“After he returned to his cage,” I said. “What happened to him?”

A smile spread across Emma’s face. “Whiskers lived happily ever after.”

“Really?”

Emma nodded. “After my rescue attempt, Mom took pity on Whiskers. She let me keep him. I had his cage right next to my bed. Made our whole room smell like mouse poop, but I didn’t care.”

“I hope someday you have what Whiskers had.”

“Mouse poop?”

I shook my head. “A happy ending.”

As we traveled, the mountains rose up in front of us. Bigger than I had ever seen them and getting closer with every step.

00111011

My brain is full of numbers. At all times, an ocean of digital figures swirls beneath the surface of my smooth metal skull. Right then, one particular piece of data took hold of my attention:

Battery Remaining

As the day stretched deeper into afternoon, I watched my battery creep lower/lower/lower.

It held steady for a dozen minutes at 52 percent. And then, just as I knew it would, the number dropped.

Down to 51 percent.

A bright warning beam flashed across my circuitry. I was nearly at 50 percent.

The halfway point.

The point of no return.

I started off each day at 100 percent. As long as I remained above 50 percent, I still had enough battery to turn around and make it back home.

But as soon as I hit the halfway point, there was no going back. Not all the way. I would have to find another charging dock. Somewhere that was not home.

We were headed south. Toward the hand-drawn dot on Emma’s map, still many kilometers away. Till then, without discussing it, my coworkers and I had reached a silent agreement. We would accompany Emma.

But how far?

If we remained with her for the entire journey, the human’s chances of survival grew much higher.

And ours fell much lower.

With every step I took, the sea of digital numbers churned inside my processors. But only one really mattered. And just then, it ticked down to 50 percent . . .

And I kept walking.

00111100

Whump-whump.

Vrmmmmm.

Skiff-skiff.

I listened to the sounds of our forward progress. Ceeron/SkD/Me. Our movements formed a familiar rhythm.

Steady/Predictable.

I tried to sync Emma’s footsteps with the noises we made, but it was impossible. There was no pattern. She would walk a few meters, and then—out of nowhere—lean down to examine a beetle on the ground. Or kick a pile of leaves. Or come to a stop, turn her gaze to the sky, and watch the clouds with a look on her face that I could not interpret.

Sometimes her stride was long. Sometimes it was short.

Her movements were human in that way.

Unsteady/Unpredictable.

Soon we arrived at the remains of an old farm. A crumbling barn tilted crookedly, like a sinking ship. I recognized an orchard, but time and neglect had caused the trees to grow wild and unruly.