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For once, Grant Thompson’s shift at Innovative Robotics Incorporated did not go overtime. After a brief and convenient ride on his city’s autonomous bus-line, he returned to his apartment building at exactly 5:30pm. On this evening commute, Grant wasn’t distracted by the neon billboards advertising VR movies and automatic blanket-folders, nor the programmed flow of electric buses carrying residents atop a railway 100 feet above the city floor. No, all he really thought about was eating dinner with his family. His wife and two sons motivated Grant to persevere through the recurring tediums of the workday.
Grant just hoped they could avoid errors this time. He really hoped they could.
Inside the sliding doors of his apartment’s lobby, the soft tangerine glow of lamps mimicked the radiance of a sunset. Heaters lining the walls and floor blanketed Grant in a crisp warmness. Blue couches which offered free massages encircled the lobby’s perimeter. Grant considered getting one; he longed to sink deep into the navy fabric and rub away the aches which have lingered in his spine and shoulders from years of building robots. Nevertheless, his family expected him, and so Grant ignored the small things like bodily pains. He darted toward the elevators, not wanting to leave his two hungry sons waiting any longer.
A shrill voice stopped Grant. Jeanine, the elderly secretary who was more entertained by the lives of the residents than her own, had to speak to Grant first, of course. “Hey, how’re you hanging in there?” she asked.
“Good,” Grant said. “But work is hard.”
“I can only imagine. Especially with all you’ve been through.”
Grant shrugged.
“Have you been managing your losses any better?”
“Losses?” Grant’s right palm fidgeted, and his eyes felt like they were being drilled. “Sorry. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Jeanine sighed. She contorted her facial muscles to grin artificially at Grant. “Yeah, I’m not sure why I said that, and I’m sorry for saying it. Have a good night, Grant.”
Grant beamed. “You do the same.”
He turned around and walked away, not seeing Jeanine sulk and convulse through her wrinkled cheeks behind him.
At last, Grant stood in front of the steel elevators. Cameras scanned his face and verified his identity, and then the metallic doors slid open to a carpeted chamber. Grant strapped himself into a couch in the center of the elevator. Lights the color of lavender, his favorite color, filled the space as the doors closed. Although he had sat on the couch numerous nights before, it felt uniquely comfortable each time Grant collapsed onto it. It was so comfortable, in fact, that Grant didn’t even feel the elevator moving as it brought him back to his apartment. And yet, the doors reopened to the sight of his mudroom no more than ten seconds after they closed.
Grant stepped off the elevator and was home.
Grant’s wife, Margaret Thomspon, rotated from the kitchen to greet Grant. She wore the same checker apron she wore every day, and smiled the same warm smile that calmed Grant after difficult days. “Welcome home, honey. How was work?” she asked.
“Over with,” Grant said. “In all seriousness, though, it was pretty decent. I don’t have to work overtime today, and I’ve been meaning to spend more time with you and the boys.”
Grant’s two small sons, Johnny and Tiger, bounded into the mudroom to greet him. Johnny was the older of the two and had a face peppered with small freckles. He was too short and too slender, even for a boy his age. Tiger, meanwhile, had already developed muscle at the age of seven. His hair bent to the left side of his head, and he lost two of his front teeth from a hard tackle at football practice years ago.
“Dad. Dad,” the boys said, as they dashed over and hugged Grant. “We cannot believe you are back this early.”
“Settle down, guys.” An icy sharpness shot up Grant’s hand as he pried the boys’ cold bodies from his legs. At least their hair was soft, Grant thought while he ruffled their little heads with his oil-coated palms.
“Dinner is ready, honey,” Margaret chirped on cue. “I made your favorite dish, tangy chicken breast.”
“You’re the best, Margs!” Grant said. “Let’s eat.”
Margaret, Johnny, and Tiger marched into their spots in the dining room. Grant staggered in behind them. Robotic arms sprouted from the walls and placed the plates and utensils onto the table. Once everything was set, the arms opened the oven and pulled out Margaret’s steamy piece of chicken. Dinner, like most household chores, could have easily been automated, but Margaret insisted she be the one to make it. She enjoyed cooking; it was her creative outlet in a mechanized world.
The family sat down for dinner.
“So, Tiger, how was football practice?” Grant asked, leaving his chicken half eaten on his plate.
“It was good,” Tiger said. “I tackled two kids and intercepted three throws.”
“Hah hah, that’s my boy! We don’t call em’ Tiger for nothing—ain’t that right, Margs?”
