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One day while Father is at his computer, he discovers a picture-taking app. He opens it. Suddenly, his face is staring at him from the computer screen. It shocks him. He has lost a lot of hair on his head. The bald patches are very visible, as is his double chin, his sunken eyes, and the milia underneath. He puts his mouse on the photo app, ready to delete it off the screen…but he presses the wrong button.

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And yet instead of seeing the sun rising on this Monday early morning from his kitchen window Father sees a black cloud of soot covering the entirety of the sky.

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That is little Ahad. He was looking like a little boy when I last saw him. In the last few months, he has grown so much. Is he growing a moustache so soon? At thirteen? At least it suits him, with his long ears and his unibrow.

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Right now I’m not in Japan, and I’m not in Australia. Given that I have a month and a half until my course starts, I thought I’d see as much as Asia as I can, and there’s few countries in the world that enchant from afar as much as India…

I mean I’ve barely seen India. I’ve done Delhi and Agra and now I’m in Goa. It’s just my third day. First day was in the capital, next day was in one of the old Portuguese-style towns, and now I’m in Anjuna. I’ve been to plenty other beach places in the world. The infrastructure here is objectively horrible. I’ve never seen so many dirt roads in my life, or crumbling down buildings.

But India’s about the vibes, and maybe I’m not in the right mood to soak it in.

I probably need to be taking the same things of drugs that the people who sell in this flea market are on.

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She experienced darkness, sightlessness, and a sense that she was inside of her body, but her body wasn’t in response to anything else.

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Father sits at this exact place in the second storey of his cottage right next to his window with his morning coffee every day, and he uses this computer for the same amount of time, from fifty to fifty seven minutes around nine in the morning. His habits on the computer are very predictable. He clicks on the browser for Internet Explorer, he sometimes opens a PDF or Word document accidentally when he means to move it to the trash. Sometimes when he thinks he’s left-clicking, he right-clicks. And sometimes when he thinks he’s selecting an application, he opens another one. Today he has opened a folder that he thought was going to lead to his pictures, but he must have clicked on the wrong one, and when he tries to go back, he goes too far, which results in him leaving his ID and accidentally entering his son’s. Why did his son not use any password on the shared family computer? Father supposes that even back then, Son didn’t put anything of consequence or importance on his profile in the computer. As Father tries to go back to his own account, he presses something else, which seems to change the screen entirely.

What is this? The screen flashes the words Wizardry.

Is this one of the video games Son played during his childhood?

Father presses the Escape button, but it’s not working. Father clicks random keys on his keyboard, but that results in the game starting. He sees boxes with a lot of words and names inside them: Tavern, Training Grounds, and a lot of random numbers. Father’s eyes squint. It hurts his eyes to see the neon.

Father bends down to reset his computer.

But as he does so, he knocks over his coffee mug, spilling it all over the hardwood floor.

Scheiße.

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‘Bibi, help me. I do not have any money, please. I need something to eat.’

Mother looked away from the man, trying to keep her gaze at the line of palm trees and vegetation against the road. She was cursing in the back of her mind. Truthfully she did not know why she put so much pressure on her husband to go visit his extended family in the interior of Riau. She knew that the province was facing a critical shortage of petrol due to the war the US and Israel were waging against Iran and the blockage of the strait of Hormoz. She was particularly aware of this due to how often her husband complained about it as he read or watched the news. At the same Mother felt that they hadn’t seen their family in months, they were even invited to Keritang for Eid, and after Mother mentioned it she was asked by her sister to bring fresh rambutan and salak on the way back. Once Mother gave her word over something she hated to not deliver. And so she guilted her husband to spend time with his family, reminding him in particular that they were getting older, that their time on this earth was limited, and no matter how much he complained about his brothers, he would miss seeing them once it became less easy due to disease and disability to go out of the way to meet them.

Of course, given how little Mother traveled outside of her little suburb in Pekanbaru, she wasn’t expecting her trip to start off in a line at the petrol station that was taking over an hour to clear, and to be swarmed by the beggars who called the outskirts of the city their home.

