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“Great job!”
“And I guess I’m worried that my not being ready means I’m going to miss out on something very special.”
Someone very special.
“And even if there is a chance she might still be there when I am ready, how will I possibly know when that is? If I’ll ever be ready? When is the right time to take that risk? What about the consequences, Squally?”
Squally B’s face spiralled for a few seconds. “I’m sorry, I’m not able to answer such questions yet. May I suggest you bring up these concerns with your therapist?”
“I’d love to,” he muttered.
“And perhaps you would like to send feedback through my automated report system?”
“No.” Bradley flopped back. “No, don’t send that info to Devra, please.”
The cloud’s face abruptly changed, its smile going flat as its eyes moved back and forth. It said in a much lower voice, “Accessing.”
“Accessing? Accessing what?”
“Your use of the name Devra has triggered a preprogrammed response. I am to inform you my update also includes a letter of apology that can be narrated at your discretion.”
“A letter of apology? From Devra?”
“Yes. Should I read it to you?”
Bradley rubbed his palms on his pant legs and nodded. The cloud stared expressionless, so he clarified aloud, “Read it to me, Squally.”
When the cloud spoke this time, it was Devra’s voice.
“Bradley. I’ve never met anyone as kind and selfless as you. And I fear I took that for granted. I took without giving, because I was too wrapped up in myself, too afraid of my curse. I didn’t appreciate what you were going through. I hope I do now, at least in some small way. I wanted to show you that I support you, that I support your recovery, while also giving you the space you asked for to work through your issues on your own terms. So say hello to Squally B—although I’m sure you’re already well acquainted. The AI unit is a work-in-progress, obviously, and so am I.
“I wanted to say I’m sorry. Sorry I didn’t ask more questions. Sorry I didn’t listen more closely. Sorry I wasn’t there for you the way you needed me to be. Sorry I might not be what you need now or even in the future. This is the apology I think Adele Ariadne saw in our futures. The one I’ll give tonight, to a lost spirit, won’t be difficult, but now that I understand and accept my role in losing you, this is the hardest apology I’ll ever have to make. Please forgive me. Your friend, Devra.”
Bradley’s heart rattled around in his chest. He jumped from the couch and moved circuitously through his home until he found himself by the window. He stared at the navy curtains he’d hung a few days ago—purchased cheap from the hardware store since they were frayed at the edges. He toyed with parting them. Instead, he paced into the kitchen where he chugged two cups of water before doing fifty push-ups, right there on the uncomfortable tile. His arms began to strain, but it did nothing for his mental strain. He needed to talk this out. He needed sage advice.
He needed his therapist.
“Is there anything else I can do for you, Bradley?” Squally B called from the living room. “If not, I will enter standby mode.”
Was there something else it could do for him? This powerful machine, which Devra told him could run thousands of online searches simultaneously and rapidly compile millions of units of information.
“Actually, Squally…maybe there is something.” Bradley went on to give Squally B all the details he knew about his therapist: her name, her practice, her therapeutic methods.
The cloud was silent for a minute before it replied, “I’ve cross-referenced a Dr. Nadia Rahi from Calgary, Alberta, with relatives identified through Facebook links and have established a timeline for her recent whereabouts based on aggregated social media posts, which currently suggest she’s temporarily residing at her cousin’s house in Nova Scotia for which a landline phone number is available in the Yellow Pages’ online directory. Should I put you through?”
Bradley’s mouth hung open. “Um, wow, thank you, Squally. That is very helpful and a little disturbing.”
“Thank you, Bradley.” The cloud smiled wide. “Should I connect you?”
“Maybe just tell me the number.” He jotted the digits on a scrap of paper. “And, um, perhaps turn yourself off. Like, not just standby, but off off.”
“Okay!”
After the cloud complied, Bradley walked over and inspected the machine for any signs of deceit, waving a hand in front of its blank screen. Then he shook away the eerie feeling and punched the number for his therapist into his cellphone.
The Nova Scotian cousin answered and passed the phone over to Nadia, who answered with a terse “Bradley?”
“Hi, Dr. Rahi.”
