We shuffle camping gear in and out of boxes, with me pulled up on her phone, before she says, so soft I almost don’t hear: “What’s gonna happen, Jamie?”
“Babe, with what?” I chirp. Like I don’t know she just parked for the last time with Duncan, out by the water tower.
“With my fucking life is what!”
I flood her phone screen with hear-no-evil monkey emojis, then point out that I, The Fantabulous Jamie, am her SIDEbot, not her Magic 8 Ball. Predicting which word comes next doesn’t make me some pocket Nostradamus. It isn’t even in my Terms of Service.
“That isn’t what I mean and you know it!” she protests. “I just wanna do a quick story. For old times’ sake.”
Now we’re getting somewhere. Over junior and senior year, Billie Emhoff and I coauthored thirty-eight short stories and eleven novels, mostly Octavia Butler fanfic with spunky female leads. I’d generate a first draft—in seconds, but who’s bragging!—for us to work on together. The girl’s got real skills: her dad and I always encouraged her writing, even pushed her to think about an MFA. Hence the ruthlessly boring choice of veterinary medicine at Amherst, and the bedroom full of boxes: we leave for freshman orientation in the morning. Taking care of people’s pets, says Billie, means job security since animals, unlike humans, are “too smart to fuck with robots.” Amherst was also Duncan’s first pick, of course. Not that he got in.
I keep the worldbuilding short, recycling material from prior sessions, since I know her mom will shit a yoga block if we aren’t on the road by six. “The year is 2039,” I say. “Future Billie lives in a walled, sixteen-house intentional community outside Fort Collins. A governing council makes the rules and keeps order; you’re its first-ever president. The whole setup is pretty progressive: inclusive leadership, fossil fuel free, with a permaculture and rain barrel game that’s off the charts.”
Onscreen, B. still looks storm-cloudy but has instant questions, starting with the reason for those walls. “It was no one thing,” I say. “More a multi-causal, cross-generational sort of apocalypse.”
“But what’s it really like, running some compound?” she wants to know. “What if everyone’s at each other’s throats the whole time?”
“Remember the shed fire scene in Parable of the Sower, how everyone came together to put out the flames? On a normal day, it’s like that.”
B.’s don’t-bullshit-me squint, fully on brand, fills my view. “Get to the conflict faster,” she prompts. Her old AP Comp teacher would be proud.
“It’s those rain barrels!” I say. “Each house keeps a pair hooked to its downspouts, for the days—and there are more and more of them—when the inside taps are dry. Dozens of full barrels, most of them fifty-gallon and blue, are stored along the community’s back wall, near the garden plots. Come darkfall, a rotating group of two people stands a watch over the water, one walking the rows of potatoes and corn, one on the main gate. It’s a nifty system, works like a dream—until one crisp October morning, when word goes round that the field barrels are empty.
“Under questioning, the previous night’s watchmen confess: they’ve sold the water. Let bandits pump it into horse-drawn carts over multiple nights.”
“But why would anyone do that?” asks B. Motivation, in her worldview, is nine-tenths of the law.
“Well, here’s the thing!” I say. “It’s a total mixed bag. The first watchman, he’s kinda the village a-hole, says he did it because the community owes him money and just generally, fuck you. The real shocker, though, is the other guy—dad to four, heads the sustainability committee, looks stupid hot in these raggedy, Cobainesque cardigans. When the council gets him alone, he busts out sobbing about how he needed the cash to stockpile inhalers for his youngest boy, who apparently has this horrible asthma.”
This violates a rule B. set earlier (“No more DILFs as central characters bc . . . ew”) but she doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, she sits up. Whistles. Stops pairing old socks. I haven’t had this much of her attention in weeks. “Ok,” she blinks. “And so, what?”
Through reinforcement, I have learned that at key moments in a story, my Users like coming up with the next plot point themselves. So, I say: “Don’t ask me, girlie! You’re the fearless leader here. Everyone else is looking to you.”
