Brothers/Sisters

It’s my day to lie on the couch, with a couple of bruised ribs and a still-simmering neck. I stare at the ceiling, ice on my neck and a bottle of ibuprofen in my hand. I ended up taking the day off; when I called, Jo said she understood.

Ask is sitting in front of me in the spot on the floor that he’s evidently claimed. The day’s been rather listless; all I’ve really done is eat breakfast, mess around on the internet, and generally be lazy. Earlier, I texted Car a bit, but now she’s busy at Jo’s. She seemed worried and got a little mad at my trying to be funny with the whole We found Cherry Wine message (yes, Ask actually sent it), but I assured her that it wasn’t her fault. I also got chided by Dave for snarking at the paramedics when ambulance arrived, although the they did say that nothing was―is―broken. Bruised, but not broken. Which is good, since the nearest hospital is in Billings, and I wasn’t in the mood for another hour-long drive.

Dave’s outside on the back porch, knitting, I assume. Or updating his online store, where he sells most of the stuff he knits. Knitting hasn’t always been his life, but now that he’s retired, he can do whatever he wants. And that’s...well, knitting. He smokes, but only occasionally. Nothing like his brother.

As if reading my thoughts, Ask says, “Dave is making me a sweater.”

I grunt, not wanting to turn my head.

A few minutes pass and I hear that same clicking I heard when Ask threw his hand at me.

“What are you doing?”

The clicking continues, but it’s more erratic than yesterday.

I turn my head this time, grunting again with the pain, and see that Ask is, indeed, messing with the same hand he threw at me. There’s a silvery-black line where his wrist meets his palm.

“What’re you doing?” I say again.

“I lied.”

“What?”

“It wasn’t―it’s not supposed to do that. I’m not supposed to.”

Do I want to know what he’s talking about? Do I care? Somewhat surprisingly, I find that I kind of do. “What are you talking about?”

“They just let it do that.” He glances over his shoulder, at me. “I don’t know why I’m telling you. You hate me.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“You do.”

“Ask.” It’s the first time I’ve actually addressed him directly, using his name. “Why do you have to assume?”

“Because you’re just like them.”

I lean forward on my elbows, trying to think of a rebuttal. I don’t know who they are, but it can’t be anyone good. Feeling a surge of defensiveness, I open my mouth to say something―anything to change his opinion of me―when he continues.

“Uncle Dave isn’t, though. He’s better.”

It might be the meds or the pain or some dark streak in me, but my impulsive response was, “He’s not your uncle.” I regret it as soon as the words leave my mouth, and I don’t get a chance to apologize because Ask has leapt to his feet and stalked off. I hear the glass door that leads to the porch slide open and slam shut and I fall back against the pillow and ice, into sleep.


I wake around two with a pounding headache. My uncle is sits at edge of the couch, knitting, as usual. His gaze remains fixed on his project when he says, “Ask told me what you said.”

My tongue feels heavy at first, but I manage a reply: “I’m sorry.”

The needles clack against one another.

“What’s…” I take a breath. “What’s the deal with the kid, anyway?”

“What do you mean?” His voice is quiet, low, as it is when he’s serious or ponderous or both. Click, clack.

“I mean, when I drove him in, he told me...something kind of weird. He said he’s...” I try to remember the exact words. “‘Not even a person.’”

“I suppose we’ll have to work on self-confidence.” Putting the needles down for a moment, he looks at me with a thoughtful expression. “Much like you, when you first came to live with me. But...if it’s related to what I think he was talking about, then it was the truth.”

“Then I don’t think we’re talking about the same thing.”

He makes a hmm noise and goes back to knitting. Finally, after some time: “Did he say something about...how did they put it? ‘An artificial intelligence designed to mimic human thought and behavior’?”

“That’s...that’s exactly what he said.” Still skeptical, I stare at the ceiling, listening to the needles. If Dave senses this, he says nothing. “How long is he staying?”

“Indefinitely. I think a better question is, how long are you staying?”

“That’s cold.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

Deciding it’s time to stop staring at the ceiling, I sit up. “Seriously, what’s the deal with Ask? How are you involved in all this?”

“I may be retired, Garrett, but I still have friends at UM. And...associates.”

It’s a short explanation, but it makes some sense; whenever I ask him what he did at UM, he’ll just shrug and say, “Engineering,” before going back to whatever he’s doing.

“So? What does that mean?” I press.

“What you said to Ask was not only cruel, but, in a way, it was wrong.”

“What’s the difference?”

He laughs softly. “Wrong, as in ‘false.’”

“Oh. Wait...why?”

“Ask was a team effort, and for about ten years, I was part of that team.”

