Page 22 of Slots & Sticks
“How are you feeling today, Dot?” Mira asks.
“Eh.” My thumb flicks through an endless feed of other people’s lives.
“That is not a descriptive response. Would you like to talk about what’s going on?”
I sigh, slow and swollen. “No. I would not.”
“You used to talk to me.” Her voice is flat, but after years with Mira, I can hear the glitchy shadow of something like hurt.
“Not now. I need some space.”
Mira does not back off. “What are you looking for on TikTok? Perhaps I can help.”
“You can’t. I’m not looking for anything.” My thumb keeps moving anyway. Camden didn’t pester me this much. I already miss him, and he’s been gone all of ten minutes.
“Yes, you are,” Mira says, unbothered. “Or else you wouldn’t keep scrolling.”
“Fine.” My voice cracks. “Then I guess I’m looking for happiness or a distraction. You can’t help. I’ll know it when I find it.”
“May I recommend a video?”
I swallow my irritation. I’m not mad at Mira, I’m just in a bad mood. No need to take it out on the robot. “Sure.”
“Go to the Humane Society of Nevada account page.”
I do as she suggests. As soon as I see the thumbnail, I know which video she means. A goofy little Chinese Crested is flopped over on his back with his speckled belly exposed.
“Oh, he looks like Nudacris.” My dad’s first dog, the one that started it all, has become the stuff of family legend. There are about a million pictures of him loaded into the digital frame in Dad’s home office.
“Your search history includes frequent requests for images of Chinese Crested dogs,” Mira says. “I thought you might like to see this one.”
“That’s because nobody knows what they look like, so I always have to pull up photos.” I click open the video. The dog looks even goofier in motion.
Then I see the caption. I grip the phone tighter. “Oh, my God. They’re going to euthanize him.”
“I was not aware of that,” Mira says. “You should navigate away from this page for the sake of your mental health.”
“No.” I wave the screen in her direction, even though she doesn’t have eyes and is probably stalking my screen through some sort of creepy computer Bluetooth setup. “Don’t you get it? This dog needs us. And Dad needshim.” The house wouldn’t be so unbearably lonely with a dog around, and I know Dad would love him on sight.
“You may be experiencing mood swings due to grief,” Mira says. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Yes. I’m going. Right now.” I look down at myself. “After a shower.”
“You should call the Humane Society first. This video already has over seven hundred likes.”
I click my tongue. “Siri never annoys me like this.”
I swear Mira sounds smug when she says, “Siri doesn’t know you like I do.”
“Fine. I’ll call, and you plan my itinerary and a packing list.” I pull up the Humane Society’s website. I might be acting on impulse, but this is a sign. I can’t replace what we’ve lost, but at least Dad will be able to come home to something small and wiggly and filled with unconditional love instead of a sad, sullen daughter who can’t manage her own feelings without an AI assistant.
The dog in the video flails his skinny legs like he’s swimming, tongue lolling, a ridiculous tuft of hair sprouting from his head. Within the space of one flashback, it’s not a stranger on my screen but Nudacris—Dad’s first miracle rescue—rolling in the grass while I giggled from a plastic kiddie chair. That memory’s in my bones—Dad, me, the sound of his laugh.
I want to give that back to him. I want to believe there’s still room for joy.
Glancing at the frozen frame of the goofy little dog, I imagine Dad’s battered hands stroking its ridiculous hair. For the first time since the crash, I see a picture of our future that isn’t only grief.
Chapter Five