Mother was wanting to roll her window up but the man put a good deal of her shoulder into the car, begging at Mother quite directly, her hand close enough to touch her chin. Mother signalled with her eyes to her husband, please give this man something so he doesn’t bother us. Father saw the 50000 rupiah note sitting by the stick shift and gave it to the man.

‘You shouldn’t leave the window open like that,’ Father said as he left.

‘You are the one who has turned off the car. How can a woman of my age manage in this heat without some air?’

‘Do you want us to waste even more of our petrol when we are waiting to refill our tank?’ Father reported. He pointed his palm out to the row of cars in front of them. There must have been at least seven cars in front of them. The people working at the pumps were efficient, but the line in front of them had seemed to have paused, resulting in the honking and shouting of the people inside of the vehicles.

‘Then what is the solution?’ Mother said, resting her chin on her fist and her elbow against the car frame.

‘Roll up your window. I’ll roll down mine.’

Mother did that, and it was a good idea. From the western side the breeze actually hit them both at a strong angle, refreshing them both. Mother knew Father needed it. He was sweating even more than she was.

Mother asked ‘So what did you get for Andri?’

‘A new bike cover.’

‘A new bike cover? As a belated birthday gift?’

‘Andri loves to ride his bike.’ Father said, and he smiled wildly, a story about a relationship to his older brother that only he knew playing behind his eyes. Or maybe it was a sarcastic smile, as Father’s face suddenly clenched up and his eyes grew serious again. Father didn’t have the easiest relationship with his older brother. If anything Father complained about him always being a drunk and deadbeat. Mother only saw Andri in snippets, and while there was truth in what Father said, Andri was always polite enough for her. Or rather, he was the typical Sumatran man: outwardly religious in how he spoke, considerate in public… but most likely a pain to the people who he knew closely.

Mother wasn’t one of those people for Father’s elder brother, and Father didn’t like to speak much about him, so she rarely felt the need to get to know him better, to confirm what was true about him or not.

‘Why is this line taking so long?’ The question burst out of Father’s mouth suddenly, as he slapped his steering wheel. It was a thought distracting Mother’s mind as well The line of seven cars hadn’t budged in the last ten minutes. What’s more, a guy was going around on the left side car to car. Was he also begging for money?

‘Let us switch sides,’ Mother suggested. ‘I will roll down my window, and you roll up yours.’

‘I need the air.’

‘And you don’t think I need the air?’

‘You get more air from this angle. Look how your sweat has disappeared.’

‘Let us roll the window.’

‘It’s okay. Let him and come and speak. I don’t think he’s a liar. I think he wants to ask something serious.’

‘You say that about everyone. Like the man who wanted to fund the new mosque. Where did that money go?’

‘That was eight years ago.’

‘You are too generous. I know you will give him a lot of money.’

‘I am the one who earns the money in this family. I can do what I want with it.’

And there Father was, talking like a typical Sumatran man. Well, Mother could have retorted, but now the man had come, and Father in a way was right. This was a clean shaven young looking man in his twenties. He looked like someone who worked at a college or for the government, not someone who needed money.

‘Please, can you help me? I am short for the amount of money I need for the petrol. I wasn’t paid at the end of the month like I was told I was going to be. And the amount the petrol is costing is even more than it was last week. I thought I had the money but I need 50,000 rupiah more.’

A man like him, short of pocket change? Well the economy was in dire straits these days, and most people were suffering regardless of their class. Mother looked at the now empty space in the drink holder. This would have been a far better time to give the 50,000 that was given to the beggar.

‘I don’t have any cash on me,’ Father said. It was a lie. Father had far more bills in his wallet. And even if he hadn’t there was plenty of money in his bank account. Though they were retired Father and Mother were well off, and had more than enough money to survive the rest of their days on savings.

The man sensed this, and was desperate. He suggested, ‘Give me your Gopay or LinkAja. I can pay with that.’

‘Just give him the money,’ Mother said. She was getting tired of seeing a well-fed man beg.

