“Thaïs?” Mina says, her voice a distant warble. “I must have fallen asleep.”

Her panel glitches again, two flat lines appearing where her eyes should be. Rage sizzles into my fingertips, and I shake her hard. “What the fuck? What was that?” Her panel flickers, and I shove her again—

Saxim rushes me from behind, so much stronger than she looks, and I’m yelping and crumpling against her while she holds me with both arms so I don’t fall, and I can hear her heartbeat and feel her soft flesh through the thin fabric of her silk pajama shirt, which has the tiniest stars embroidered on it in near invisible white.

I push her off me. “What are you doing?”

“You’ll hurt her,” she whispers, with a look at Mina, dizzy Tweety bird knockoffs waltzing on her panel.

I jab a hand in her direction. “She’s a machine!”

“Tai,” Saxim pleads, heat rising in her cheeks.

Because we both know Mina’s more than that. She was my dad’s best friend. She was what filled the hole left by Mama’s disappearance, the hole left by our departure, the hole left by every missing scrap of human tenderness, love, and care. I feel like if I dip a toe into the overwhelming bleakness of that, I’ll be washed away forever. Even though what Dad got from Mina reminds me of what I get from my phone.

“It must be an old phone recording,” Saxim whispers. “She must be recording all the time.”

“But the—the call must be so old, if Dad sounds—” I stop, tears welling in my eyes. “Was that real, Mina? When … when was that?”

She remains motionless—watching me with her neutral kindness, while her panel reloads.

“Mina! Are you listening to me?”

“You said she’s been here eight years, right?” Saxim whispers. “So the call happened after your mom disappeared.”

I settle onto the floor, the prone Oscar glinting at me a few paces away.

“I promise to take care of your family,” Mina replies at last, booting up with impossible positivity, the only lady in this household who really seems immune to every abuse.

I leave an explosively grotesque voice mail on Noni’s phone and regret it immediately. But I can’t collect my thoughts, and there are some really bad ones in there, darting around my gloppy head like hungry, carnivorous fish.

“Why didn’t Dad tell us about this in his letter,” I speak into Saxim’s starry shoulder, quietly hyperventilating. “Did he feel unsafe? Did he feel like Nítuchí would hurt him if he shared it with anyone else? Did Nítuchí threaten him? Did—”