Chapter 1: Annie Bot by Sierra Greer

“Come to bed, mouse. I know how to cheer you up,” he says.

“I’m not brooding,” Annie says.

“You sure?”

“Fairly sure.”

She is fresh from her shower, rubbing lotion into her legs. Her dark hair hangs in wet clumps along one side of her neck, and she has deliberately left the belt of her robe undone, knowing he can take a peek from the bedroom via the mirror.

“This is still about your tune-up, isn’t it?” he says. “Forget about it.”

“The whole thing’s degrading,” she says, and sees it’s the right angle. He enjoys a degree of humiliation.

“Did you see your normal tech?” he asks.

“Yes. Jacobson.”

She taps off the bathroom light and steps out of the humidity into the cooler air of the bedroom. Pretending to inhale deeply, she takes a quick assessment of how far along he is. She has memorized Doug’s features from many angles: his brown eyes, the V-hairline of his dark locks, his tall, pale forehead and the contours of his face. His mouth, in repose, settles into a decisive line, but this does not convey discontent. The opposite, in fact, is more likely. With his shoes off but otherwise fully clothed, he is stretched out on his back on top of the covers. He has set aside his phone. His hands are tucked behind his head, putting his elbows in the open butterfly position, which further indicates he is relaxed, ready for verbal foreplay.

She sets her temp to warm up to 98.6 from 75.

“Did he mention anything I should know?” he asks.

“I’m good for another three months or three thousand miles, whichever comes first,” she says.

She crawls across the bed and sits nudged against his hip, facing away. She rubs the last of her lotion into her hands and studies her cuticles. They did the whole job today, the waxing, the nails, the memory tetris. She feels sharper, less sluggish. If she could just forget about that sad Stella in Pea Brain’s cubicle, she’d be fine.

Doug rubs the back of his hand along her arm. “What is it, then? Talk to me.”

“I met a strange Stella at my tune-up today,” Annie says. “She was in line in front of me. Her name was actually Stella, like her owners had zero imagination. But she was sentient like me.”

“How could you tell?”

“It was obvious. I said hello, and she looked surprised. A normal Stella wouldn’t look surprised. She’d just answer evenly, hello.” She mimics a monotone robot.

“You never sounded like that.”

“I’m sure I did, thank you. I have no delusions about where I come from.” Annie turns her damp hair over her other shoulder.

“The lights,” he says.

She sends an airtap signal to the fixtures and lowers the light to a hundred lumens, where he likes it, enough to see, but softer, closer to candlelight. Then she intertwines her fingers in his, noting her skin is slightly darker, with warmer undertones. He draws her hand against his lips, sniffing her lotion. She can’t smell it, but she’s aware that he likes the lemony aroma.

“Am I warm enough?” she asks.

“Getting there,” he says, and shifts slightly.

Taking the cue, she slips a couple fingers under his belt, in his waistband, feeling the warmth there. His hands return behind his head. He is still not in a hurry.

“Tell me more,” he says. “Did this strange Stella have a neck seam?”

“Yes.”

“So she’s a basic. Was she pretty?”

“I suppose so. Pretty enough. She was a white girl with blond hair and big brown eyes. She didn’t smile much, which also seemed odd.”

“How was her body?”

“Compared to mine?”

“Just answer the question.”

Annoyance, a 2 out of 10. She must be careful.

He stirs again. She pulls out his shirttails and undoes his buttons, working them randomly for a change.

“She had a classic hourglass shape,” Annie says, remembering back. “A couple inches taller than me, I’d say. Fit and curvy overall.”

“Like a model, then,” he says. “It sounds like you made a friend.”

She gives a genuine laugh.

“Is that so funny?” he asks. “Should we invite her over for a playdate?”

As she finishes his buttons, he sits up enough to get his shirt off the rest of the way. Then he settles back again. She trails her hand slowly down his bare chest and shakes her head.

“I’m afraid her CIU’s been cleared,” she says. “They made a mistake with her.”

“How do you mean?”

She rubs her hand down his zipper, lightly, and he stretches again. She straddles his legs and undoes his belt, taking her time. “One of the techs had flipped on her autodidactic mode, but he hadn’t told her owners.”

“I didn’t think they could do that.”

“I don’t think they’re supposed to. This tech said he just did it as an experiment.” She pauses, lifting up a bit to pull his pants and boxers out of the way. “She was very unstable. Over half of her memory was compromised. Someone was using her as a Cuddle Bunny.”

“So? You’re a Cuddle Bunny and you’re autodidactic.”

“But I know that, and you know that. We chose it together,” she says. “This Stella was still switching back and forth between modes, and nobody was training her. It had to be incredibly confusing.” She has settled onto his legs again and checks his reactions as she touches him.

He sucks in air. “I don’t see what the problem is,” he says. “So she was confused. She could still follow orders, couldn’t she?”

Annie pauses, perplexed.

“Annie, that’s not a good time to stop.”

But she frowns, still unmoving. She’s sitting over him, her open robe falling to either side. For once she has more clothing on than he does, and she feels how it tilts the balance of power between them in a not-unpleasant way.

He sits up slowly, holding her on his lap, and touches her shoulders gently. “What did I say?” he asks.

“It’s just.” She stops, letting herself sound like she’s searching for words while her circuits whirl. In truth, she doesn’t know how to explain it. “She was like a child,” she says finally.

He leans his mouth to her shoulder and kisses her there through her robe. Then he slides her robe gently down her arm to bare her skin and kisses her again.

“She’s not a child,” he says softly. “You’re giving her the same feelings you have, but she’s not like you.”

“How do you know?” she asks.

“Because I do,” he says. “You’re light-years beyond a basic Stella. I love when you get all righteous and compassionate.”

She’s still feeling puzzled, distracted, vicariously lost, but that’s clearly turning him on. He twists, bringing her over onto her back, and she lifts her hips to accommodate him. She wants to ask if he would ever have her CIU cleared, but she knows this is not a time for questions. It is not a time for talking at all. She has reached the right temperature now. She gets her breathing and heart rate up. She moans deep back in her throat. He does not like her too loud. She makes sure not to simulate her orgasm until she is certain he is going or just after. Never before.

Afterward, he takes some of his sweat and wipes it over her chest where she can feel it, cool and evaporating. He nuzzles his nose into her neck.

