“Here we go,” he said, like a soldier bracing himself for some imminent battle. He took his glasses from the breast pocket of his shirt and balanced them on his nose. Then, as if to show the tablet he meant business, he rolled up both sleeves. “That’s it on now.”

“I can see that,” Moira said.

They both peered at the screen. “Right. ‘Login,’ it’s saying,” Ben remarked. His eyes scanned the display like there might be some sort of clue there somewhere. When he failed to find one, he turned his attention back to the text. “Login.” He looked hopefully at Moira. “Do you have one of them?”

“How would I have a login for it? You only just took the thing out of the bloody box.”

“Aye, right enough.” Ben nodded, then turned back to the screen. “Is there a button that says ‘no?’” he wondered, giving the display another once over. Then a twice and a thrice over, for luck. “Or ‘cancel,’ maybe?”

“It just says ‘Login.’ That’s it,” Moira pointed out.

“It says on the box it’s got a ‘voice assistant’ in it. Whatever that is. Maybe you talk to it,” Ben suggested. He leaned in close enough that his breath fogged the screen. “No,” he said in crisp, clear tones. He leaned back like he was worried the tablet might bite him, searched the display for any changes, then tried again, only louder. “No. Cancel.”

“It’s not doing anything,” Moira told him.

“Abort. Do not log in,” Ben tried.

“It’s not doing anything!”

“I can see that, Moira! Stupid bloody thing. Aye, it, I mean, no’ you.”

“I should think not!”

“Cancel. No. Go back!”

Ben practically shouted the instructions at the screen, but the tablet refused to comply.

Christ, where was Hamza when you needed him?

“You sure you don’t have a login?” he asked, shooting Moira a look like she might be deliberately withholding the information. “Because it’s saying ‘Login.’”

“I can see what it’s bloody saying,” Moira said. She waved a hand. “It’s too complicated.”

“The lassie in the shop says it’s no’ complicated at all,” Ben countered.

“And how old was she?”

Ben considered this. “Nineteen? Twenty, maybe?”

“Well, there you go, then!” Moira sighed, letting herself fall back onto the raised head of the bed. “Nothing’s complicated when you’re nineteen.”

Ben straightened and regarded the gadget, his shoulders stooped by disappointment. “I just thought… it’d be good. Wee bit of company for you. Just until you get home. I thought it was a good idea.”

“Well, you thought wrong,” Moira told him. She sniffed, and darted her eyes to him just fleetingly. “But, I suppose I should thank you for thinking at all.”

“Not necessary. I can take it away and get someone to look at it for us,” Ben suggested. “Get it set up.”