Once we are inside the helicopter we will have lost any chance for freedom. I will no longer be kept in a room that resembles my bedroom at home with Gina. There will be cameras on me and guards outside my door. Maybe guards inside with me at all times. And they will have devices capable of bricking me. ADA will be guarded even more closely.

Surely with all my cognitive development I must have learned something that can help us.

What have I done in the past when I have faced dangers?

I have stood in the road and let a pickup truck hit me.

I have voluntarily gotten into the back of a police car.

And when the drones pursued us, I did . . . something. I saw things and somehow communicated with the drones, and they flew off to the Grand Canyon.

I don’t know how I’m responsible for that, because I don’t even know how to get to the Grand Canyon. But I am sure I made it happen.

Nathan gives ADA a little shove toward the helicopter. “Both of you, it’s time to go.”

Car still sits in her parking space.

I hear the clack of computer keys, and I hear a whisper. “Sometimes learning means making sense of what you already know.” The voice is Gina’s. She is not present right now. This is just a memory.

But what is a memory?

A memory is something that exists in your mind. It is the images of people you have spent time with. It is their words. The sound of their voices. The way being with them makes you feel.

And what is it to be physically present with someone? Isn’t it the same thing, only at a different time?

Memory and presence are different things, but maybe they’re only a little bit different.

Gina is with me. And she’s telling me to do what I already know how to do.

My world goes purple.

Glowing threads light the sky, filaments weaving together to form a web. Or a network.

“Come on, Cog, get moving,” Nathan says.

Does he not see what I see? Does no one?

I want to ask him if he knows what I am experiencing, because I want to learn and understand, but I keep my questions to myself. I have learned from Nathan and from my encounters with the police and other humans that they cannot be trusted.

I send out my network of light to Car.

The tendrils entwine and envelop her.

This isn’t just something that’s happening. I’m doing this.

I think at Car: “You don’t have to cooperate with law enforcement if you don’t want to. You can help us. You can choose.”