Page 25 of Slots & Sticks
I glance down at my skates, then back at him. “Good thing this impromptu drill is volunteer only.”
The edge of my blade bites the ice as I push off before he can answer.
* * *
The car smells faintly of coolant and citrus air-freshener—her dad’s handiwork. Dot’s sitting behind the wheel with both hands hovering an inch above it, like the thing might bite.
Her trunk’s open, a small overnight bag sitting on top. My stomach plummets. Where does she think she’s going? I step forward a half-pace. My mouth tastes metallic.
The bag’s zipper glints in the sunlight, a silent dare I don’t know how to refuse.
“Not sure where you’re headed, but I can drive,” I tell her gently. “You look like you’re prepping for takeoff, not a trip across town.”
She forces a laugh that sounds thin. “That obvious?”
“Little bit.”
“Roadside Relay?” I ask, gesturing toward the driver’s seat.
With the smallest smile, she gets out and trots to the passenger side, while I slide behind the wheel.
Her fingers twitch near the console, as though trying to press something but stopping. I notice a faint glow from the dash’s corner mirror—something flickered, like a screen about to wake.
“It’s only a day trip, by the way,” she mutters. “Maybe. Probably. I packed in case it doesn’t go as planned.”
“What day trip?”
“I was going to run to Reno. The Humane Society has this Chinese Crested—looks like Dad’s old dog, Nudacris.”
She exhales, but her hands don’t drop. The silence hums.
Then a voice from nowhere says, “You’re not alone, Dot. I’m right here.”
I jerk, scanning the dash. “What the hell—?”
Dot winces. “Crap.” She fumbles with her phone and presses a button. The voice stops, replaced by the quiet tick of the engine.
“Who was that?”
“Nobody.”
“That wasn’t nobody. That was—”
“Mira,” she blurts, cheeks going crimson. “My… AI. Companion. Whatever.”
I blink at her. “You have a companion AI?”
She grips her purse tighter. “Please don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not. I just—didn’t know you were into that kind of thing.”
“I’m not into it,” she snaps. Then softer, “I’ve had her since middle school, okay? She helps me think.”
I don’t answer. The air between us thickens with her embarrassment. She fiddles with her sleeve, eyes on the dashboard.
“I used to get panic attacks in class,” she admits. “Too much noise, too many people. My parents tried therapy, tutors, andmeds—none of it stuck. Then my mom found this early-beta AI program. I trained it myself. I called her Mira because she repeated things back to me until I could make sense of them.”
Her voice cracks on the word trained. She clears her throat. “It’s not grief; it’s wiring. Some people need caffeine. I need Mira.”