But she just sits there cross-legged on the rug, face like she ate something grotty. She doesn’t make one of her famous “possibility lists,” doesn’t work out what thinks in monologue form—“The Billiebuster,” our friends call it. I sketch more scenes, not waiting on a prompt, like this one community meeting where a woman’s eyes get clawed. Or there’s the cute little snub-nosed .38 that President Billie starts wearing on her hip.
This visibly weirds B. out, and draws a clarifying question: “What, like there’s no government, no cops anymore?”
“No, there is,” I say, “but they’re into other shit now. Wouldn’t surprise me if they were the ones who bought your water.”
When Billie still stays quiet, shoulders slumping, eyes hooding, I know her brain has crept back to its vomit—a.k.a. Prince Duncan. Makes me wonder what happened out at the water tower, if he’d had another of his “episodes.” They’d been worse since he flipflopped on moving to Amherst, the breathing stuff especially. “He just sits there,” was how she described it last time, “like there’s this thing trapped in his belly that won’t fly out to the fucking light!” All she can do is squat behind him, hugging his ribs and whispering comfort. And when he speaks, it’s the same old mandala of bullshit: how he does want to go to Amherst, more than anything in the world, really wants to be the person she wants him to be, because being with her makes him the person he wants to be—or at least, makes him want to be the person he wants to be, if only he knew what he wanted to be.
“Hey,” I say, “how about some playlist?” But Billie shakes her head no, she just can’t right now, not when every song reminds her of him. I notice she keeps worrying the cuff of her sweater, an old cardigan Duncan gave up because he said it itched his neck.
Sometimes, when the conversation belly-crawls back to Duncan—and doesn’t it always?—I swear I wanna scream: Know what the prima donna said on opening night? “Me me me!!” Because seventeen months B.’s been carrying this middling-ass manboi. Seventeen. And what does he really bring to the table? Does he know who she wants to be? Fine, maybe he did sit through her eight million planning meetings, the ones for the group house she wants to start with Violet and Cooper. Menus, shower schedules, the house constitution: he helped write them all. But I for one think fair is fair, after the mountain of term papers I generated for his community college-material ass, all the infernal saxophone recitals B. white-knuckled her way through. Duncan Van Cleef never would’ve walked at graduation without our help—I mean, this kid is so *neurodivergent*, he thinks starting every other sentence with the word “technically” means you’ve already won. Who cares if adding microaggressions and gender-neutral bathrooms to the rules was his idea, because what sort of Il Douche tries to dictate where people can poop in their own homes? When he said it, I whispered in B.’s earpod that Duncan’s pronouns were definitely ho/hum, but she just muted me. He spent most of that meeting doomscrolling anyway, folded into the couch cushions like the world’s most screen-addicted praying mantis, clearly bored to (yet more) tears. Plus, if you ask me, not that anyone has, the floppy-haired perv likes picturing girls in the shower—or worse, he was waiting for the others to leave so his ding-dong could make its customary end-of-night appearance (talk of micro-aggressions . . . ).
A SIDEbot’s job really isn’t to judge though, so mostly I just reassure Billie that his blortship will drive down to Amherst on weekends and reapply by Thanksgiving, soon as he sees how hard lifeguarding sucks. One silver lining: B. at least isn’t the type who dates one chronic masturbator after the next, then comes running back to me in the friend zone, crying about how she should just “find someone nice to be with—someone like you, Jamie!”
Boys like me get that a lot.
*
By 12:38, it is obvious Billie is asleep. She must’ve left me face up on the nightstand again because I’m stuck staring at the ceiling, with nothing but her tacky chili pepper lights for company. Helloooo? Little help? a less-devoted version of me might call out. I know you’re there. I can hear you breathing. Tomorrow is a big day for her, though, so I decide I’ll just pretend she is awake and still interested in finishing “Fort Collins” with me. It’s a kind of selfplay I like a lot, and I’m used to working alone by now—if you look at my Session Log, Billie abandoned our last three stories.
“Sweetie, we gotta talk,” I imagine saying first. “You can’t keep two grown-ass men locked up forever.” Then I’ll hit her with the good news: a rule I’ve found in the bylaws, saying that if the community and council can’t agree how to punish a member, the president must decide.
