The Robot Whisperer

by Holly Schofield

Emilia heard the door bang as Kore entered her workshop. Dishes clattered on the side bench. “Be there in a minute, I just have to…” She let her voice fade. How could you fix a magnifying light when you needed to magnify it to see what you were doing? And her hands were trembling again. She set down the tiny screwdriver in frustration. She was too old for this. Too old for everything. And her calendar was blinking at her again.

“Come on, Mom, it’s getting cold.” More clattering. “Your tinkering can wait.”

“You know, there was a day when I was considered more than a tinkerer.” Emilia picked her way through the crowded stacks of old electronics gear to where Kore had laid out dinner, a lentil stew and a chicory latte, both freshly steaming from the collective’s communal kitchens.

“You’ve still got it, no worries.” Kore chuckled and gestured at the faded thank-you certificate on the wall. “All of the oldtimers still have a crush on you.” In the corner of the frame, bronzed by the late afternoon light, a small printed photo perched: Emilia on the day she’d arrived six decades ago. Mirrored sunglasses—retro even then—and short black hair with an ironic flip to the bangs. And her tight black clothing, so unsuited to the climate-changed heat of western British Columbia. The collective hadn’t wanted to let her in. She’d represented everything wrong with city life—gangs, drugs, high tech for the sake of high tech, not to mention faith in capitalism and perpetual growth—everything the newly formed collective had sworn to reject.

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