Chapter Seven #2
A bead of sweat slides down my neck. I wipe it away, then glance at her reflection in the glass.
She’s holding that puck close to her chest, head tilted, listening like it’s a living thing.
It hits me—she trusts a machine more than most people.
I want to change that, even if all I can do right now is get this damn tire off and keep us moving.
“Okay,” I tell the car, tightening my grip on the wrench. “Let’s try that again.”
I lower my phone. “Your virtual assistant might be right. I’m struggling here.”
Mira is adamant. “Bring me to him. I can help.”
Dot’s footsteps pad around the car until she appears above me. “Are you sure you want to do this? We can call a local garage or the AAA or something.”
I lift one hand to shade my eyes. “Is there someplace close by?”
Mira answers for her. “The closest mechanic is half an hour away. I believe that with my assistance, we can change out the tire faster than it would take someone to arrive and do the work themselves.”
At least the robot has a little faith in me. “Cool. Let’s try it.” I grab my tire iron and get back to work.
For a tiny eyeless robot, Mira is remarkably helpful. She walks me through each step, offering clarifications as we work, for the next forty-five minutes.
“Sorry I’m going so slow.” I wipe sweat from my forehead.
It’s miserably hot in the sun, and we don’t have much water with us.
Dot was smart enough to bring a full insulated bottle, but I only had a half-empty bottle that I’d stashed in my gym bag earlier.
I’m sweating so badly that my balls are glued to my thigh.
“No worries,” Dot says, though it’s obvious that she is worried. She keeps checking the time on her phone.
“Only two steps remain,” Mira announces. “Please make sure to take extra care when retightening the lug nuts. Unless you have a second backup tire, we will be relying on this one for the rest of the trip.”
But I’ve stripped one of the bolts, and my sweaty fingers keep slipping on the iron. Every time I think I’ve got it, something shifts.
I mouth Mira’s words while making a snarky face, not unlike that of Beeker from the Muppets. That gets a tight smile from Dot, but only a small one. We’re hours from Reno, and there’s no way we’ll be able to make it there and back tonight.
Her smile fades as fast as it comes. The late-day light hits her cheek, catching the fine tremor in her jaw.
She’s exhausted, running on caffeine and guilt.
Always taking care of things that already look half-gone—her dad, the dog, now the tire.
I want to say something that’ll make her laugh, something to pull her back up, but all I manage is a grin and a lame, “Player of the game goes to the spare.”
We finally get back on the road much later than planned. Dot turns her phone screen on and off compulsively while I drive.
Each flicker lights her face like a strobe. I remember road trips when she used to hum to stay calm; the silence now feels louder than the engine. Mira pipes in with faint white noise, and Dot’s shoulders ease a little. Even her AI knows how to read the room.
“Mira? What time does the shelter close?” she asks.
“Their website suggests that their hours end at seven.”
Dot whimpers. I know she’s worried about her little buddy. “Hey.” I reach over to lay a hand on her knee. “Call them. It doesn’t make sense to pick him up tonight, anyway. We’ll need to find a hotel. We can get him in the morning, okay? Just let them know?”
Dot bobs her head. “You’re right. I’m being silly.”
I squeeze her knee. “I didn’t say that. You’re justifiably concerned about his well-being.”
Her skin is warm through the thin fabric, and her pulse is quick under my fingers. For a few seconds, neither of us moves. Then Mira clears her throat—if that’s possible for a robot—and chirps, “Would you like me to place the call for you?”
Dot jerks like she’s been caught doing something indecent, blurts, “No, I’ve got it,” and fumbles for her phone. I pull my hand back, pretending I don’t miss the contact.
She relaxes slightly and pulls up the number for the shelter. She puts the call on speakerphone and fiddles with the top button on her blouse while she waits for someone to pick up.
“Hi! You’ve reached the Nevada Humane Society. How can I help you?” The woman who answers is so upbeat that I assume it’s a recording.
“Oh, hi. I’m Dot Shaw. I called earlier about Ski—um, about Krusty?”
“Ahh, that’s right!” The woman sounds genuinely delighted. I’m further convinced that nobody’s going to hurt the little guy while we’re en route. “We’re looking forward to seeing you tonight. When will you get here?”
Dot grimaces. “That’s why I’m calling. We had an issue on the road. We’re coming, but we can’t get there until morning. Can you hold him for me until then?”
“Sure,” the woman adds. Dot puffs out a breath. “...for a one thousand dollar deposit. We’ll refund some of that when you pick him up, minus the adoption fee.”
Dot sighs. “Give me one second to find my card.” She twists around to look for her purse in the back seat.
“I can provide that information,” Mira suggests.
“Oh, cool.” Dot holds the phone toward Mira. “Can you read it off for her?”
Mira relays the information, and Skinbad’s safety is secured for another night. Dot’s tension dissipates after she hangs up.
She slumps against the seat with a shaky laugh. “I hate phone calls. My palms are sweating.”
“Adrenaline’s good for circulation,” I say.
Mira helpfully adds, “It also increases cortisol, which can lead to poor decision-making.”
Dot groans. “You mean like installing you?”
That earns a smile from both of us, the first easy one in hours.
“I’m sure Skinbad will appreciate your sacrifices. Want to look up hotels near Reno and pick one for tonight? I can spring for two rooms.”
“You don’t have to do that.” Dot opens her phone to a reservation app. “I’m spending Dante’s money, remember? He gave me more than enough to book a couple of roo—good lord, why are these so expensive?”
Mira takes this as her cue to butt in. “This weekend is the annual furry convention. Many hotels are already booked.”
“Furries?” I repeat.
“Some people experience sexual preferences for—”
“I know what furries are,” I interrupt. “I didn’t realize they had a convention.”
“They have several throughout the continental US, the largest of which is Furry Weekend Atlanta, followed by Anthrocon—”
“We don’t need to know the details, Mira. Can you please help us find a hotel with two rooms for tonight? Ideally, within a fifteen-mile radius of the Humane Society?”
“Let me look.”
I’m not worried. We’ve got hours to search. We’ll find something decent, make it through tomorrow, and get our hands on Dot’s new dog. We’ve already had enough excitement this trip, thank you very much. By rights, it should be smooth sailing from here.
The desert rolls out black and endless ahead of us.
Dot’s fallen quiet, chin tilted toward the window, eyelashes catching the glow from passing signs.
Mira lowers her voice to a whisper, giving ETA updates like bedtime stories.
I keep one hand on the wheel, one ready near her knee, not touching—just close.
The road hums beneath us, steady and sure.
For the first time all day, she looks peaceful.
And I realize I don’t want the night to end.