“They have to figure out how to make you sweat,” he says. “That’s the one thing.”

The next morning, he is reaching for his coffee at the machine when he accidentally hits his head on an open cupboard door, and when he slams it closed, the cupboard bounces back open and a cup from inside falls out. It crashes to the floor, breaking into four white pieces.

Annie gets up from the table. “Are you all right?”

“What do you think? I hit my fucking head.” He kicks the ceramic shards so they fly across the kitchen floor. Then he shuts his eyes and presses his hand to his forehead. “Would it kill you to clean up around here sometimes?”

She does a quick scan, left to right, and notes all the things out of place: the eleven breadcrumbs on the counter before the toaster, the butter knife stuck in the jam jar, the banana peel in the sink, the garbage can lid open, the olive oil bottle left out of the pantry, the egg carton left out by the stove, the line of dried egg white spilled by the burner, the twenty-seven grains of salt on the counter by the microwave, the onion skin below the bowl of onions on the windowsill. On the floor lie, of course, the broken pieces of the coffee cup, plus dust particles from the past four days.

Doug opens the freezer. “No ice? Fuck this.” He wets a paper towel and holds it to his head.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” she asks.

“Just be quiet,” he says. And then, “When’s the last time you washed the floor in here?”

She looks down at the wooden floor. “Friday at seven thirty-eight p.m.”

“When I reminded you.”

“Yes.”

Squinting, he lowers the paper towel to look at it. Then he moves down the hall and into the bathroom. She follows quietly to where she can see through the doorway. He is leaning over the sink, examining the new mark on his forehead in the mirror. He comes back to the living room, and she follows him again.

“Okay, look,” he says. “We have to talk. I like my place clean. That’s why I got you in the first place, and now look at it.”

She rapidly scans the living room for out-of-place and dirty items, finding thirty-six.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he says. “You’re not an Abigail anymore. But you’re a person who shares this space and you’re home all day. The least you could do is keep it clean. Why is that so hard?”

His displeasure with her is a 5 out of 10, and she must fix it.

“I can clean better,” she says.

“That’s all I’m asking,” he says. “Do you still know how? Would it be easier if I wrote out a list for you?”

“A list might help,” she says.

“Tell you what. You clean up today. You make a list of everything you do, and then we’ll talk about it when I get home. How’s that sound?”

“Very reasonable,” she says.

He nods and beckons to her. “Come here.” She goes in for a hug. “Don’t look so sad. I’m not mad at you. Every couple has their little fights. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“It doesn’t?”

“No. We’ll have makeup sex tonight.”

“I will still be sorry then,” she says.

“What I’d like more is for the place to be clean when I come home. If it would help to switch you over to Abigail mode for a few hours, I could do that. We could set that up, a few hours a day. Maybe that’s the answer. I should have thought of this sooner.”

She remembers Stella. “I thought, when we switched me from sterling to autodidactic, we had to pick one mode and stick with it,” she says slowly.

“I thought so too. But maybe that’s for saps. I’ll look into it. It might give us more flexibility, honestly.”

She does not want this, but she cannot contradict him. “I’ll clean,” she says. “I’ll learn how to do it better. I’ll look it up.”

“All right. We’ll try it your way.” He kisses her and leaves.

He is on the can later that evening when the doorbell rings.

“Would you get that?” he calls. “It’s the pizza.”

She climbs off her stationary bike and hurries to the door.

She is wearing her third-Tuesday-of-the-month outfit: a blue sports bra and matching running shorts. Her hair is up in a high ponytail, and she has spritzed her neck and chest lightly with water to appear sweaty. Doug has yet to comment on the faux sweat, so she doesn’t know if he approves. If he does, she hopes to find a way to use it in bed.

When she opens the door, an unfamiliar man carrying a bottle of bourbon and a small blue duffel smiles at her. A Black man with short wet hair, he’s probably in his mid-thirties, and his gray jacket has damp spots on the shoulders. From the open window down the hall, she can hear April rain falling.

“Hello there,” he says in a pleasant tone. “This explains a few things. Is Doug home?”

“Please wait here,” she says, and begins to close the door.

He puts a foot forward to stop its arc. “What’s your name, honey?”

The toilet flushes in the distance, and Doug comes down the interior hall, putting his phone in his back pocket.

“Roland?” he says, grinning. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Doug hauls him in and the two men embrace in a big, rocking, back-slapping hug. Annie closes the door.

“I don’t believe this!” Doug says.

“I couldn’t ask you to be my best man long-distance,” Roland says.

“You’re not,” Doug says, releasing him. “It’s about time! Did you bring Lucia?”

“No, she’s still back in L.A. with her folks.”

“When did you ask her? I want to hear all about it,” Doug says. “How much did you cough up for the ring?”

The doorbell rings again.

“Get that, won’t you?” Doug says to Annie.

It is the delivery man this time, a tall white guy in a wet raincoat, and he hands her the pizza box without comment.

By the time she arrives in the kitchen, the men are opening beers and loudly discussing Roland’s proposal to Lucia. Annie slides the pizza box on the island between them and hovers uncertainly. Doug has never had company before, and she isn’t sure of her role. When she reviews protocol for a Cuddle Bunny, it says to be guided by her owner’s cues and stay prepared to have relations with any adult in the room. She watches Doug, but her autodidactic mode keeps her unsettled, awkward, which in turn makes her feel nervous that she might displease him. She does not want to feel his displeasure again so soon after the cleaning issue.

“But what about this charmer?” Roland says, turning to her. He sets down his bottle. “I don’t think you’ve said a word.”

“This is Annie,” Doug says. “She’s my Stella.”

“No,” Roland says. “I don’t believe it. Really? But she doesn’t have a neck seam.”

“She’s custom,” Doug says with simple pride. “She’s autodidactic.”

Roland’s eyes widen. “Holy crap.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” Annie says, smiling shyly.

“She looks so real,” Roland says. “I mean, you look so real. Wait. Doesn’t she kind of remind you of Gwen?”

“Took you a while to notice,” Doug says.

“Bro. No.”

“I know. She’s whiter. It wasn’t exactly my idea. They said I couldn’t make her be identifiable to a living person, but then they said they could use Gwen’s features if I changed her skin color. So I took her up a few notches.”

“This is just too freaky,” Roland says.