“Yes. He surely is the athlete of the family,” Margaret said.
"How about you, Johnny Boy? How’d school go? What about that math test?” Grant asked with a strained grin.
“My day was good, thank you,” Johnny said. He smiled with perfect symmetry. Johnny was the more polite child, and Margaret used to call him Little King Arthur.
“Unfortunately, I failed that math test. I am sorry, Dad. I should have studied the multiplication table more.”
Grant sighed, trying to convey a sense of disappointment to Johnny. “I thought we went over this, son. Didn’t you tell me that you were going to spend 20 minutes studying for it each day?”
“We did.”
“Yes, we did,” Grant said. "Starting tonight, I expect you to study every day. Cause’ if there is a next time, then let’s just say you’d have your TV privileges revoked, capisce?”
“Yes, Dad. I will do better next time,” Johnny said, his face unflushed and his smile still plastered on his face.
“You’re a smart kid, Johnny, and no math test is ever gonna make me stop loving you. You’ve just gotta apply yourself more, bud.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
Grant took a few minutes to eat the rest of his chicken. Nobody spoke in these moments, so nothing was heard, save for the grandfather clock, whose ticking stalked Grant’s ears.
Then Grant’s phone rang. He apologized to his family and removed himself from the table. Grant stepped into the living room and inspected the call. It was from a number he didn’t recognize. Grant stared at the screen for a moment, ambivalent as to whether or not he should accept the call. He decided to take it; maybe it was from a co-worker he hadn’t saved in his phone yet?
Grant lifted the device up to his ear and a voice passed through it. Grant, we need to-
Grant hung up and turned off his phone. It was his Mother, again. A few months ago, he had programmed his phone to automatically reject calls from both his parents and in-laws, so they must’ve gotten a new phone number. Grant wasn’t going to speak with them, not at least until he finished what he needed to complete. Hopefully, they’d understand him a little better when they see the final product.
Grant lurched into the dining room and clapped his hands. The robotic arms reemerged from the walls to sweep the kitchen and wash the dishes. Only Grant’s family remained at the table, sitting on steel chairs and staring into space.
“We should watch a movie together,” Grant announced.
“We would love to, honey. What movie would you like to see?” Margaret asked, her head shifting to stare at Grant.
“How bout’ the new Barry Dunning movie? I heard it's got good reviews,” Grant said.
“Yes,” said Tiger, as if he was addressing the air, “let us go watch that movie.”
As Grant walked to the living room his family echoed his movements, trailing like shadows behind him. When they arrived in their living room, Grant and Margaret huddled together on a leather couch, and Tiger and Johnny sat on two little green chairs.
The television was positioned below a crystal blue window, and, because their apartment was on the top floor, their view perched between the city’s tallest lights and the lowest radiance of the stars. Some nights after dinners long ago, Grant and his family would watch the stars roll above the Earth. Grant and Margaret taught many things about the universe to the boys during those days. But deep down, Grant used to be indifferent to the stars. The only universe he needed gravitated on his side of the window. Yet after it happened, the family did not bother to look up at space anymore. As of late, Grant spent a whole lot more time thinking about that other side of the window.
Grant turned on the TV. The movie played immediately; he had already set this particular one up two nights ago. It began on a highway, where a man was driving a car with his wife and daughters. The family talked and talked: about their days, about their relatives, about their lives. Then the truck came from straight ahead of them. It was a blur at first, deep within the corner of their eyes. But it emerged quickly—breaching their pupils and paralyzing their minds. The children in the back screamed, not old enough to know what was about to happen, but animal enough to sense the strength of the charging vehicle. The man swerved right. And as the car flew into the air, the woman next to him was silent, everything happening too fast for her to have any final thoughts at all.
The television flicked off; the empty static mocked Grant. He bent into his lap and sobbed. Margaret, Tiger, and Johnny stared at Grant, as if awaiting for some sort of instruction. But nothing came of it, for Grant’s empathy program had failed again, so his family was still incapable of being sad.
Deep into the night, Grant continued to cry. He stopped sometime around 3 am, when Tiger, Johnny, and Margaret powered down from a lack of use.
Grant was going to have to work overtime, after all. His family was far from complete enough to replicate who they were before the accident two years ago. Even if Grant somewhat expected it, the failure of their wiry minds still overloaded his blood-filled heart.
Fortunately, Grant had the weekend ahead of him to work on their programs. If robots were to replace his dead family, they must be capable of sadness.