I’d convinced Jimmy to take a few college classes between his reno work, karate lessons at Club Brutus and video game nights. He’d been sure he would fail. His first term at Wayne State University he’d brought home a 4.1 GPA for a course load including Introduction to Electrical Engineering and Mechanical Engineering 101. Still, we were down to the last house on Markham, and I had no dependable employment to offer him. He was worried because he had become a homeowner. And as every middle- to upper-middle-class working stiff knows, money is how you keep a home running. I’d told Jimmy he didn’t need to worry. I’d be there for him.

“Boss,” he’d said, “I don’t mean no disrespect, but a grown man don’t want no charity. He wants his shot. He wants what he earns.”

Hard to argue with that.

“Okay, Mr. Snow,” Carlos said. “Check it out.”

“Check what out?”

“Ginger! Your personalized home assistant,” Jimmy said. “Go ahead! Ask her something.”

“Ginger,” I said reluctantly, “can you make a Guadalajara-style mole sauce?”

The pod on the mantel of my now-functional fireplace lit up. After a second, the pod said, “I’m afraid I can’t make a Guadalajara-style mole sauce. I did, however, find a number of recipes for mole sauce. Would you like to hear the top five? Or shall I print them for you?”

“Hey, Ginger,” I said, “who do you like more, Smokey Robinson or Marvin Gaye?”

“Both were award-winning musical artists signed with music impresario Berry Gordy’s Motown record label in—”

“Ginger,” Carlos interrupted, “what’s today’s temperature—in Celsius?” Carlos smiled and gave me a sideways glance. “That’s what we use in Canada.”

“Socialist,” I said with mock disgust.

“Today will have a high of seven degrees Celsius,” the pod said.

“She plays chess and Jeopardy!, too, Mr. Snow!” Jimmy said.

“Be still, my beating heart,” I said feeling fairly creeped out by the prospect of having more data points collected on me. “Guys, I’ll be honest with you—I’m not too keen on having some machine connected to an eighty-acre corporate server farm listening to my every whisper, fart and flying fornication.”

“I told you,” Carlos said to Jimmy.

“You can turn it off anytime!” Jimmy said.

“Then what’s the sense in having it in the first place?” I said.

“But you can order food for delivery, boss,” Jimmy said with a tinge of desperation. “You don’t have to go out or nothing!”

“When I get that hungry or lazy, shoot me. Ginger ain’t my kinda gal, guys.”

“Doggone it,” Jimmy said as he fished a five-dollar bill from a pocket and handed it to Carlos.

“Yep,” Carlos said, accepting the money. “Told you.”