The dark streets near the hall where they played football gradually gave way to narrower, brighter, and busier ones. While the hall sat uphill in the park, close to the mountain’s edge, Daniel’s home lay almost at the opposite end of the city. The deeper he drove into it, the more people and cars appeared, and the traffic lights stopped him more frequently.

  He drove a two-seater car. Not because he couldn’t afford a bigger one—he could buy five of them if he wanted—but because he didn’t need more. He loved this one. It could carry him and Emma, along with all their luggage, for a few days away. He could travel in it, even race it if he felt like it. But he didn’t. Nor was he in a hurry to get home tonight. Emma was still upset about something he couldn’t quite grasp, but as a true man—and especially as someone with a girlfriend of nearly ten years—he’d learned not to meddle when a woman was in a bad mood. Things always got worse if he did.

  He turned into the side street leading to his house, found number 187, and parked in front of it. He turned off the engine and stayed inside. Reaching over to the dashboard in front of the passenger seat, he pressed a button, and the compartment lazily slid open. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Only two remained inside. He took one and returned the pack. Pressing the button again, he watched the lid slowly close, staring at it intently. The lid was a robot. The car he sat in was a robot. Everything around him was robotic. So what if he spent a week in a world like that? Nothing would happen. And the privilege of being one of the first to experience such a place… not everyone could boast about that. One day, he’d have a story to tell his grandkids.

  Daniel rarely smoked. He turned to cigarettes only when truly stressed. With so much work, he barely had time to feel stressed most days. But Emma stressed him out, and lately, he’d been lingering after work longer and longer just to avoid the disappointment of seeing her displeased face. The TV kept preaching that communication was key in a family. What communication? That was the talk of people without families. He knew everything about Emma, and she knew everything about him. What was there to discuss?

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  He lit the cigarette and took a drag. The smoke wafted over his whole body. It didn’t feel like poison—more like a kind of healing. The second drag was even deeper. He deliberately kept the windows shut. He wanted the car to reek of smoke. It calmed him. Emma, on the other hand, had never smoked and would likely ask him from the doorway why he had. He didn’t know what he’d say, nor did he care right now.

  He finished the cigarette, and it brought him one of the greatest pleasures he’d felt lately. Only then did he open the door, letting the smoke pour out. To an onlooker, it might’ve looked like the car was on fire. He locked it and leaned against it. A group of kids passed by—no older than sixteen. One stared at him like he was a cop. If he were a cop, he’d have stopped them for sure—they had no business being out this late.

  He glanced at his house. It was dark, save for the living room, where the light glowed but the blinds were drawn. Emma was probably home.

  He walked slowly toward the house, opened the door, and called her name. No answer. The living room was empty too. He cracked open the bedroom door and saw her there. The window was ajar, and she lay on her back, topless, wearing only panties below. The sheet covered just a sliver of her waist.

  He slipped into the bathroom, took a hot shower, stripped down, and climbed into bed beside her. He didn’t want to wake her, and she probably didn’t want him to either. Once upon a time, when he came home late, she’d wait up with the bedside lamp on, reading a book—usually a crime novel. Then they’d make love, sometimes more than once.

  Now, she just fell asleep.

  Daniel lay on his back, staring at the open window. A cool breeze brushed his face. He pulled the covers over Emma and himself. As he drifted off, he wondered: Did robots feel? Robots didn’t feel, but would the ones in the park have emotions? Could they tell cold from warm?