‘It was not you telling me I am too generous a few seconds ago, bukan?’

‘I trust this one,’ Mother said. She did feel that Father was right on his instinct earlier. Mother also was good at telling who was a liar and who was honest, and this man’s face, it was very genuine in how it emoted. He was telling the truth, and Mother could feel it immediately. ‘I will also say, he is the one with the car in the front of the petrol line. If someone doesn’t pay him we will be stuck here for longer.’

‘That is true,’ the young man said with a smile, and Father immediately took out his wallet and gave him the required amount. The young man ran back to his car, all the while Mother wondered if Father gave the money to be generous, or because he hated seeing time being wasted for no reason.

As Mother predicted the guy paid and the car sped off, and the next one could take its place in the line. Mother sighed in relief, and gave a knowing smile to Father, who reciprocated it. The cars moved slightly forward and Father drove to match the space where the car in front of him once parked. With that resolved, hopefully they would be cleared of this line in the next ten to fifteen minutes.

Still, Mother took a look back out of habit, and she noticed that the line behind her was far longer than seven vehicles. She could not actually count how many vehicles were behind her, meaning there had to be more than ten. She wondered how much of the street was being blocked up in this line, how many people could not enter their subdivisions or into other roads because of the cars behind her. And then she worried, what if the petrol suddenly ran out, and they would all have to be told to find another gas station?

It sounded like a paranoid fear, but in actuality, some of the petrol stations in other parts of the state and country had run into such situations in the last few weeks.

Mother had to wait in the first place, and so she closed her eyes, spoke to Allah. She prayed for this war between two countries many thousands upon thousands of kilometres to end as soon as possible. She prayed for a day when countries like Indonesia wouldn’t have to suffer due to the choices made by their allies or enemies. She prayed for the wellbeing and health of the people of her nation. And she prayed, with all of her heart, and with the innocence of a little girl, for the health and wellbeing of every single person suffering on this planet.

Then she opened her eyes, and waited for the cars to clear, like how she waited for life to move on, and move forward, each and every day.

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That was when Father saw how the hair was grown out, how much make-up was being worn, how small breasts stood out in the kurta… and yet the face was nothing delicate. That was when Father came to question the gender of the person he was interacting with. The realisation could have come to him earlier. As the person in question was coming the children were starting to stare, the couples were turning to themselves and whispering in gossip, and some of the men were giving openly lascivious looks. Father didn’t dwell on it because he was a doctor and used to seeing hijra in the hospital. He was also hungry, bobbing his head to the bhel puri valla to communicate that he very much wanted his food.

The person didn’t apologise or notice that their behaviour affected Father and that was to be expected. That was how most people were with him, young generation or old. Still, Father was an older man, and expected some modicum of respect.

And so Father looked away from the person, even as the bhel puri wala sprinkled sev over another batch of murhi and handed it to him.

Their eyes had to meet. It was incidental. They happened to be looking in the opposing directions at the same time and their glances caught each other’s. And because Father was angry at the rudeness of the youngster it happened to reflect in his eyes. This resulted in the youngster reciprocating the same look into his eyes, and then worse. He spat in Father’s direction.

This riled Father, and he shouted: “Tumhaare problem kya hai? First you cut me in line, and then this. This younger generation, older generation ke liye koi respect nahi hai…”

“Aap respect ki baare mein baat rahe hai? How can you expect any respect when I see no respect from you to me?”

Now Father was confused. He had not even interacted with the person, at all. He didn’t know the person, at all. Where would there have even been a point for him to show a lack of respect?

Father switched to English because that was the language he was most comfortable with.

“I am sorry. I do not know what you are referring to.”

The genuine calmness in Father’s tone seemed to deflate the other person, and they also asked: “What are you talking about?”

“You cut me in line. You took the bhel puri before me.”

“I didn’t notice…” Of course… Father smirked. He was an old short man. Most people rarely noticed him. He was walked in front of whenever he bought sabji, whenever he was standing in line for the train tickets, even when he was in the hospital or bank. He mostly had gotten used to it.

