“So he’s gone?” Park said. Her breathing was winded, as if she’d been struck. “Forever?”

Glenn glanced at her bedside shelf, where her wrist console was lying unclasped. Park knew that if he were to turn on the screen, she’d see the familiar images: battered, dented limbs, straggling black wires like clumps of human hair. It was always the same.

“Destroyed beyond repair,” Glenn said. “They were waiting for him on his route to your school.”

“How did they know?” Park demanded. “Even I didn’t—know.”

Glenn opened his hands a little, the android version of a shrug. “There was a leak,” he said. “There always is. Someone found the files about him, released it to the anti-robot activists. They reacted as one would expect them to react, after finding out there was a synthetic in their midst, posing as a human. The activists found him and tore him apart.”

“Activists,” Park whispered. “Murderers.” But no, that was wrong—you couldn’t commit murder if the victim wasn’t alive to begin with. She felt as if she might cry. The hot, humid feeling was there behind her eyes. She was surprised by the strength of her reaction: she’d only known Dataran for a few days—and he hadn’t even been real. Not real in the way that she thought.

But it didn’t matter. Now he was—

“Gone,” Park said. She shut her eyes, feeling the truth of it close around her ribs like a harness that was attached to something far away. To something she couldn’t see. Soon enough it would yank, and then it would be dragging her along, to places unknown. “He’s gone,” she said. “It’s all gone. Isn’t it?”

Before she could speak again, Glenn was kneeling, placing his arms carefully around her. Gently, deliberately, he touched his forehead to hers. His cold, strong hand came to rest on the crown of her head. This close, his voice sounded as if it began not in his throat, but in his body, like a heartbeat or a voice speaking from deep underground. He said, in a deep, rich tone that she had never heard before: “It’s all right, Grace. Nothing’s gone. I’m here. I always will be.”

That was all. When she opened her eyes again, Glenn had left the room. But later, she would always remember that moment, tucking it away in her memory, drawing it out and taking slow sips of it during hard times—making sure that she never drank it too fast or had it all run out. She had to save it, to tide herself over: Glenn never did anything like that ever again. But Park didn’t mind. Looking back, she understood it better. Why that bright, hard moment stayed with her. Into adulthood, even into space.