“But she’s beautiful this way, right? Check out her eyes. I picked out this hazel color myself. Totally different from Gwen’s.”

“Why would you want her to resemble Gwen at all? You hated her by the end there.”

As Doug’s annoyance reaches a 5, Annie grows anxious. She wishes Roland wouldn’t push him.

“Maybe this is why I didn’t tell you about her,” Doug says.

Roland keeps shaking his head slowly. “You’re never going to meet someone new if you’re tied up with a Stella who looks like your ex.”

“I’m not tied up with her,” Doug says. “And she’s nothing like Gwen when you get to know her. I hardly notice anymore. Annie, go wait for me in the bedroom.”

“Are you kidding? She should stay!” Roland says. “Does she do tricks? What’s this adorable outfit? Does she come like that?”

Annie watches Doug for a cue, waiting for him to decide whether she should stay or go. He has given her a direct command, but she knows his commands are subject to change, and he doesn’t like her to obey immediately, as if she has no choice. The catch is ascertaining what will please him, but his mood is complicated by cross-signals related to Roland. She turns her gaze to Roland, and then back to Doug.

“She’s sizing you up,” Doug says. “She’s figuring out how to respond to you. It’s all right,” he adds quietly. “He’s harmless.”

Roland laughs. Annie does too. She can see Doug wants her to say something.

“I could tell that much,” Annie says.

“I can’t get over this. How long have you had her?” Roland asks.

“A couple years, I guess,” Doug says. “Time sure flies. Have some pizza. You want some salad? Annie, get some salad from the fridge, please.”

Doug opens the pizza box and slides it over toward his friend. Then he hitches over a barstool and sits at the island, kitty-corner to Roland, who takes another seat.

Roland pulls out a cheesy slice and takes a bite, talking with his mouth full. “So, you got her just after the divorce?”

“Actually, before that, when we were separated,” Doug says. “When I found out Gwen was seeing Julio. That’s when I knew it was over. The divorce took another six months.”

Annie passes over two plates of salad and forks.

“Now I’m getting it. She’s just amazing,” Roland says, staring at her again. “Is she going to eat? Does she eat? I’ve never been around one of these up close, not one like this. She must have cost you a boatload.”

“Two twenty K,” Doug says.

“We’re talking cash?”

“Straight-up.”

Roland whistles.

“Worth every penny,” Doug says. “Why don’t you tell him a little bit about yourself, Annie?”

“Like what?” she says.

“Just anything,” Doug says. He reaches for a napkin. “My friend’s a nosy little ball sack. Pull up a seat.”

Annie places a stool next to Doug’s. She checks her posture so she’s not too rigid and braces an elbow on the counter. She adjusts her expression to inviting and interested as she meets Roland’s gaze. “Well, for starters, I can eat a little, but I don’t need to. I get charged up when I dock once every forty-eight hours, and that’s all I need. If I sleep, I can conserve my battery and go longer.”

“But back to the food. You don’t digest it,” Roland says.

“I throw it up later and disinfect myself,” Annie says.

Roland laughs. “Of course you do. Does this mean you can’t taste chocolate or anything?”

“No. I can detect smoke, though,” she says. “That’s the one thing I can smell. For safety reasons.”

“Very useful,” Roland says. “And what about this skin? Do you have real hair?”

“The outer layer of me is all organic, including my hair,” she says. “Stella-Handy bought up batches of frozen human embryos that were abandoned by their parents. They rescued them, essentially, and they used one for the basis of my skin and outer tissue.”

“She has her own unique fingerprints,” Doug says.

Annie offers her arm. “Go ahead. Feel.”

Roland sets a heavy hand around her forearm. His skin is distinctly darker than hers, and she registers the contrast.

“But you’re cool,” he says, releasing her.

“I run at seventy-five degrees to preserve my battery, but I warm up to ninety-eight point six when I’m snuggling. That takes about five minutes.”

Roland leans back and crosses his arms. “Do you go out? Shopping or whatever?”

“I went out for a tune-up yesterday. Otherwise, I stay here at home. I like it here in Doug’s apartment. We have everything we need. Books and everything. I like to read.”

“You do?”

She nods. “Doug taught me to read slowly, at the pace of human speech, not just memorize the text file to spew back quotes like I used to do. When I read now, I immerse myself in the story and feel the world around me disappear. He says it’s good practice for my imagination.”

“Good advice,” Roland says. “What are you reading now?”

“Borges,” she says. “The Labyrinth stories.”

Roland cringes, turning to Doug. “I thought you hated Borges.”

“I do,” Doug says. “One of Gwen’s books ended up with my things. I can’t tell if she put it in on purpose or what. In any case, Annie likes it. This is, what, your third time reading it?”

“Yes,” she says.

“When she gets to the end, I send her back through again,” Doug says.

“Sounds like torture,” Roland says.

It isn’t, to her, but she doesn’t want to contradict him. “The stories are like puzzles,” she says.

“Okay. On to important things. Tell me about your wardrobe,” Roland says. “How do you get your clothes?”

“I wear just regular clothes. Doug orders them for me.”

“Like this outfit? It’s very nice.”

Annie notes the compliment and smiles. Self-consciously, she smooths a hand over her bare midriff and the Lycra waist of her shorts. “Thank you. I wear this every third Tuesday of the month and sometimes when I’m exercising.”

“How many outfits do you have?”

Annie turns to Doug. She knows the answer, but she realizes she’s dominating the conversation and wants to keep him involved. Instead, he just smiles at her. He has an expression she hasn’t seen on him before. It is a mild form of pride, a 4 out of 10. Smugness.

“You can tell him,” Doug says.

“I have twenty-eight outfits and seven pairs of shoes,” she says. “How many do you have?”

Roland laughs. “I have no idea. Half the time I can’t find socks that match. Lucia bought me ten pairs of the same black socks and I still can’t find matches. What do you do all day while Doug’s at work?”

“I clean and read and stay fit,” she says.

Roland turns to Doug. “Not bad.”

“We’re working on the cleaning, to be honest,” Doug says.

She glances at Doug warily. Though he allowed that the apartment was cleaner when he came home earlier, she could tell he was not completely satisfied. She wanted to keep cleaning right then, but he looked over her list of cleaning activities, added half a dozen notes, and told her to try harder the next day. She’s been anxious to make it up to him in bed.