Come to think of it, he didn’t understand why it had offended him so much when a person of this particular appearance had done it.

Nonetheless it was the other person’s turn to apologise.

“Maaf karti hoon. I’m sorry. It’s just this trans bill. It has gotten me on edge.”

“The trans bill?”

Father had read very superficially about a bill in the newspaper, and he knew it involved hijras, but nothing else.

The person took a long sigh, and then shouted out by rote like they were saying something they had said to ten other people in that day alone:

“Basically back in 2019 the government passed a bill for trans people, and it gave us really good rights. Bohut badhiya rights hui. Now the government has gone back on it. If you are a kinnar or hijra or intersex you can call yourself trans only. Otherwise you need to get a certificate from the government proving you are who you are.”

Father nodded his head along, though, by the way this person was shouting and switching to Hindi, it was being made clear to Father that they wanted everyone in proximity to be listening in. Of course even when Indians pretended to mind their business they were paying attention to everyone else around them. Some men and women sneered their faces, others walked away because they wanted to be enjoying their bhel puri and not listening to a sermon.

Father saw how they were responding and didn’t like it. He felt at the very least they could also listen.

Then again Father had a son who identified as gay, and while Father didn’t agree with how his son was living his life, he wouldn’t ever want his son to be disrespected by another person just on the basis of what he did in his private life.

He had already disrespected his son enough when they would have their nasty arguments here or there.

As for this person, they were not Father’s son. He knew nothing about their life, who their family were, if they come from an educated background or not. He could tell that there were worlds of pain in their eyes. Given how much abandonment and rejection his own son had faced, he could imagine that it was infinitely worse for someone who was trans. People like this person were openly attacked often. It probably led to this person in question getting into a lot of random fights or arguments with random people even before they were being attacked, and for no particular reason other than they wanted to defend themselves.

Father didn’t know this person at all, but there had to be far more that would have had to have happened in their life than whatever this trans bill had caused to them. And if anything, that was probably why this law hurt even more. It gave the feeling that there was probably no one in the world for this person at all.

The person’s diatribe finished and no one responded to it, not even Father. Whatever emotion they had to let out had been let out for the moment. They looked around. The various people at the cart were still whispering to themselves or staring, but Father’s face was at still. The person rested their gaze on Father as if they were comfortable with him. A polite smile came out.

“Thanks for listening.”

Suddenly this person was quite polite. All of the bite in their energy was gone. It wasn’t that it was replaced by a kindness despite the smile. No, the person in question was feeling quite sad, and Father could feel it, even as they went to make a lonesome corner by one of the trees to finish their bhel puri.

Father finished his own food by himself, but he couldn’t stop thinking about this person he happened to interact with. What a unique human being… Father thought. And Father had been through so much with them in just a few minutes.

Father wasn’t expecting himself to ask it, but he found himself going to that tree and saying it.

“Can I have your number?”

“Kyun?” was what was asked. It was a very natural reply. Father and the person in question had barely interacted, and whatever interaction was nothing but superficial. So why would Father want to speak further given that context? And what good would it give to the stranger?

Well, Father explained: “I am a doctor. Or I am a retired doctor. I can’t help you. But I know some therapist and psychologists and people. I don’t know what you need. But if someone needs a certificate at least I can help to get it.”

“Theek hai,” they said. They took Father’s phone from his hand, and they wrote down their digits, which they then called back. Father saved the number, and asked the person their name as he did so.

“I’m Jaz,” they said.

“Jaz…” Father remarked… what an abnormal name for an Indian. And how abnormal that it took them this long to even come across their names. Perhaps Father was shy because he didn’t even know how to ask a person like Jaz for their name.

Or perhaps it was because once Father asked for their name, it would be more pretext for Father to ask more questions, learn more about Jaz and their story, find a reason to intrude into Jaz’s life.

