Page 15 of The Delivery

“Remember how Alexa said it’s designed for our gratification?”

Mark’s features screw themselves up. “Do you think she has sex with it?”

“At least it’ll keep her off you at the next Christmas party.”

They laugh quietly.

Mark asks, “What do you think of it?”

“Him,” Rebecca says.

“Gendering him already?”

“He is named Mr. Man.”

“We should’ve named him Jeeves.”

Rebecca says, “Smithers.”

“Alfred.”

“Alfred?”

“Batman,” Mark clarifies, and Rebecca rolls her eyes. He is such a nerd sometimes.

“What do you think of him?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” Mark says. “It’s super weird. Obviously. Let’s see. Let’s see what happens.”

“He seems very polite. And Maddy likes him.”

“Yeah,” Mark says. “I just didn’t count on having another person-like thing in the house.”

“If it’s too weird, we can always return him.”

“We’re in charge,” Mark quotes archly.

“But it might be nice to have some help around the house. Someone we don’t have to worry about. Their feelings and needs, all that. Someone who’s just focused on our needs.”

“It’s like the opposite of a baby.” The minute the words leave Mark’s mouth, his eyes flare. “Oh, I’m sorry, Beccs. I didn’t mean it like that.”

But the comment doesn’t wound as it might have last month, last week, last night. “Maybe this is good,” she whispers. “Maybe this is what we need.”

Mark smiles, relieved. “Let’s get some sleep.”

But her heart is thundering, adrenaline still charging through her veins. Her mind fills with concerns, possibilities, opportunities.

She does not get any sleep.

Chapter 12

By the time Rebecca gets dressed, brushes her teeth, and steps into the hall the next morning, the washing machine is whirring and she can smell toast from the kitchen. Maddy is already seated, dressed for school, and her lunch box is on the counter, packed and ready to go. Sitting in the chair beside her, atop a stack of cookbooks, is Mr. Fox, who has a cloth napkin tied around his neck.

Mark is sitting also, hands curled around a cup of coffee, watching on high alert.

In the adjacent family room, the wall-mounted TV is on mute, tuned to CNBC, a perennial stock ticker running across the bottom of the screen. Odd because Mark rarely turns the TV on in the morning.

Rebecca follows Mark’s gaze to the strange entity in their kitchen. His movements are smooth, efficient, preterhuman. His forearms are perfectly even, toes and fingers slightly too proportional.