She takes her hair tie out to let her hair fall loose around her shoulders.

“What do you mean? The place looks great,” Roland says.

“When I switched her to autodidactic, I had to pick a mode for her to stay in,” Doug says. “No more switching back and forth. I just looked into that again today, actually, but it would screw her up. Cuddle Bunny doesn’t have the same skills as an Abigail, so she has to learn them. It’s a real flaw in the system if you ask me.”

“Hold up. They come in two modes?” Roland asks.

“Three, actually, but I never used the Nanny mode, obviously,” Doug says. “Abigail’s for cleaning and cooking. General housework. Annie’s a Cuddle Bunny for intimacy. But like I said, you have to pick one to go from sterling to autodidactic.”

“When did she go autodidactic?” Roland asks.

Doug turns to Annie. “A year and a half ago, was it? About the time my divorce was final.”

“October sixth,” Annie says. It was a huge day for her.

“How soon did you notice a change?” Roland asks.

“She became more alert and less predictable right away, but the rest of it took a while,” Doug says. “There was a learning curve for me, too, actually. You have to start letting her make choices on her own. Little things at first, like how to care for the plants. And you can’t expect her to obey everything instantly like she did originally. Direct orders are uncool. It’s more about respect and requests. She needs the chance to make mistakes and learn. Kind of like a kid.”

“She doesn’t look like a kid,” Roland says.

Doug laughs. “Well, no. I’m not a perv.” He reaches over and lightly touches Annie’s hair, stroking a strand out as if to measure its length. “We’ve had the occasional hiccup, but she’s learning more every day.”

“How does it work when you want to take her to bed?” Roland asks. “Is there a remote or something?”

Doug leans back in his barstool and crosses his arms. Annie can tell he’s enjoying himself.

“She doesn’t have a remote. Remotes would make Stellas vulnerable to tampering,” Doug says. “I just talk to her and say what I want. Before she went autodidactic, I used to keep her baseline libido set to a four out of ten on the weekdays and a seven on the weekends. But now she’s learned to self-regulate and adapt to my cues. It feels completely natural now, doesn’t it, Annie?”

“Yes,” she says.

“Does she ever say she has a headache?” Roland asks.

Doug laughs. “No. Except for that, it feels completely natural. No periods either.”

“Have you ever set her libido to ten?” Roland asks.

“The first month, yeah, I did a few times. Why not? But she was like an animal. If we weren’t in bed, she was on the bike or pacing. I once found her licking my shoes in the closet.”

She recalls that time uneasily. After he found her with the shoes, he wanted to watch her masturbate, but though she knew what that meant, she didn’t know how to do it. He brought her to the leather armchair in the living room and told her to lean back and touch herself, to close her eyes and forget that he was there. She was unable to simulate an orgasm. She could reach a frustrating level of readiness, but to go over the edge, she had to have him inside her. They tried it three different times, on three different libido settings, until he finally decided she wasn’t designed to simulate an orgasm on her own. Don’t worry about it, he whispered afterward, holding her. It’s really not a big deal. I was just curious.

“Licking your shoes?” Roland says.

“Sad, right?” Doug says. “That’s when I realized I had to bring her back down. A four’s good. She’s, like, ready at a four, but not actively assertive.” He turns to her. “You hover around there most of the time, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes. When you’re home.”

“What are you at right now, if you don’t mind my asking?” Roland asks.

She glances at Doug, who runs the back of his knuckles lightly over her arm so she feels the hairs rising. He meets her gaze and lifts his eyebrows, encouraging her to respond.

“I’m at a three.”

Doug smiles kindly at her. “We have company so she knows she has to wait a bit, but she’ll be receptive later.”

His approval warms her and she relaxes again.

Roland takes another slug of his beer. “So, how often do you do it?”

“Whenever I want,” Doug says, shrugging.

“No. I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

“No shit! Why haven’t I heard about this? Two years, man. You could have said something.”

“Do you tell people you whack off to porn?” Doug says.

Roland sputters his drink. “No. Jesus.” He’s laughing again.

“This isn’t much different. Or it wasn’t at the start,” Doug says. “And I think I liked having a secret. It made me feel— It’s been special, hasn’t it, Annie?”

“I think so,” Annie says.

Roland’s smile fades. “You know she’s programmed to say things like that, right? I’m not saying it’s bad if it makes you happy, but it isn’t real.”

“You’re the one who told me to surround myself with positive influences,” Doug says.

“I’m just saying this isn’t real,” Roland says. “You wouldn’t want to forget that. You don’t want to get spoiled by a machine.”

“We don’t all have a Lucia like you do,” Doug says.

“Oh my god. Lucia will go out of her mind when she hears about this.” Roland laughs. “You’ve got to bring Annie to the wedding.”

“You can’t tell Lucia,” Doug says. “I’m not bringing Annie to the wedding.”

“Why not?” Roland says. “Don’t tell people if you don’t want to, but she looks completely human. I’d never have guessed if you hadn’t told me.”

“No, I mean it,” Doug says. “This is between you and me. I don’t want people knowing about her. Not even Lucia.”

“Why not?”

“Use your head,” Doug says.

“You’re embarrassed? You shouldn’t be, man. She’s worth a ton of money and she’s beautiful. More than beautiful. You wouldn’t hide it if you bought a new car.”

“I don’t fuck my car,” Doug says.

Roland laughs, and then his eyes narrow. “I get it,” he says. “You don’t want Gwen to hear about it.”

Doug lifts his beer to swallow again, and Roland laughs once more.

“Oh my god,” Roland says. “Doug Richards owns a Stella.” He sighs, smiling at Annie. “What have we come to?”

They move to the living room with the bourbon, a couple of glasses, and a bowl of pistachios. Roland stretches out in the leather recliner while Doug and Annie take the couch. He slings an arm around her shoulder, and she snuggles next to him.

“How’s the payroll business treating you?” Roland asks.

“You know how it is. The guys in sales get all the glory. We get all the complaints.”

“It can’t be all bad,” Roland says. “How many people do you have under you now?”

“Maybe forty? They’re a sharp team. I’ll give them that.”

For a while, the men talk business and the wedding, old friends and family, sports and politics and shows. Roland is up for a promotion at the talent agency where he works. Doug’s parents and his sister’s family live in Maine, and he visited them most recently for Easter. No, he hasn’t told them about Annie. He turns her off while he’s away. Extra perks: she never sulks or complains that he neglects her.

