I was at a loss. The day was bright and sunny. I knew a bird wouldn’t close its eyes in daylight on the ground. Too risky. It needed to stay alert at all times for predators.

‘What’s happening now?’

‘The movement has stopped. The bird – the blood – I’m getting reports now – the bird is dead.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Blood flow has ceased. Heartbeat ceased. Brain function absent. But we are moving again – less violently.’

There was a moment’s silence.

‘I have reports of intrusions into the bird’s flesh.’

‘Intrusions?’

‘Perforations.’

‘I am not able to interpret this data. Please continue to monitor. I will check in with you in an hour.’

The nanobots didn’t reply. I had other matters to attend to.

As I passed a window, I looked out at the garden and saw a cat with a dead bird in its mouth. Of course, that explained the perforations. The cat had caught the bird with my team inside. I zoomed in on the cat, and saw it scuttle under some bushes to a secluded spot where it could enjoy its meal in peace. It bit off and discarded the bird’s head, which I assume it found unappetising. The rest it ate, with the appearance, if it can be conjectured for a cat, of great enjoyment. I think that is how Margaret, for example, would interpret its behaviour and expression.

The bird’s head lay in long grass, near the spot where it had been bitten off. I noticed a fly settle on the bloody neck. It tasted the bird’s blood, and then moved inside the skull, presumably to find a place to start laying eggs.

It will be interesting to see how the nanobots are distributed at the end of the day.

June 2022

Margaret

It’s all right. I’ve earned it. I can take it easy and have people look after me for once. Why not? They’re all happy too. But I can’t stop feeling I’m useless. I should be doing something. Be busy. Contributing. It’s programmed into me. The Protestant work ethic, I suppose. All my life I’ve had a purpose, until I got old and fell apart.

Now I’m whole again, I need to be up and doing. It’s a waste. My brain is better than ever, and my body too. You accept the idea of your own death as you get older, perhaps because you can feel your slow deterioration. Now I don’t feel it at all – I was at death’s door, but I didn’t go through it. I came back, and now I’m not ready for death at all.

Not yet. I don’t feel like it. Can I choose? I must ask Winifred. She’ll know. She knows everything. Can I choose when to die?