The door slid open again and the little robot returned, water in tendril. It wobbled into the room and set the glass down beside Maxwell’s bed. It seemed like a complicated operation. The robot did not possess a great deal of manual dexterity, and the glass spilled half of its contents on the floor. The exasperated robot would not look up at Maxwell and seemed lost in the robot equivalent of thought.

“Is everything OK?” Maxwell asked.

“Everything is fine. I am fine, the System is fine—Central Processing is not having any problems. We are all doing very well.”

“What?”

“What?”

Maxwell narrowed his eyes at the robot.

“Just out of curiosity, you noticed nothing strange on Earth, did you? The same general number of humans?”

“What? What do you mean? Do you not know what’s happening back on Earth?”

“Of course, we do. We know everything, and everything is fine. Over there, over here, over in Central Processing. All fine.” The robot checked Maxwell’s reaction, and continued, “Are you feeling better about your recent demise? You are shaking much less violently. This is a good sign.”

“I guess. Does anyone feel good about it?”

“Some do. Others go kicking and screaming. The result is the same.”

The music in the room had turned to temple bells and bird calls. The scent of lavender now filled the room. It was making Maxwell sleepy, and he wondered if some of his newfound calm wasn’t the result of subtle manipulations in his environment. If so, he wished they would just ask him what music and scents would tranquilize him the most. He had no objections to emotional manipulation at this point.

“What do I call you? Do you have a serial number or something?” Maxwell asked.

“I do not.”

“No name?”

“Would it help if I had one?”

“A little.”

“Very well. What shall I be? Or would you like me to pick? I have a deep repository of human names.”

“Anything’s fine.”

“Very well.” The robot paused to search through its repository. “I will be Bethany.”

Maxwell snorted. “Bethany?”

“The name was selected at random. I can choose another.”

“It’s—no, it’s fine. Am I allowed to ask how I died, Bethany?”

“You do not remember?”

Maxwell shook his head. His ignorance seemed to agitate the little robot further. Bethany paced back and forth across the small room. Eventually, it came to a stop and looked back up at Maxwell.

“I am afraid I cannot tell you that,” it said.

“You can’t?”

“No. For very good reasons. Very good reasons that have nothing to do with Central Processing.”

“You keep mentioning Central Processing.”

“I do not. You brought it up.”

“I don’t even know what it is.”

“Let us drop all this talk about Central Processing and return to more pressing matters. If you do not remember how you died, it likely happened without your knowledge. Perhaps a loved one stabbed you in your sleep, or a stranger strangled you from behind, or—”

“Stop, I get it. You know, you don’t have the most tactful bedside manner.”

“Do not be ignorant. My capacity to soothe is intense and immoderate. If pondering the cause of your death is not relaxing, perhaps you should meditate on your happiest memory instead.”

“Are you changing the subject?”

Bethany said nothing, but its smiling face seemed to encourage Maxwell to stay on topic. Perhaps the robot was right though, knowing how he died might make things worse.

“A memory I want to keep for eternity,” he muttered under his breath.

Bethany nodded.

“You haven’t given me a lot of time to think about it, but when I was a child, there was a family gathering. Thanksgiving maybe, or Christmas. My parents were both there. It was before the divorce. There was food, and everyone was happy. While I waited for you, that was the only thing that came to mind.”

“Ah, yes, well, that sounds pleasant, but childhood memories are often fuzzy. I am afraid you must be more specific. Which one? When was it? Where?”

“It was—no, but there was one where . . .”

“I am hearing confusion. This is natural. People tend to paint over their memories as time goes by, embellishing details or eliding unpleasant elements. What you thought you remembered was most likely a combination of several dinners.”

Maxwell stood up and began to pace the room. He had forgotten his slippers this time, and the wood was cold against his feet.

“They can’t all have been bad. I remember happy dinners.”

“Most likely, you remember what you created. I am afraid I need a memory that is at least 75% accurate to proceed. Do you have any other potential memories?”

He did not. Maxwell had pinned his hopes on the family dinner and hadn’t prepared a backup. He racked his brain, but nothing came to mind. Why was this so hard? Maxwell sighed and rubbed his hands over his face.

“What did you do for fun?” Bethany continued. “Any exciting hobbies? Maybe a trip abroad?”

“Well, I mean, I was going to do that sort of thing, eventually.”

“But you did not?”

“I needed to get my life in order first.”

“What about time with loved ones? Many people—”

Maxwell shook his head before the robot finished speaking.

There must be a book you enjoyed or maybe some media you consumed. Others have chosen memories like that.”

“What, me sitting there on my couch? That’s my forever-memory?”

“If it is your happiest moment.”

“I have happy memories. I lived a long, full life.”

“You died at 26.”

“Well, there was more to it than binge-watching, at least.”

The LED lights of Bethany’s smile straightened into a flat line.

“I would like you to pick a memory.”

“I just—I need more time.”

Maxwell could not be certain, but he thought he heard the robot sigh.

“You can have a little more time, but when I come back, you must select something, or you will receive a placeholder.”

“What’s that?”

“An artificial memory, a very pleasant one. I am sure you will enjoy it.”

“And that’s me for all eternity, a placeholder?”

“You are welcome to suggest an alternative. Take your time,” Bethany said. It moved toward the door but turned back at the threshold. “Just not too much.”

***

Maxwell’s inability to land on a single happy moment unmarred by a subsequent failure came as a bit of a surprise. He had not thought himself miserable, not really. Miserable people spent their weekends drowning themselves in alcohol and writing terrible poetry, not eating frozen pizzas, and watching online compilations of cartoons from their childhood.

Things weren’t perfect, but he had been building up to something better. The burdensome repetitions that made up his daily life were just temporary. As soon as he had enough money, as soon as he had enough time, as soon as he had thought things through, he would be ready for what came next.

He decided not to linger on the sadness. He needed to select something from his life, anything, but the impending time limit pressed down on him. Each passing second made it harder to concentrate. He tried to force happy memories to the front of his mind, but all that showed up was an endless string of things he didn’t do.

Classes he had dropped for fear of failing.

Hobbies he had abandoned.

Cancelled first dates.

Untaken vacations.

Worries.

Worries and waiting. They had been the same thing, after all. He had nurtured ridiculous expectations and welcomed each disappointment. That way, he could start making new plans and avoid the terrifying prospect of living.

Maybe he really should just pick some book or movie he had watched. Fantasy had always been preferable to the meager returns of his unlived existence. Why not forever? He cradled his head in his hands. He wanted to cry, but what could he mourn when he had lost nothing?

At last, time was up.

The door slid open a third time, but when he looked up from the floor, he did not see Bethany’s small digital display looking back at him. He saw an enormous frog—an enormous frog dressed as a janitor.