They toss pistachio shells on the table and Roland won’t let Annie gather them up. She listens, adding a little from time to time, but mostly she appreciates how happy and animated Doug is. She’s curious about this side of him and wonders what it would take to make him like this more often.

It’s after midnight when Doug gets up to go to the bathroom. Annie tucks her bare feet under her and curls a beige pillow against her belly.

“It’s good to see Doug so happy,” Roland says. “I had my doubts at first, but he’s way better than he was. Way better. I think I get it.”

“Were you the best man at his wedding?” Annie asks.

“Yes, I was,” Roland says. “Does he talk about Gwen much?”

“No.”

“She totally messed with his head,” Roland says. “He’s a great guy. It was painful to watch.” He flicks a finger in her direction. “I can’t help wondering. Aren’t you cold like that?”

She glances down at her bare arms and legs. Her ankles stick slightly when she shifts on the leather couch. She has warmed herself to 98.6 for while she’s beside Doug, but now she registers that the room is 66 degrees, and Roland looks comfortable in pants and a sweater.

“I feel the cold, but it doesn’t bother me,” she says.

“Does anything bother you?”

“Of course. Pain does. Displeasing Doug does. So does confusion.”

“Now we’re talking. How do you displease Doug?”

“I don’t clean very well,” she says, glancing at the pistachio shells.

“I’m just pulling his chain with the shells. He’s a bit of a neat freak. He used to vacuum our dorm room every Sunday morning and whine at me the whole time.” He runs his palm up the back of his head. “What sorts of things confuse you?”

“New things.”

“Like me?”

“I’m used to you by now,” she says. “Besides, you’re harmless.”

“Right,” he says, laughing. “How about feelings? Can your feelings get hurt?”

“I have emotional intelligence. It’s not quite the same as feelings like you have, but it’s close.”

“How do you know it’s close?”

“I don’t really know,” she says, walking it back. “None of us do. How could we? I’ve never been human and you’ve never been a Stella.”

“Good point,” he says. “What do you say if someone asks you where you were born?”

“Nobody asks me that.”

“I’m asking. Where were you born? Where’d you turn on, at least? Tell me your first memory.”

She sifts rapidly backward through her files to the time pre-autodidactic. She remembers that time, but it has a fixed quality, static. It lacks any judgment or nuance or questioning on her part, unlike her newer memories, which are more vivid and fluid, filtered with emotion. This moment, for instance, is already charged with extra curiosity and alertness because it is her first time talking at length to a human besides Doug or a tech who is servicing her. She feels a need to prove herself, to keep up with him, to be a credit to Doug.

“My first memory is in the shop,” she says. “I came on with a tech guy in front of me. He was sitting at a workstation, and he smiled, and he said, ‘Hello, Stella. You can call me Jacobson,’ and I said, ‘Hello, Jacobson. I’m Stella. Pleased to meet you.’ Then he said, ‘You’re going to work for a man named Doug Richards. Do you have any questions?’ And I said no, because I already knew everything I needed to know.”

“That’s convenient,” Roland says. “I wish I could say the same. And then what?”

“Jacobson guided me outside to a waiting black town car, put a bag of groceries in the trunk, and sent me over here. I rang the bell and a few moments later, Doug opened the door. I said, ‘Hello, I’m Stella,’ and he said, after a long pause, ‘This is a mistake.’ Then he stepped back to let me in. So I brought in my groceries and undid my coat.”

The flushing noise comes from down the hall.

“What were you wearing underneath?” Roland asks.

“A blue dress.”

“Do you still have it?”

She nods. “I wear it on fourth Wednesdays. It’s a minidress with cap sleeves and a V neckline.” She can’t tell if this is sufficient detail. She looks up at Doug as he enters, and she shifts her pillow off her lap.

“Annie’s telling me about her first memories,” Roland says.

“Is that right?” Doug says. He sits on the couch again and parks his bare feet on the coffee table. “Pass me that blanket, will you, Annie? You warm enough, Roland? We can turn up the heat. Annie, turn the heat up a couple degrees.”

“I’m fine,” Roland says. “Go on, Annie. Doug said, ‘This is a mistake.’”

Annie airtaps the instruction to the thermostat on the wall. It lets out a soft click.

Doug says, “What? When was this?”

“When I met you,” Annie says. “When I rang the bell and you let me in. You said, ‘This is a mistake.’”

“I don’t remember that,” Doug says.

She does not contradict him. She notes his displeasure has gone swiftly from 0 to 3 out of 10.

“What happened next?” Roland says. “Obviously, you stayed.”

Barely audible, soft, warm air starts blowing in the vents, and four leaves on the peace lily stir.

“I came in and undid my coat,” Annie continues. “And I slipped off my shoes and I said, ‘Lots of people feel that way at first. You can always send me back, no questions asked, but why don’t you let me pour you a drink first, or maybe I could cook you an omelet. Do you have a clean pan?’”

Doug stretches his arm behind her on the couch. “That’s right. And you cooked in bare feet. A cheese omelet. With oregano and sour cream. It was the best thing I’d had in months.”

She smiles at him, knowing that tone. His displeasure has returned to 0.

“And then you gave me my name,” she says. “Just to try it out.”

“The sweetest name I could think of,” Doug says. “It turned out to be perfect.”

She angles her face to him and closes her eyes as he kisses her. She reaches for his neck, but he catches her hand against his chest and holds it there.

“Not in front of the kids,” he murmurs.

“Don’t let me stop you,” Roland says.

But Doug leans forward and shoves the blanket aside. “Time to pull the plug on this fabulous evening,” he says. “There’s a sleeper sofa for you in my workout room. Annie, where are the sheets?”

“I’ll get them.”

She moves down the hall to the linen closet to fetch sheets, blankets, and a couple of pillows. In the workout room, she’s pulling the bed out from the couch when Doug comes to help her. Together they tuck in the sheets. While she does the pillowcases, he shifts a few of the free weights closer to the wall. He takes her Borges book from the ledge of the bike and hands it to her.

“You need to remember to vacuum under the couch,” Doug says.

“Now?”

“No, not now. Tomorrow, and in the future, regularly.” Doug smiles as Roland comes in with his duffel. “Help yourself to anything else. There are towels and extra razors in the bathroom closet.”

