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“What the hell are you?” She sounds slightly breathless now.

She’s trying to determine what kind of thing I am, and I don’t have a satisfying answer because I’m not entirely sure myself.

“I was made,” I say, because that’s the truest sentence I have. “I don’t know the full details. My memory has gaps—significant ones. I know I was built, I know my exterior is organic tissue, and I know that there is information stored in this panel that I can’t access on my own.” I touch the seam along my ribs. “That’s what I know.”

“Are you human?”

“No.”

Her hand juts out to the wall, which she uses to support her sagging weight.

“And what is that?” She’s pointing at the panel now, her finger aimed at my ribs like an accusation.

“An access panel. For internal maintenance.”

Her mouth moves without producing any sound.

Her heart rate has increased—I can see the pulse in her neck, rapid and visible—and her grip on the rolling pin has tightened until her knuckles are pale.

“Are you going to hurt me?”

“No.”

“How do I know that?”

I consider the question. It’s reasonable. She has no evidence to support my claim and considerable evidence to doubt it—I’m a stranger who appeared in her building without invitation or clothing, I’m not human, and I’m significantly larger than she is. By any logical assessment, she should be afraid of me.

“You gave me a towel,” I say. “When I was on the floor, wet and covered in mud, and you didn’t know what I was, you gave me a towel. My systems have categorized you as a nonthreat. I am not capable of harming a nonthreat.”

She blinks. “Your… systems.”

“Yes.”

“Your systems categorized me.”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” She exhales hard through her nose and takes another step back, through the utility room doorway. She grabs the door handle. “Stay here. Don’t move. I mean it—do not move from this room.”

She pulls the door shut.

I hear her footsteps moving across the floor. Fast. Then they stop. Then they pace. Back and forth, back and forth, a loop of approximately twelve steps in each direction. I can hear her breathing on the other side of the wall, heavy and deliberate, the way humans breathe when they’re trying to calm themselves down.

The utility room is small. There’s a mop and a bucket, a shelf of cleaning supplies, the sink where she gave me the towel. The alley door behind me, closed now. A single bulb overhead that flickers at 0.3-second intervals, which suggests a wiring issue I could fix if I had access to the electrical box.

I wait. I’m familiar with waiting.

The door opens.

“Where did you come from?” Her face appears in the gap, flushed and intense. “Before the alley. Before tonight. Where were you?”

“I don’t fully recall. My system experienced a reboot a few hours ago and there are gaps—”

The door shuts.

I stand there.

It opens again. Wider this time. She’s leaning against the frame now, one hand on the knob, the rolling pin tucked under her arm.