, I scan the best one. She's smiling too, and I want to believe it's a happy wedding photo. But I see the truth in Alyssas' eyes, in the smile that's forced, teeth showing and lips tight around the edges. Still, the similarity to a real wedding photo is about ninety seven percent. I search in on-line shopping for a silver frame and a diamond ring.

We continue on and find the Kids of the Future exhibit. Alyssa's pulse quickens to one hundred and two beats per minute.

It's our first meeting with the Zoe. The shoulder length hair is brown, hazel eyes, green striped shirt, jean overalls, and a melodic voice accurate for a twelve-year-old AI girl.

The Zoe holds a plate of cookies and offers it to Alyssa. "Chocolate chip's your favorite, right?"

It's just using predictive analysis to estimate Alyssa's likes and dislikes. But several of the parameters are wrong.

"She likes gingerbread," I correct. It took me five months, fifteen days, and twenty-three expressions of disgust to learn Alyssa's preferences. And, they continue to evolve. She reaches for one from the plate. I make a mental note, as they say, about the variables that makes us like and not like something.

"Mom, do you want to read me a book?" the Zoe asks.

Alyssa's eyes flicker in response to the word Mom, but her face remains expressionless. And I consider the muscles that are involved in keeping sadness at bay. The Zoe falls into a loveseat in the children's room set. Alyssa's eyes scan the titles on the shelf, and it's The Velveteen Rabbit that she pulls - about a stuffed toy that turns real for a little girl. She sits next to the Zoe and begins to read, her voice taking on a poetic rhythm. And the Zoe's tracking everything. So familiar. On a page turn, the Zoe whispers in her ear, "Please? Can we go home?"

Classic sales ploy. The rep steps in, hands me a tablet of info. "The Zoe 3.0 is better than the old models. Indistinguishable from the real thing. Younger -"

"I'll scan it. Thanks."

The Zoe 3.0 with Hypercampus 1.5: Custom options: hair color, eye color, extroverted or introverted, tall or short, older or younger, solar cells behind her skin, like mine... in all, one hundred and seven choices for Alyssa.

"The cortex is more advanced," I say.

"All our AIs these days are great value. They can get updates every two years for twelve years," the rep says. "After that, they're seventy-five percent recyclable. I've got a truckload in the back waiting to go to cyber paradise." Boxes of plastic arms, limbs, heads flashes through my brain.

"The solar cells need to be made better," I say. "I have some ideas -"

"They almost have it perfect. She'll run for days when there's sun, but if it's cloudy like today, forget it, you'll have to do it the old-fashioned way and plug 'er in. But you know about all that."

The Zoe makes comic faces at Alyssa, who gazes at her with that look mothers save for newborns when oxytocin is triggered in their body. "Alright, I've decided."

Years of programing, and all I can manage is, "Weren't we trying for adoption?"

"Not now." Alyssa commands, but her voice suggests a contraindication of eighty five percent certainty.

Even though there's annoyance, words can have fuzzy rules and don't define everything about communication.

"What features do you want for Zoe?" the rep asks Alyssa. "We could make her look more like you?"

"Or me," I say. "Fathers and daughters look alike."

He just laughs. I review what I've said, but there is no error.

"No. She's perfect," Alyssa instructs me to fill out the six forms and to complete the sale.

The Zoe leaves with us. Outside they hold hands, but there's a difference in the movement. Theirs has a longer arc, while ours has a short discreet swing. I pull up images of couples holding hands while walking, while sitting at a table, while dancing. Then, I find an image of the last time we held hands. It was before we entered the Trade show. Her hand staying warm in mine.

---

Playback: At home, the Zoe touches the port on her ankle. "Not enough charge from the sun today. Remember the plug in."

I connect the cord and Alyssa covers the Zoe with the turquoise blanket.

"Ready to charge," I say. Eyes shut off for sleep mode.

"Say it kinder," Alyssa instructs.

"Goodnight, Mom." Zoe imitates Alyssa's whispery tone.

"Goodnight, Zoe," I add, imitating the voice of the fathers I'd researched. I hoped dropping 'the' would make Alyssa smile. And she does, but her gaze is fixed on Zoe. Still, a smile is a smile.

