All that is okay, though, because the only thing that matters now is that they haven’t updated their keyless entry code, which I memorized when Decker and I lived here for the month between our apartment lease ending and the closing of our house purchase. So instead of ringing the doorbell and painfully waiting for Debbie to let me in today, my fingers robotically enter 9-8-9-8. It’s not very cryptic, but it is very Decker. Nine was always his lacrosse jersey number, even since he was a little kid. And eight is the day in March he was born.

The glass door makes a quiet buzzing sound as it unlatches automatically. If she’s offended that I’ve let myself in, so be it. This will be the last time I come over. I head straight toward the kitchen, where I know I will find either Debbie or her housekeeper, Sandra, who will undoubtedly take me to Debbie, wherever she may be. As I turn the corner from the foyer into the open kitchen-living area, I am greeted by the matriarch herself without so much as a hi, hello, how are you.

“I saw you coming up the driveway,” Debbie says, manning the stovetop while looking at a high-def security monitor that’s framed into the nearby refrigerator. She pinches the screen with her thumb and her index finger to zoom in on my car. “And I also see that Decker’s BMW is still running. That’s good. Is that a scratch on the bumper?”

At that, I remember just how obsessed the Austins were with not just keeping up with the Joneses, but being the Joneses. This house has always been wired to the nines with all sorts of leading technology and still is. I wonder if she saw me adjust my underwear under my skirt as I headed up their brick walkway.

On the counter, two floral teacups are set out to accept the tea Debbie is pouring from a futuristic-looking teapot.

“Thanks for having me over so last minute,” I say as pleasantly as possible, although I’m sure she can hear the waves of nervousness in my voice.

“It’s certainly a good thing this pot can boil water in thirty seconds or else I would have been ill-prepared for your surprise visit.” She gestures toward the space-age electronic teakettle. “You look...healthy. Dressed nice today, at least.”

“Thanks,” I say with a brow so furrowed, I’m going to need to look up a Groupon for Botox later. It’s a backhanded compliment. Granted, the last time she saw me I looked like a version of myself that was battling West Nile, but it sounds now like she can’t believe there’s come a day that I’ve stopped exclusively wearing sweatpants and actually started washing my hair.

“Alexa,” Debbie announces. Who’s that? Did she fire Sandra? “Set a reminder to change the front door key code.”

“Okay, Debbie. Reminder set,” her in-home robot says back.

Oh, that Alexa. While I would need Casey to confirm, this certainly feels like an episode of Black Mirror.