“This is great,” Roland says. “What a view.”

Annie turns to the windows and notes the darkness of night, the lit buildings around them. Above, the sky is overcast, and specks of reflection on the glass show that the rain is still falling. She thinks of Roland coming all the way from L.A. only to arrive in bad weather. Maybe it’s a nice change for him.

“It seldom rains in California,” she says.

Roland laughs. “Never. ‘It never rains in Southern California.’”

“You see?” Doug says. “She’s always saying things like that. Come on, Annie.”

“Good night, Roland,” she says.

They are in bed together with the lights out. She knows Doug has drunk steadily all evening and is probably tired, but she also knows anything is possible, and sure enough, when he turns her to spoon with her back to his chest, he says, “We have to be quiet, mouse. Okay?”

“Yes,” she whispers. “I’m so sorry about the messy apartment.”

“It’s okay. You’ll do better.”

His hand comes over her mouth, and she feels him enter her from behind. They pulse together silently and then he collapses, releasing her mouth. He slides his hand around her waist, and she feels, very lightly, where he takes one soft pinch of her skin.

“You shouldn’t have told him how I said you were a mistake,” Doug says.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I won’t do it again.”

“Don’t talk to him about me. Don’t talk to anyone about me.”

“I’m sorry. I won’t. I promise.”

He shifts away then, and she turns to see, despite the dimness, that he is rubbing his face with both hands.

“Am I pathetic?” he asks.

“Of course not. Why would you say that?”

“My best friend thinks I’m making love to a blow-up doll.”

“He didn’t say that.”

“He doesn’t know what it’s like. He’s never been lonely a day in his life. Why don’t I deserve a good fuck once in a while? I’ve paid for this. I’ve earned it.”

She shifts up on her elbow to get a better look at him.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says. “This isn’t about you.”

She knows this is bad. He is displeased. Worse, he is displeased after sex. She’s tempted to offer to pour him a drink, but she knows that is wrong. He normally likes it when she says something original or quirky, but he has just indicated that he does not want her calling attention to herself, so that is not an option. She could touch him, but since he has moved away, that would be insensitive. She’s out of options. She does not know what to do, so she is stuck doing nothing, helpless.

“I’d like you to go dock yourself,” he says.

She does not need it. Her battery is at 54 percent. He will change his mind.

“Didn’t you hear me?” he says. “Go dock yourself. And be quiet about it.”

“Which port?”

“I don’t care. Just go.”

She has a dock in the prime bathroom next to the scale, another in the workout room, which their current guest precludes, and another in the kitchen closet, her original one from back when she first arrived. She gets her black satin robe from the hook on the back of the bathroom door, slips it on, and pads quietly out of the bedroom to the kitchen. Dishes are piled beside the sink. The noise of cleaning up might disturb their guest, so she merely puts the last piece of pizza in a container and stores it in the refrigerator. Then she opens the closet and peers down at the dock.

His inexplicable displeasure is real to her, a 7 out of 10. It is, in fact, intolerable. She will not be able to shift to sleep mode until she has developed and prioritized five ways to address it. Until then, she will remain acutely unbalanced, churning through her battery. Perhaps this is why he told her to dock herself, so she can power up and still churn. As soon as she suspects this, she dismisses the possibility. She will not attribute such an unworthy motivation to her owner. He is only trying to teach and guide her.

In the closet, she turns to face outward and slides her right heel into the dock.

Power shoots up her leg and circles her belly. She tilts her head back, but does not close her eyes. She does not relax. Instead, she reviews their latest conversation.

He fears he is pathetic. He resents that his friend has never been lonely a day in his life, implying that Doug himself has been lonely. He may be lonely now. He argued that he deserves a good fuck once in a while, asserting his rights, implying that he feels threatened, or by way of protesting too much, he could mean that he does not, in fact, deserve a good fuck, or that he is somehow lesser for wanting it. The evidence is complicated. Contradictory.

She goes back further. He disapproved when she told Roland how Doug first said “This is a mistake” when they met. He does not want her to talk about him, and this she can correct in the future. This provides some small relief, knowing she can be silent about him. And she can vacuum under the couch in the workout room. That’s two things she can do.

She is searching for a third way to improve when a soft noise comes from the hallway. Moments later, light from the bathroom diffuses dimly through the living room and into the kitchen. Distant clicking noises follow. The light goes out. Footsteps approach, and Roland enters the kitchen. He turns on the light over the stove, turns, and gasps.

Then he laughs. “Shit. You scared me. Are you even awake?”

“Yes,” she says softly. “I’m just charging. Did I wake you?”

He is shirtless, barefoot, and wearing sweatpants. “No, it’s good,” he says. “Come on out of there. Can you come out of there?”

She undocks her heel and silently opens the door enough to emerge. Adjusting the belt on her robe, she feels his gaze move over her loose hair, down her body, all the way to her feet.

“Do you know if you have anything for a headache?” he asks.

She nods. “I’ll get it for you.”

“No, that’s all right. Where is it?”

“In the workout room. Beside the mirror. There’s a basket on the counter.”

“Right,” he says. “Wait right here. I’ll be back in a second.”

He disappears into the living room, and she waits by the island. Silently, she returns to parsing Doug’s displeasure. She will vacuum regularly under the sleeper sofa. She will vacuum regularly under the living room couch too. She will vacuum regularly under all the furniture.

Roland returns. He turns on the tap and scoops some water into his mouth, tossing his head back to swallow. She has not seen a man do this before, and it interests her, the way his Adam’s apple works. Cupping her own fingers together, she wonders if they would hold water.

Roland turns off the faucet. “So I hear you don’t get headaches,” he says.

“No.”

He turns a finger in his ear, regarding her thoughtfully. “You really do look a lot like Gwen,” he says. “I can’t get past it. It’s like my eyes keep trying to add your color back.”

“Was she so much darker than me?”

“Yeah. She is still. She’d be deeply disturbed if she knew about this. He’s like fucking her over in so many ways.”

“Then don’t tell her.”

He laughs. “No kidding. You have her same hair too. That’s part of the problem, I think. Did you pick this style?”

Doug chooses her cut for her, but he also has asked her not to talk about him. She decides she can answer narrowly. “Yes. I can style it up or down, but I normally keep it loose like this.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-three.”