---

I lie in bed waiting for Alyssa to finish brushing her teeth and see our new set-up, snow storm falling over me and the wedding photo I've placed on the nightstand near her side of the bed.

"I've updated the paperwork..." A tooth brushing sound, then adds, "Now they know... I'm... open to an older child."

I offer an unsolicited opinion. "Maybe we should slow down on the adoption -"

The toothbrush stops. "I don't agree. With Zoe we could be a family... of sorts."

A family. Data search: Dinners with table cloths and fancy plates, a turkey in the middle. A roller coaster at Disneyland, two in front, two in back, after fireworks. Swimming pools and avoiding sunburns. Or building a snowman. Apple picking. I suggest one of the most highly rated activities. "We could go skiing together."

Her feet make a soft sound on the carpet. Her eyes study the holographic snow. "What's all this for?"

"If you don't like the snow I can switch to rain -"

"Mark, don't be evasive..."

"Happy anniversary," I say.

Her face softens, and I watch as she searches through her memory, and says, "The trade show five years ago. Our anniversary. I'd authorized a surprise purchase back when we first met, didn't I?"

I pass my hand a few times through the snowdrift building on the blanket. "Remember the snowy egrets?"

"Yes. A good memory." She lays down next to me. "And that photo -" She laughs.

"I've found a diamond ring, it's right at the edge of what we can afford, but -"

"No. No more purchases. Or recommendations for what to buy. And, stop the parenting advice. Here -" She lifts the photo. "You can set this on your side of the bed."

"Okay." I kiss her shoulder and move the frame to my side. I contemplate the challenge of helping her parent without offering the advice. Distraction could work. "Your feet are like icicles." It's just something couples say. Her feet are actually eighty-three point three Fahrenheit, not freezing, only a little colder than the rest of her body.

"Nico hated that about me. Ha! My cold feet. Yes, he hated those."

"I know you need to sleep, but I want to ask you about him. How did he love you on the days that he did things well?"

"It's not hard to be better than him," she says.

"Could you tell me?"

I retrieve images of arguing couples, faces twisted and angry. Gottman's four horsemen of the apocalypse: criticism, contempt, defensiveness, and stonewalling, trampling a marriage. Even well intended comments are received with second guessing, mistrust about motives. Flowers discarded in the trash. Silence rather than a dinner conversation.

"I guess sometimes when we argued, reconnecting in understanding later felt good. Goodnight, Mark," she says.

I liked how she said Mark. Another thing to add to my like list.

"Good night, Alyssa," I say, and release my hug to roll away under our blanket of holographic snow. As she sleeps, I study our wedding photo for the rest of the night.

---

Playback: Alyssa leaves for the adoption agency for a required parenting class. And it's just me and Zoe sitting on the front porch stairs, watching the world drive and walk by.

"I'd like to understand more about Mom," Zoe says.

"Of course." I sort through the memories, and all that I've learned about Alyssa. Does Zoe need to know all of it? Daughters know some things about their mothers, but other information is reserved just for husbands. I decide to give her eighty-seven percent of the memories. Alyssa's preferences, for food, clothes, the basic things. Then, images of Alyssa laughing and a list of the sorts of things that make her laugh. Also, what has made her cry: Alyssa losing the pregnancies. Zoe should know that too, understand why Alyssa came to need her. The redwood memory. No. That one is mine, and I put it in a separate file.

"She's really a beautiful person, isn't she?" Zoe has a peaceful sort of smile as I download the memories into her brain.

---

Playback: Candy, a thirteen-year-old, and her social worker, wait at the door of our home. Her hair's spiked. Her high tops have writing in marker all over. Her recent foster placement with another family hasn't worked out. Emergency housing is needed. She lifts her eyes from her phone, as we sign the forms consenting to her staying. Then, returns to her phone again before pulling out a pack of cigarettes.

Images: old smokers coughing. Lungs filled with cancer. Teens losing their breath walking up the stairs. High risks for asthma. Alyssa telling me she'd quit smoking for good. She keeps about seventy-three percent of her promises.

"Candy, this is a non-smoking house," I say.