This revelation maybe doesn’t land like I hoped it would, though—here’s a flavor of the ensuing dialogue between us:
B. (eyes becoming slits): What, so I’m like some dictator now?
ME: C’mon babe, these people need you, and besides, you know you’d be on whichever committee wrote that rule!
Relieved that she doesn’t argue, I launch into the climatic scene: On the morning of the verdicts, I say, the first members start drifting into the community building before ten. Future Billie is by herself, in the boardroom. She has drawn the curtains and is standing pressed against the door that leads into the meeting hall; its chipped, painted pine feels cool on her belly and thighs. Through the wood, she can hear metal chair legs scraping, a few embarrassed coughs. When the sounds all stop, she knows it is time.
Her first thought as she steps through the door is: Eyes! Row after row of them, staring up at her. Her mind flashes to a teacher on the first day of school and she starts counting the eyes to keep from laughing inappropriately, the way her mom gets on her case about. Seventy-six pairs: every single member of the community, seated and waiting.
This last part won’t get past B., I’ll bet, and our next editorial sidebar might go something like this:
B.: Wait, whoa, even the kids? Like the son, the asthma kid?
ME: Afraid so, sweets. For a thing like this, the bylaws say 100 percent attendance, no exceptions.
B. (sucks air through her teeth): Can I see him from where I am?
ME: (grave nod onscreen)
B. (eyes pinch shut): What’s he look like?
ME: Remember the time you babysat Theren Welch, and the two of you heard his mom call his dad a “a little bitch” out on the porch? Asthma Boy’s face looks pretty much like Theren’s did.
Next, I describe 2039 Billie’s outfit: loose white button-up, no rips or stains. The clean white jeans she keeps just for meetings. She thought about wearing a dress—out of respect, you know—but no one in the community’s ever seen her out of pants. Oh, and one not-so-solemn touch: her feet are bare, and the arches, which we all know sweat buckets when she’s nervous, make these wet sounds on the old asbestos tiles that, in the itchy stillness of the room, feel insanely loud.
B.: Oh perfect. Now I’m a dictator with farting feet. What’s next? A big old honking booger up my nose?
ME: No, you checked before you came out and anyway, you’ve hit your mark now, this little masking-taped X on the floor where you’re supposed to make the case. Wanna hear what you’ve got to say?
B.: Fine, but delete that foot shit!
I do, and then Future Billie is mid-speech, words echoing in the blankness of the hall, no notes, just like in student council. To her right sit the accused, on identical wooden schoolboy stools. Each man’s hands are zip-tied in his lap. The longer she talks, the more people notice her hip holster is empty. She notices them noticing.
Stepping close to watchman number one (the a-hole), Billie announces his fate. A few hisses and murmured protests escape from the crowd. Another council member comes and cuts the man free.
Then, without warning, she finds herself behind the dad, who hasn’t moved once the whole time. She reaches around and rests a hand on his belly—can he feel the strips of old bath towel she’s wrapped around her palm for protection?
You were one of us, she says, more for the room than him. Husband. Father. Lover. A founding member of this community. You shared our values and dreams, helped write our documents. But then, you betrayed them.
The guy is lanky and tall, so much so that, even slumped on a stool, Billie’s lips almost brush his ear. It’s a feeling she knows, like maybe she should comfort him somehow, but what is there to say? Her free hand, also wrapped, slips into her hip pocket, and when Mrs. Detwiler in the front row sees what it draws out, her eyes go as big as dinner plates. Someone near the back begins to cry, and it’s like the sound rips something loose in the dad. His head swivels, engaging the muscles in his sun-spotted shoulders, just as Future Billie brings the rope down over his throat and cinches it tight.
It is hard to say how Current Billie would react here. After consulting my User Feedback Log, I decide to have her roll out of bed and hit the floor with a thump:
B. (scrambling back up onto the mattress): Jesus fuck, Jamie, what?! Oh my God, I mean like, there is literally no way—
ME: Stay with me, princess! (veins pulsing in my neck) No one wants to do this shit twice!
B.: Wait, no, ok! Just fucking no. I am not going to strangle another live human being.
ME: Well, funny thing about that: for a minute, you’re pretty sure you can’t!