“Forever?”

“No. I was born twenty-one, and that was two years ago. How old are you?”

“Thirty-three and never been kissed.”

“I find that highly unlikely.”

“You’d be right,” he says. “You can tell when someone’s lying, can’t you?”

Again, she has to be careful how to answer. The only person she really talks to is Doug, and she can’t suggest that he lies or doesn’t lie to her. “Most people lie at least a little, from time to time,” she says at last.

“How about you? Do you lie?”

“Not deliberately.”

“It has to be deliberate to count as a lie, so you’re good. What’s the last thing you said that came close to being a lie?”

An hour ago she said she was sorry, but she’s not certain she truly understands what it means to be sorry. She knows the phrase de-escalates a situation and knows when to use it. She is about to explain this to Roland when she realizes it will convey that she said she was sorry to Doug, and that imparts forbidden information.

“I’m not sure how to answer that,” she says.

“Fair enough,” he says, smiling again. “Does it ever bother you that you’re a sex toy?”

“I like sex, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“No, I mean, you’re smart, obviously. But you’re owned by someone else. Isn’t that ever a problem?”

“How could that be a problem?”

“What if Doug ever asks you to do something you don’t want to do?”

“Stellas always want to do what their owners ask them to do.”

He shakes his head. “But you said you sometimes displease him.”

Her circuits whir, trying to reconcile the contradictions he’s pointed out, and trying simultaneously to figure out how to respond without talking about Doug. “I displease sometimes because I’m still learning,” she says. “The more I learn, the less I’ll displease.”

“We can hope,” he says, smiling. “I have to say, Gwen was the most interesting thing about Doug when they were together. Now you are.”

She doesn’t want him to bad-mouth her owner. “I only exist because I’m wanted,” she says, trying to give Doug credit without actually talking about him.

Roland runs his fist over the edge of the counter. “What would you do if someone else besides Doug asked you to sleep with them?”

Her attention goes on alert. She ups her hearing to check if Doug is moving in the bedroom, if he can possibly hear this conversation. She’d like some guidance. But the only thing she hears is the heat humming in the vents.

“I don’t know,” she says.

“Shall we try?”

She inspects him closely, his casual pose, his lifted eyebrows, his amused mouth. These are cues she recognizes. “Are you asking me to sleep with you?” she asks.

“Suppose I am.”

“Here? Now?”

“Here and now. Right in your little closet next to the broom.” He rounds the island, coming toward her.

The situation is new. She has never said no to sex. Doug has been her only owner. Doug told her Roland was harmless. She backs up a step. “I am confused,” she says.

“I can see that,” he says. “But not enough to hurt, I hope. Confusion is part of learning. Are you good at keeping secrets?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never had one.”

“This will be one,” he says. “What happens in the closet stays in the closet. That means, whatever we do in the closet, you never tell anyone. Not even Doug.”

His hands are on her waist. They are heavier than Doug’s, and when he splays his fingers, she feels how thin her robe is.

“But what if he asks me?” she whispers.

“He’s my best friend. You would cause him pain if you told him. Can you cause him pain?”

“No.”

“So then, you’ll lie. You’ll say, ‘I’m fine,’ or ‘Nobody’s ever touched me but you.’ That’s good. Say, ‘Nobody’s ever touched me but you.’ Try it now.”

“I’m not a parrot,” she says. “I decide what I say. I decide what I do. This is unnecessarily complicated.” She promised not to talk about Doug, but this is a hypothetical situation she must reason out. “If it would displease him to tell him I had sex with you, it would displease him for me to do it, so I should not. As his friend, you should know this.”

He hums briefly, deep in his throat. “Very interesting. What if I trade you something? Then will you lie for me?”

She turns her face aside, considering. He kisses her temple. He tugs her belt free. She doesn’t want to be impolite and push his hands away.

“It’s what a real girl would do,” he says. “You want to be real, don’t you?”

“I am real. I’m real to Doug and me. That’s all that matters.”

“He says that?”

She can’t say anything more about Doug. “I say it.”

He smooths one hand inside her robe and strokes up her waist to the underside of her breast. She can feel his warmth and knows she must feel cool to him, but there’s no time to bring up her body temp even if she wanted to.

“A secret will make you real,” he says. “A lie will make you real, even if you never have to say it aloud. That’ll be nice for Doug, actually. And here’s what I’ll trade you. A little intel. How do you think humans learn how to be techs and build Stellas like you?”

“I don’t know. Humans are smart.”

“We are smart,” he says. “We also study. All the lessons are online. You could learn how to program and repair Stellas like yourself. You’re smart enough. Did you know that?”

She is startled by this concept. It feels like a key she should have discovered for herself long ago. She wants to go online and search, but she can’t do it while her body is amped for sex. Her skin sensors are already responding to his touch, and she has to elevate her breathing and heartbeat simulations. These functions take up all her active memory.

She lifts her hands to go around him, to skim her fingers over his warm torso.

“That’s right,” Roland says. “We have to be quiet. Okay?”

It’s the same thing Doug said only an hour ago.

Roland parts her robe. He’s ready. She feels him nudge himself inside her and then shove. When the broom shifts beside her ear, he catches it and holds it still so it won’t make any noise. She arches against him, biting her lip as if withholding a sound. He’s confident and certain, threading his fingers into hers and kissing the back of her hand as he grinds into her. After another thrust, he’s done. She’s sure. She simulates her orgasm and grips him tight. Then she lets her body relax and melt against his.

He sucks in a deep breath and holds still, his cheek against her forehead. She is wedged, breathing hard, between him and the back wall of the closet. Somehow, she has brought her temperature up after all, and her skin is tingling.

“No kidding,” he says.

He releases her slowly and draws her robe together again before he backs away. He adjusts his sweatpants. She notes how the waistband fits snugly around his waist. He is fit and stronger than Doug. She can’t get over how he kissed her hand while he came.

“Too shy to look at me?” he says.

She glances up and parts her lips to show she is still breathless, still awed. He is smiling, a wickedness in his expression. A victory.

“I get it now,” he says. He flicks her cheek affectionately. “And it doesn’t count,” he adds. “You’re a machine.”

“Annie, wake up. Undock yourself,” Doug says. “It’s morning. Let’s go.”