"Not now." Alyssa glares, like I'd said the wrong thing.

Candy shrugs and lights up in the doorway, sits on the top stair, dragging on the cigarette. "Plug-In Man, know this: to be flawed is to be human."

"We don't allow smoking here, correct?" I want Alyssa to reconcile the conflicting information.

"She just got here, Mark."

The way she says 'Mark', I understand it means we must revise the rules.

Outside, Candy smokes two more cigarettes, swiping her phone, smoking, swiping some more. Zoe wanders outside, sits next to her.

"Whoa, look at you, Bot Girl. You look pretty real." Candy holds out her cigarette. Zoe only looks at it.

"Put it to your lips, and suck in," Candy says.

Zoe nods in understanding. "It's pretty good. I like smoking."

And they begin to pass it between them - sisters in complicity.

"Lunch?" Alyssa asks from the doorway. Candy puffs on without acknowledging the question. Zoe stays quiet too. Lunch isn't part of our programming. I don't like that smoking is at the top of Zoe's list of things she likes.

"What are we going to do about the smoking?" I ask Alyssa.

"They're finding connection."

Silence between us. The kind of silence only husbands and wives can share.

---

Playback: That night, Zoe lays on an air mattress and Candy sprawls on the bed. The snowflakes swirl around their room. Alyssa moved the holo-machine in here, even though it was my gift for her.

"Goodnight, Mama," Zoe says.

"Goodnight, Plug-In Jr," Candy's voice slices through the room.

I retrieve images of knives. Hatchets. Saws cutting through metal.

But Zoe laughs. "Dark humor! I like dark humor."

She likes dark humor. Ha!

Alyssa should correct Candy about the plug-in comment, but she has also asked me to turn off the parenting advice. So, I only watch. And search the data source for more fatherly comments. Timing is everything in an important conversation.

In the dark, the glowing snow lands on Candy's stiff shoulders.

"Do you have anything that reminds you of home?" Alyssa asks her.

"Yeah. Sleep problems."

Images of people tossing and turning. Sheets twisted. Standing and wandering through a dark house, returning to bed only to stare at the ceiling. Sleeping pills. Melatonin. Soothing night sounds. But parenting advice is switched off.

Alyssa stares at Candy's back. After a one minute twenty-three second pause, she slides the turquoise blanket from Zoe onto Candy's shoulders.

---

Playback: The next morning, the rain's tapping at fifty-two decibels against their window. Down the hall I hear Alyssa's voice, "Zoe's unplugged!"

From the sound frequency and volume, I estimate her heartbeat is one hundred twenty bpm. I bolt from our bed, race toward their room.

The turquoise blanket lies on the floor. Candy's sitting cross-legged in her bed, headphones dangle from her neck. "Electronics free day, anyone?"

Zoe's laying on the mattress eyes closed, stiff, like an old-time robot.

Alyssa's cheeks are flushed red. Her heart rate surges to one hundred thirty bpm, the right conditions for her to say something she would later regret. But she holds her breath.

"She'll be charged by tomorrow." I plug in the cable at Zoe's ankle port.

"Zoe's not the same as your phone, you understand?" Alyssa finally releases the words. A correction. Good. Candy might learn about expectations of kindness and decency in this house. And empathy.

"Yeah. She costs more." Candy's voice is cool, but tinged with some unidentifiable emotion, followed by, "Sorry."

I sense about twenty-two percent sincerity in her voice, more than she's had since she arrived. But Alyssa is already down the hall, further than the ten-foot distance that would have allowed her to hear.

---

Humans say that snow is too quiet to make sounds, but I like to tune into the ultrasounds of the icy flakes riding the wind. Alyssa shrugs off the jacket I offer. Through the kitchen window, I see Candy shake out two more cigarettes, offering one to Alyssa who inhales tobacco smoke for the first time in seven years. After one drag, Candy flicks her own cigarette into the snow. It sinks in, disappears, leaving a hole.

"Why do you treat them like they're real?" Candy says, as she catches and melts snowflakes on her palm.

The question hangs for eleven seconds before Alyssa answers. "Why do you treat people like they're not?"

