Page 34 of Slots & Sticks
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 sheisworried. 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?”