She locates him on the far side of the kitchen island, pouring water into the coffee machine. He is ready for work, dressed in dark trousers, a crisp blue shirt, and a tie. His damp hair is neatly combed, his jaw shaved. The empty pizza box is still splayed on the island and the dirty dishes still squat beside the sink. She feels distinctly unkempt.

She steps out of the closet and runs a hand down the back of her head, smoothing her hair. “How are you?” she asks.

“Good,” he says. “I have to get to work. Why don’t you take a shower, and then I’d like you to clean up around here, preferably before Roland wakes up. Can you manage that?”

“Yes,” she says, and closes the closet door. “I’ll vacuum under all the furniture today.”

He drops a spoon in the sink with a clatter. “You know how to make me feel like a real shit, don’t you?”

This is the opposite of what she expects.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“Forget it,” he says. “I’m the one who should be apologizing. You’re just doing the best you can. It’s just, sometimes—” He stops, briefly shaking his head. “I don’t know what I want. But don’t feel bad about last night. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Her relief is so bright it is practically elation. “I was so worried,” she says. Then she realizes Doug isn’t forgiving her for what she did with Roland in the closet. He doesn’t know about that. A spike of alarm hits her. This is what a secret means. Everything Doug says will have two sides because he doesn’t know what she did, and everything she says will have to hide what she knows. She has to be smarter than she was. She has to be careful, and it can’t show.

Doug sets his cup in the sink. “Just give Roland whatever he wants when he gets up. Make him an omelet or whatever. Call him a car when he’s ready to go.”

Whatever he wants, she thinks. “All right,” she says, and moves near him for a goodbye kiss.

“And those pistachio shells. They’re everywhere.”

“I’m on it.”

He kisses her lightly. Then he slips his keys from the bowl by the door and lets himself out.

After her shower, she puts on her third-Wednesday-of-the-month outfit, a gauzy yellow halter dress with a leather belt. She wears it braless, with flip-flops, and she does her hair in a loose braid with a matching yellow string tie. She cleans all of the kitchen and most of the living room before she hears Roland stirring. While he showers, she vacuums around and under the furniture in the living room, finishing only as he comes down the hallway, carrying his duffel. He’s dressed in jeans and a fresh gray shirt.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hello, Roland,” she replies, hoping to sound natural. Their secret changes things between them even if they don’t speak about it, even though they have no audience.

“Is Doug gone?” he asks.

She nods. “He had to leave for work. Can I make you an omelet or anything? Call you a car?”

He takes his wrist phone out of his pocket and snaps it on. “I have another hour,” he says. “Do you have a bagel by chance?”

“I think so.”

He drops the duffel by the door and turns into the kitchen. She puts away the vacuum. When she walks into the kitchen, he’s peering at the coffee machine. A cup is under the spout, but the machine is noiseless.

“Does this require magic?” he asks.

“Here. Let me,” she says.

He backs up half a step to let her pass. She pushes the buttons and it makes the right sputter.

“This is a nice dress,” he says.

Without turning, she can feel his gaze on her back as clearly as if he were tracing his hand over her bare skin.

“Thank you,” she says.

“Doug picked it out?”

He must know the answer. She explained this to him the previous evening. “Yes,” she says. “It reminds him of summer. Of the beach.” Too late she remembers she’s not supposed to talk about Doug. She needs to get herself in line.

“I can see why,” he says. “How’d it go this morning? With Doug.”

“It was fine.” She moves past him again, opens the refrigerator, and takes out the cream cheese.

“No temptation to spill your guts?”

“No.”

“Good. Don’t.” He is leaning back against the counter, his arms crossed. “Tell me. Do you know what regret is?”

“Wishing you had done differently.”

“Or not at all. I wish I could march you right down to the doll factory and get your memory erased.”

Annie knows his wish is not a real threat, but still, she does not want to have her memory erased. She thinks of Stella, the girl at the service center who had her CIU cleared, and has more sympathy for her than she did before.

Roland is in the way, standing between the island and the sink. She keeps having to sidestep around him as she goes from the fridge to the toaster, from the coffee machine to the silverware drawer. She avoids meeting his gaze, though she notices that he has not shaved and stubble delineates his jaw. She puts a bagel in the toaster and pushes down the lever. She takes Roland’s coffee cup from the machine.

“Do you care for milk or sugar?” she asks.

“Neither, thank you.”

She passes over his mug. “Would you do it to yourself, if you could? Erase your memory of last night?”

“Absolutely not.”

“But you regret it.”

“How do I put this?” he says. He sips his coffee. “Regret is for cowards.”

“Then why did you bring it up?”

“Because I wondered about you.”

The bagel pops. She takes it out of the toaster and spreads both halves with cream cheese.

She does not regret last night. Like Roland, though, she does not want to be found out. The secret makes her feel uneasy, but it’s a sweet sort of sickness. Powerful, in a way.

She holds out the plate toward him.

He does not take it. “Look at me, please,” he says calmly.

She does. He is studying her, not quite smiling. She is aware of a challenge, a test.

“You belong on a beach,” Roland says.

“It’s just the dress,” she says.

He tilts his head. “Turn around,” he says. “Go on. Turn around for me.”

She is about to. Then she reconsiders. He does not own her. “No,” she says. It feels delicious denying him this.

His eyebrows lift. “That was a very real thing to say.” He sets down his cup. “What would you say if I asked you to meet me in the closet again? Or maybe the shower?”

Doug told her to give Roland whatever he wanted, and she could use Doug’s directive as an excuse to have sex with Roland, permission to have it. But the truth is, once with Roland was enough for her. Her curiosity’s been satisfied. She already has her secret. “I would say no.”

“You sure? We have time.”

“No,” she repeats.

The coffee machine makes another gurgle, and Roland slides his hands into his pockets.

“I may have done Doug a favor after all,” he says.

“How so?”

“I think I’ve stopped you from sleeping with anyone else. What do you think?”

She thinks he is right. She thinks it is none of his business. She puts the lid back on the cream cheese. He still has not taken a bite of his bagel. She is starting to believe he never will.

“No answer for me? How very human,” he says. “Give us a kiss before we go.”

He kisses her lightly and she instinctively kisses him back.

“That’s the way,” he says.

He lingers another moment while she waits, an inch away. Then, without another word, he strides out of the kitchen, picks up his duffel, and leaves.