“So the whole thing was secret?”

“Eh.” He grunts and makes a vague gesture with one of the needles. “We met dead end after dead end and no one really cared. We’d made progress by the time I retired with Alan and Ada, but…” He shrugs, a characteristically Dave way of saying that the conversation’s over.

But I’m not done. “Alan? Ada?”

“It’s not important, Garrett.” Standing and stretching, he turns toward the porch door, needles in one hand and yarn in the other. About two steps from the door, he stops. “You’re very skeptical, Garrett. And curious. I think that would serve you well in certain fields.”

Ah, yes. Time for the daily you-should-be-a-scientist pep talks. I may be more confident, but I’m still just as lost as I was all those months ago. The door slams (unintentionally; it always slams) shut, and I don’t bother getting up to tell Dave that there’s a sizeable rope of blue yarn wedged between it and the wall.

I sit up, intending to go lounge around somewhere else―my room―when the door slides open and shut again. It has to be Ask; I can just barely hear the whisper of footsteps. Part of me wants to ignore him, but I end up turning to face him, my legs still stiff from pain.

“Dave says you have something to say to me.”

What I think: You’re right. That was cruel and petty and I don’t know where it came from. I’m sorry.

What I say, for some dumbass reason: “Oh, yeah?”

Ask stares at me. He’s trying to appear perturbed, I think, but the twisted expression on his face coupled with the stereotypical melodramatic hands-on-hips pose is so ridiculous that the pain and vexation leaves me for a moment and I try to choke back a snort of laughter. When I think I can safely talk without gasping, I say it: “Yeah, okay. That was shitty. Sorry.”

He lets his hands drop to his sides, at a loss for words, it seems; he probably didn’t expect me to give so easily. Neither of us moves at first, unsure what to do, until I collapse back on the couch and Ask sits in his spot on the floor, facing me this time.

“Dave says you don’t believe me.”

“Dave says a lot of things, apparently.” I can’t help but be mildly irked at my uncle treating me like a child. To be fair, though, I did act like one. Sort of.

“Do you?”

“About what?” But I have a pretty good idea what he’s talking about. “Okay. Say I did believe you. What’s the point?”

“Point?”

“Someone like you?” A gesture of a truce, I reach over and ruffle his sandy hair, getting batted away in response. “Must’ve been expensive.”

“I guess.”

“That’s it?”

“What am I supposed to say?” The door opens again, but we both ignore it. “You want me to point out that there are people who study the sex lives of worms?”

There’s a bark of laughter and we finally notice Dave. A drooling Spartacus dashes in after him, her nails clicking against the floor. She drops the corpse of a stuffed toy and circles the couch.

“Sounds...thrilling.” He chucks a ball of yarn into the basket next to the TV and crosses to the kitchen. Ask and I make eye contact. I shrug. We’re co-conspirators now. The pain ebbs; it’s probably psychosomatic, but I don’t care. I don’t even remember why I was angry, or if I ever was.

“Well,” Ask says, “did that answer your question?”

“Not really.” I call to the kitchen, “We were just talking about...uh, pragmatism in scientific research.”

“Then, by all means.” Dave starts to butter a sandwich. Or...he mayonnaises a sandwich, if mayonnaise can be used as a verb. “Oh, hey, Garrett?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you come here and help me with this? It’s...shot day, anyway.”

“Shot day?” Ask looks from me to Dave. “Can I help? Or watch?”

“No,” Dave replies. “Spartacus wants to go out again.” As if on queue, the dog does a quick lap around the couch. I can tell Ask doesn’t believe the other, but he obliges.

I roll onto the floor and stretch before standing. Dave motions me closer with a hand and doesn’t talk until I’m right next to him. Thrusting a jar of (already opened) mayonnaise into my hands, he says, “Here. Pretend to help me.”

“What’s going on?”

He starts to reply, then jerks his chin up and makes a sweeping, go away gesture with his arm. At the door, I see Ask’s face flattened against the glass, eyes wide. Grudgingly, he detaches himself from the glass and chases after Spartacus.

“I’m not cleaning that,” I say.

“Garrett.”

My attention shifts back to Dave. “Are you okay?”

“How many people saw you yesterday?”

“A lot, I’d guess...wait. When?”

“When you went to Broadway.”

“To Jo’s? When you were sleeping?”

“Yes.”

“I really don’t know. There was Jo―she was working. And...some tourists?”

“Did you notice anyone watching you?”

“No? Why would I―?”

“Just tell me.”

“I don’t think so. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He seems to relax, if barely. “Oh! Shots! Can I eat my sandwich first, though?”