Chapter 28
The customer service is run by AI chatbots, infuriating in their lack of emotional responsiveness. Mark should know; this is precisely what he spends his days at the office doing, replacing human beings with artificial intelligence. And now he is reaping the whirlwind.
I’m sorry we cannot respond right now, the interface coolly informs him. We can schedule a time for you to talk to your Experience Facilitator during business hours.
He and Rebecca have been at this for hours, discussing, plotting, processing, venting, attempting contact.
“This can’t wait until tomorrow!” Rebecca hisses into the phone, her conversation mirroring his typed interface. A vein is lifted at her temple, a snarl of hair pasted across her forehead. She curses, taps the phone onto speaker, pushes buttons at intervals, navigating the interface.
“For sales, press 1.”
“For billing, press 2.”
“For an Experience Facilitator, press 3.”
Rebecca finger-slaps the iPhone. “I already did this!”
“They’re closed, Beccs.”
“I thought the founder was South African or whatever. Isn’t it daytime in Africa?”
“We’re sorry, but our Facilitation Center is not open. Please try back during business hours.”
“But the business is based here,” Mark tells her. “It’s a 1-800 number.”
“For sales, press 1.”
“Fuck you,” Rebecca tells the phone. “Fuck. You.”
She hangs up.
Their website is slow loading so Mark hits refresh on the pop-up window.
. . .
Would you like to schedule a time to talk to your Experience Facilitator this week?
Angrily he types: Tomorrow.
Luca is available tomorrow at 6 pm Pacific Standard Time.
Mark types: Earlier.
We are sorry. That is the first available time slot.
He clicks to accept, slams the laptop lid down, bangs a fist on the desk.
The titanium card pops up, flips over, lands on its back: You’re in charge.
They stare at the words.
“Not so much,” Rebecca says.
“Okay, okay,” Mark says, trying to reset. “Let’s not overreact.”
“A robot-man butchered Maddy’s pet on my counter and might’ve broken Jackson’s neck.”
“We’ve been over this, Beccs. We don’t know that he did anything to Jackson—”
“No? He went over there to borrow a cup of sugar?”
“We don’t know he went over there.”
“There was a footprint. His footprint.”
“Maybe his. And now it’s gone.”
“No. Don’t do that. Do not do that. I saw it, Mark. Don’t you gaslight me.”
“I’m not gaslighting you. I’m just saying, you are—we are—understandably in an anxiety spin cycle. We’d do well to slow down, take a breath.”
“Tell it to Bao-Bao.”
“I get it,” he says. “And it’s awful. Completely awful. He doesn’t understand things, like when he didn’t get that the cheese wasn’t rotten.”
“This isn’t cheese, Mark!”
“I agree that he—it—this—is dangerous. I’m just saying it’s a mix-up, not necessarily malicious. AI gets screwy sometimes, hallucinates responses. It’s an interface problem. I deal with them at work all the time.”
“Is our paralyzed neighbor an ‘interface problem’?” She throws air quotes.
“Beccs, if there was a footprint—”
“There was a footprint.”
“—he could’ve gone over there for a bunch of reasons. Why would he want to hurt Jackson?”
She doesn’t want to say it out loud. Saying the words makes it more real. She musters her courage. “I said I wished I could sue him into the ground.”
“Oh, come on, Beccs. That was a joke. It doesn’t mean you wanted Mr. Man to—to take some vigilante action.”
“He doesn’t understand things,” Rebecca says bitingly. “Like the cheese.”
Mark draws in a deep breath. He rubs his face. When he lowers his hands, he looks pale, diminished.
“We don’t even know where he is,” Rebecca says.
“At least he’s not here. I don’t want that thing in the house.”
That’s when they hear the click of a latch, the twist of the front doorknob.
They freeze.
They hear a footstep.
Another.
Mark is wedged into the tiny desk. Slowly he rolls the cheap white IKEA chair out, swings his legs free. Rebecca backs up very slowly until her lumbar hits the counter.
More footfall.
They wait, forgetting to breathe.
At last a shadow falls through the open doorway.
And then Mr. Man appears.
Cradled in his arms is a Mini Lop bunny.
“Here is a replacement bunny,” Mr. Man says. “Just like Bao-Bao.”
The rabbit has Bao-Bao’s coloring and seems to be around six pounds. In fact, he looks remarkably like the original Bao-Bao.
Mr. Man walks calmly across the kitchen, squats, and eases the bunny into Bao-Bao’s cage. Then he stands up to face them.
Mark and Rebecca have not moved an inch.
Mr. Man says, “I took care of it for you.”
“Where did you—” Mark’s voice gutters dryly. He swallows with effort and begins again: “Where did you get a Mini Lop rabbit at”—quick check of his watch—“four in the morning?”
“Your breeder, Ginny Merchant,” Mr. Man says. “She has several litters.”
“You woke her up?”
“There was no need. There are several rabbit hutches in her backyard. I did not want to disrupt her sleep and potentially alarm her. My value hierarchy ranks her ease of mind higher than immediate payment. I reimbursed her through your PayPal, link to bank account number 8179—”
“Jesus,” Mark says. “Jesus Christ.”
When she trusts her voice again, Rebecca says, “You can’t just break into someone’s backyard and steal a pet.”
“I did not steal the rabbit. I paid for the rabbit.”
“That’s not how it works,” Rebecca says. “That’s illegal.”
“My value hierarchy ranks your and Maddy’s happiness higher.”
Silence fills the kitchen.
“Higher than what?” Rebecca finally asks.
Mr. Man’s eyes dim. He closes them, chin dipping, lids flickering. He opens his eyes, lifts his head sluggishly. “My power level is low. I must recharge.”
He moves jerkily across the kitchen, as if running out of steam.
“Wait,” Rebecca says.
Mr. Man halts. His head droops slightly on his neck.
Her voice shakes: “Did you go over to Jackson’s last night?”
“Yes,” Mr. Man says.
Rebecca tries to swallow, but her throat will not comply. She forces out the question: “Why?”
Mr. Man stares at her, unblinking. Mark is on his feet beside her. They stand rib to rib. They wait.
“I saw your necklace break,” Mr. Man says. “I went to search for it.”
Relief washes through Rebecca. She exhales through clenched teeth. She wants to believe that so badly, and she mostly does. Maybe it is the truth. Maybe that’s when Mr. Man left the footprint, after the fact.
Mr. Man starts himself up again, seemingly stiff from his low charge. As soon as he clears the threshold to the foyer, Mark and Rebecca look at each other. “Maddy,” they say in unison.
They lean into the hall in time to see Mr. Man disappear into the nursery.
Down the hall together, taking quiet steps.
They arrive at the doorway. The clamshell lid is lowering with a faint hum, the sound more electronic than mechanical. They stand and watch until the coffin-like prism is closed. The sensor light comes on.
Mark walks over, checks the seal. Rebecca sets her hands on the closed lid.
It is shut as tight as a walnut.
Mark shoves it, but it is so heavy it doesn’t budge.
“I’ll sleep on the floor in Maddy’s room,” he says. “In case he wakes up. I don’t want him unsupervised until we can get him returned.”
Rebecca nods.
They start out, and Mark walks her to the bedroom door. They embrace. It feels good, warm and familiar. On his neck she can smell a trace of that sage-and-cedar soap.
They pull apart. “We’ll figure this out,” Mark says. “It’s late, and I’m mostly certain we’re overreacting.”
She nods. He is probably right. What happened to Bao-Bao is terrible, but Mr. Man set it right, and the footprint doesn’t prove anything.
She gives him a kiss, starts into the bedroom.
He catches her by the biceps. “Lock the door anyway,” he says.