A Programmatic Approach to Perfect Happiness
By Tim Pratt
My step-daughter Wynter, who is regrettably prejudiced against robots and those who love us, comes floating through the door in a metaphorical cloud of glitter instead of her customary figurative cloud of gloom. She enters the kitchen, rises up on the toes of her black spike-heeled boots, wraps her leather-braceleted arms around my neck, and places a kiss on my cheek, leaving behind a smear of black lipstick on my artificial skin and a whiff of white make-up in my artificial nose.
“Hi Kirby,” she says, voice all bubbles and light, when normally she would never deign to utter my personal designation.
“Is Moms around? Haven’t talked to her in a million.”
I know right away that Wynter has been infected.