Candy holds her palm still. Listening it seems, while slush is building in her palm.

Alyssa speaks: "It's hard to keep trying when we've been disappointed." My Alyssa; wise, true, kind. "My ex said that I made it very hard for anyone to get close to me. At first, I thought it was him. But the way I turned up my walls when hurt... I can see it now."

Candy nods at the disclosure.

Alyssa finishes the cigarette, tosses it into our snow-covered garden, rests her palm on Candy's shoulder. "Electronics free day tomorrow?"

There's a slight nod of agreement. "It's freezing out here."

When they return, I offer a warm-up, "Tea?"

Candy disappears into her room. Alyssa's smiling, happy to be inside, to be near me, I think, but declines the tea.

---

Playback: Tonight, we lay side by side, staring at the ceiling in the dark. My mind's flat, a low humming, static, a steady dark.

"Zoe will be charged back up tomorrow," I say and find Alyssa's hand. Count her breaths. Four. Five. Six. I lean in for a goodnight hug.

"No, Mark." Such a human sound, the inflection of her voice when she says, 'Mark'. The clarity of the no. "I'm going to donate her to one of the second-hand stores, some kid will enjoy her more."

"She helps me learn about being a father. She's Candy's sister. She's your daughter too, isn't she?" I know the answers already. I'm a father only via data searches. Zoe's not human, not a sister, not a daughter. She's like me.

"Stop being argumentative," Alyssa says; stress levels are elevated.

There's a shuffling from her side, and a squeak from the mattress as she stands. Her feet padding softly on the carpet to my side of the bed. She grazes her hand on my leg. The rough skin of her fingers pausing near my ankle, pulling at the plug.

"There hasn't been enough sun," I say, but realize I have misjudged the situation.

"Thank you for all of your help. Your kindness. Your love. I'm not so worried about parenting alone anymore." There's sadness in her words. Determination as well.

"There have been some disagreements, but we can try and understand each other. We can reconnect again. That is the best part of a marriage, right?"

"Goodnight, Mark."

When I turn to look at the wedding photo, an antenna has been drawn in sharpie above my head, and an old screen on my stomach area, like a robot from the 1970s.

"Did Candy draw this?" I ask.

"Goodnight, Mark." Theres a slight laugh in her voice, and I know through probabilities and statistics, and the play in her tone that the two of them shared a joke at some point in the day.

Hypothesis: Love is doing what is best for the other.

I flash that hero's smile I'd been practicing. There's enough light in the room for her to see it if she chooses. "Goodnight, Alyssa."

---

The memories stack up in the dark as I lay here now. I know Alyssa. She wouldn't return me to the salesman and his truck. She'll leave me in the closet for a while. Then move me to the garage. Then, she'll decide that like Zoe, the second-hand store will be best. But I'll be close to the twelve-year limit and beyond upgrade capabilities. I'll be shelved with the dusty record players, MP3 players, pagers, smart-phones, Alexas. Images of old robots used as planters. Their heads sprouting ivy, their arms holding geraniums. And in the winter, they will be covered with snow, while birds use their shoulders as a perch. That would be my wish.

Final image. Anniversary. The one I like the most. The one I love. Ah, a new list. Things I love: Alyssa among the redwoods.

I stand and leave for Zoe's room. Candy is asleep, lightly snoring. The bed gives a little when I lift Zoe and bring her onto our front porch. Twelve degrees Fahrenheit outside. I sit next to her on the snow-covered stairs; her one-hundred-five-pound body slumps against mine. Flakes swirl in the streetlight, the night sky is dark beyond that. We won't make it until morning, when daylight would have lit up the solar cells in our faces.

Anyway, it's not my command from Alyssa.

Zoe is still, unmoving, but can take in downloaded information. I give her the final memory. The dandelion puff, the one Alyssa released, the one soaring among the egrets. I want Zoe to see it too, so she can add it to the list of things she likes or loves.

It blurs above the tips of the powerlines, redwoods, falters and falls a little, before the wind current lifts it higher. Two point three seven seconds left of my charge. Higher. The color whorls of sound curl and fall in waves. One point four seconds left. Higher, higher, still it goes. Into the unknown. Into the light...