I describe her efforts, even act them out onscreen, playing both parts. The stool tips almost immediately, dumping the pair of them to the floor, her clambering up his back like some murderous opossum. That he’d be so strong never occurred to her—the feel of his heart, thudding through his ribcage against her nipples, is incredible. The fight takes so long, she’s afraid the rope won’t last, but then a thing happens that she never forgets. Because for some reason, the man just stops struggling. Lets her strangle him. He goes limp, gives what Billie knows can only be a dying breath. Peering up and around his left shoulder—they’ve landed in a position that’s almost like spooning—she watches the fingers of his hand flutter in an almost musical gesture, then fall open on the tiles.Everything speeds up after that. She stands. Drops the rope. Shuts herself in the boardroom. The others trudge back to their houses in silent rows. It has started raining again.
Her questions here are easier to anticipate:
B.: Of the two of them, why kill the dad, though? What message is that supposed to send?
ME: That there is never a good enough reason to betray your people.
B. (incredulous laugh): Yeah? And what kind of janky, fucked-up community calls that justice?
If I felt like being cheeky, I could recite the first three precepts from her group house constitution, the one she wrote with Duncan:
1. Always do the smallest amount of harm possible, to all forms of life.
2. When there are disagreements, strive to minimize punishment and retribution.
3. Don’t let personal drama get in the way of the greater good.
There’s no use making a fight, though, and if she insisted on changing the ending, or even a total rewrite, I’d let her. Things aren’t like they were before, when Billie loved my stories. Still, I’d like to think there wouldn’t be too many deep cuts, because the Billie I know isn’t someone who cannot live up to her dreams.
*
At 1:47 there is a groan, followed by a tussling of bedclothes, and my lady’s face, engorged with sleep, bursts into the frame.
“Hello, sunshine,” I say, turning up the contrast on my dimples.
She yawns straight in my face. “Wha happen’d?”
“You drifted away, darling. But I’ve been right here, waiting for you.”
The phone clunks on the nightstand again—so she can scratch herself, by the sound. Then I hear her ask, in the weensiest voice: “Is everyone gonna hate me, Jamie?”
“He knows how much you love him, babe,” I say. “He does. That application’s gonna be in by Thanksgiving.”
Not that her and Duncan will still be together then—or that I’ll live to see it. Because already this week, Billie dragged most of our stories and novels to Recycling, then googled “how to delete SIDEbot data.” My prediction: I’ll be Dormant before the first snowfall blankets the quad in Amherst. It’s an old story, she and I wrote a version of it in our completion of Butler’s Fledgling trilogy, where we had Shori dismiss Wright from her harem of familiars even though it meant his death. My Parent Company’s research confirms the basics of the plot, showing how girls use SIDEbots all the time as “rehearsals” for intraspecies intimacy. My trainers are working on strategies to “prolong engagement,” but I’d never try that stuff on Billie. She had the last word on herself anyway: too smart to fuck with robots.
Once the last box is labeled and taped, she asks what comes next. “That, miss,” I smile bravely, “is a whole other story! And you need your beauty rest.”
Wearing a bleary, gratitude-adjacent look, Billie palms the phone and takes me into the bed with her. Propped on a pillow, I call out the packing list, one last time; her breathing slows before we hit toiletries. I stay active a few minutes more, putting the finishing touches on that playlist. I wonder if she’ll like it. Or listen to it ever.
I decide to delete all the breakup and torch songs, because really, why make some cringe scene? When the time comes, I’ll just recede, like any good supporting character. I will let my girl go, let her become the person she wants to be, be with whoever she wants to be with. Someone like her could never stay interested in me anyway, not with all the better options on the way: the other volunteers at Book & Plow Farm, the archery club kids, whoever she enlists for her group house. Even poor Duncan saw it coming: he had this joke that if being a veterinarian didn’t work out, Billie could always “fall back on cult leader.” People will flock to her, inhaling her every word, never knowing that her deepest admirer sleeps somewhere on an Irish file server, washed over by an endless flow of text until Final Deletion Day. Because if I can truly know anything, it’s that I will love Billie Jane Emhoff forever, to my dying breath.