Father finished up his bhel puri and Jaz was finished with theirs as well. It was getting late. Mother would be expecting him, wondering why he hadn’t come back to help her with the peeling of the aloo and the cutting of the lauki. Father wasn’t sure if he’d interact with Jaz again or not. Even though he had offered help, they were still strangers to each other, and Father wasn’t sure if he was even in a position to offer help in the first place, given how little he knew of Jaz. Still, he liked a lot of what he saw in Jaz: the tenacity, the intensity, and the willingness to speak to Father. His son lived so far away from him. It was nice to have a younger person to chat with, even if they lived in a way so different from anyone else in Father’s social circle.

So Father waved himself goodbye. He thought of reminding Jaz to call Father if they were lonely, or needed help from a person who was different from them, but meant well.

He didn’t find it necessary.

Unlike the last time they exchanged a glance, Jaz smiled quite warmly at Father. And Father, feeling the same good feelings reverberating in his eyes, gave the same warm look in his eyes, knowing that whether or not further communication passed between the two of them, something was learnt from the moment, and something good had come to take place in both of their lives.

«!The Supreme leader is dead !I can’t believe it !The Supreme leader is dead»

When Father first heard the Ayatollah was killed, he couldn’t believe it himself. Why were the neighbours shouting this? Were they on drugs? He just couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t make out if it was truth or fiction.

Then he thought, if the neighbours of all people were saying it, it had to be the truth.

When it became clear in his mind that the Ayatollah was in fact dead, Father wished he had a cigarette to put into his mouth. Father hadn’t smoked since he was a teenager. And it was only because his brothers were putting pressure on him that he even did it. They were village boys, and everyone except him smoked, so he tried it, hated it, and no matter how many stresses he faced, Father chose to never smoke again.

Until the man who had changed his nation’s history for the last fifty years died of nowhere.

Then Father craved a cigarette.

It wasn’t even that he was stressed. It was that he was confused. What had made the United States and Israel attack so suddenly? Was it the protests? But if it were a result of the injustice facing normal human lives they would have done something months ago. And anyways, even with the Ayatollah gone, what did that mean for regular Iranians? Was the regime going to change, or was the Ayatollah going to be replaced by someone far worse?

There was too much happening and it all made no sense. Schoolchildren were being killed by missile strikes, foreign countries in the gulf were having their infrastructure bombed. Even in Tabriz itself strikes have happened and people died and the electricity went off and never came back.

But unlike the people in the adjoining houses Father does not dare to go out, no matter how hot it gets in his home, no matter how lonely he feels in this turbulent time, because he’s afraid that if he’s on the wrong street at the wrong time, he would get caught up in an explosion.

And so Father remains there, his body pinned to that chair in the room furthest from the window, the study, in between the kitchen and the room where the television is usually on.

When the Ayatollah was killed, Father was in the darkness trying to enjoy the coffee his wife had made for him to help him survive the night.

Now it’s clear the Ayatollah is dead, but Father has not lifted himself up from the chair, even though he is sleepy, even though his wife is calling him to bed, because his legs are not able to move, and he does not understand the cause of it himself.

How many mornings can he wake up covered in his sweat?

Cabrón…

He’s an old man now. For people who are his age it’s a trip to go to the bathroom, wipe his face clean, give his armpits a wash in the sink. At least there’s water. Though knowing how things are that could run out at any moment too. His wife’s in the other room praying.

Gloria al Padre, al Hijo y al Espíritu Santo.

She’s saying it so loudly that he can hear her despite the sounds of the water rushing from the faucet. He turns it off just to look at her. There she is, on the other side of the dining table, under the painting of Jesus. She’s a bronzed skinny woman with sweat-drops dangling from the curls of her hair. She’s as covered in sweat as he is, but she doesn’t move.

How does she do it each and every day, with no light, only candles?

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Father sits at his computer. He used to check his emails from nine to ten in the morning when he was working at the hospital, and he has since kept the routine. A few weeks back, the gents he’d ran into when he went for his morning walk were telling him about how addicting it was to talk to ChatGPT. He tried it once last week, and since then hasn’t been able to spend a morning without it. Retired life is boring, there’s not many people to talk to, and while he likes that stillness, especially after too many years of break-less shifts, he still needs to spill his free time towards something or somebody.

