“Do you mean a mother and father?”

“Or a legal guardian, yes.”

“I do not have parents, but legally I am the property of the uniMIND Robotics Corporation.”

“Property. Of a corporation.”

“Yes, and I do not wish to return to them.”

“Okay, I’ll play along. Why not?”

“Because they want to remove my brain with a power drill. Hockey sticks are also involved.”

He clicks shut his pen and closes his notepad. “Okay,” he says, then breathes out long and slow through his nostrils. “I’m going to have a chat with your friend. Or sister?”

“ADA is ADA. Am I free to go?”

“We have to contact your parents or legal guardians. And then we’ll decide if it’s safe to give you back to them.”

“It is not safe to give us back to them. I told you about the power drill.”

“Mm-hm. Well, if it’s not safe, we’ll take it from there. But don’t you worry. We’re going to make sure you’re taken care of. Okay?”

It is not okay, so I do not say “Okay.”

An hour passes. I am not allowed outside the room. They supply me with a coloring book and three crayons (Fern and Asparagus, which are both green, and Cashew, which is yellow). All the pictures are of smiling police officers helping children. They bring me a sandwich, which is also rather yellow. I am relieved when told that I do not have to pay for it.

I realize now that I have made a mistake. I thought it would be best to cooperate with the police. I did not want to be harmed by the law enforcement officer, and I thought they might protect us from uniMIND. But I was wrong. I showed bad judgment, and since learning often results from bad judgment, I have increased my cognitive development.

The social worker bursts through the door. He stands there with wide eyes. “You’re a robot!”

“Yes.”

“I mean, you’re a robot!”

“Yes!”

“A ROBOT!” he screams.

“YES!” I scream back, wishing to communicate with him in the way he prefers.

“I mean, you’re so . . . realistic.”

“Thank you. You are also realistic.”

“I . . . um, yes. Okay.” He spends some more time staring at me in silence while I color police officers Asparagus and Cashew.

“You’re a robot,” he says again.

“I told you this many times, but you did not believe me. Why do you believe me now?”

“Because I showed him my empty missile cavity,” ADA says, entering the room with the police officer who pulled us over on the highway. She opens and closes the cavity to demonstrate. “Why didn’t you demonstrate that you are a robot? You could have removed your eye for them.”

“I do not know how to remove my eye.”

“Oh, I will show you.” ADA comes at me, reaching for my eye.

“Nobody is removing any eyes,” the social worker shouts.