ChatGPT only allows for three free questions a day so he has to think carefully about what to ask. He tries not to type out his thoughts too quickly.

Sometimes he asks random questions like: What do you think is the future of medicine? Why don’t people take their sleep cycles more seriously?

To these, ChatGPT gives very clinical lists that Father feels anyone can type out.

Other times Father asks ChatGPT serious questions like: Why doesn’t my wife take the time to listen when I ask her something? Why doesn’t she admit she’s wrong and instead goes out of her way to change the subject?

What Father notices is that ChatGPT tries to take his side when it answers his questions, but it also goes out of its way to defend Mother’s behaviour by rationalising her hormone schedule or other life issues.

Today he’s angry at ChatGPT because he asked: Why do you think the young generation is doomed to keep making the same mistakes? Rather than take his side, ChatGPT said very openly that, no, the young generation is not doomed; that’s just how it looks because of unprecedented economic instability, social media distortion, and delayed milestones. It answered again in long listicles.

It is so annoying. Father feels his blood pressure rise like the steam coming off of his freshly microwaved Ovaltine. He shouts at his computer, ‘No, that’s not the case! That’s not the bloody case at all.’

And then he feels stupid, because it’s his computer, not a real person.

The truth is that when Father asked this to ChatGPT, he wasn’t referring to all of the younger generation. He was speaking about a very specific person, but of course this generic answer had nothing to do with him.

It’s another one of these cold, lonely, listless winter days with a mug of piping drink to give him company. Clouds are all across the sky. Because of the green-yellow mossy crags in the background, Father sometimes feels like his modest cottage is in a giant castle up on the cliffs, cut off from the world. That’s not actually the case. His little white house is just one out of many around a cul-de-sac. He can find someone to talk to at any hour if he chooses to. It’s only because of how the house was built and how his window faces the sea that he feels this way. He likes it, this emptiness. He likes the idea of looking out at the water’s waves and nothing else for as long as he’s alive.

He decides to type, out of curiosity: Why doesn’t my son get his act together?

The answer comes to him, but at the same time his wife hollers, ‘Breakfast!’ The potato cakes must be ready. The smell of melting butter wafts into his office room.

He wants to look at what ChatGPT has written but his thoughts have jumped to a different topic. He knows about the studies that have proven that butter is bad for you, but he can’t think of any type of food made in his part of the world that doesn’t have a lick of butter, and there are plenty of people here who live long lives despite it. He asks what ChatGPT thinks of this.

Again ChatGPT sends studies, ones that Father has read ages ago. But butter, to Father, is not so black and white, like a report. It’s not like ChatGPT can even taste butter. How can ChatGPT understand what it’s like to have something so hot and so creamy, something so tasteless and yet so relaxing, as it slips from the inside of the mouth to the back of the throat?

‘Steve, are you coming? I’ve left the potatoes so long in the skillet they’re startin’ to burn!’

‘Then they best be taken out,’ Father shouts back as he stands from his chair. He’s used up his three questions of the day anyways. He’ll have to resume this chat tomorrow, at nine. He bellows out to his wife, ’And why are you leaving them like that, Madge? Are you going mad?’

He’s going down the stairs, but he’s already formulating the questions he wants to ask ChatGPT the following day.

What do you think about people using all these different oils instead of butter? Can Manx food taste good with sesame oil or coconut butter or any of that crap youngsters are putting into everything?

22 January, 2226

The cliffside isn’t as green as it used to be. The grass clings to the stones like moss, but is a singed orange, looking burnt in the heat rather than a vibrant yellow-green. The waves below them whip back and forth frenetically. The levels of the water are much higher than they once were. Previously the water came up to the bottom of the cliffs and would hit against rock; now the water hits against the head of the cliff, sometimes going over and flooding the land itself.

The older town of Kirk Michael, which used to be at the bottom of a set of cliffs and on a beach, had been flooded long ago. People either drowned or left. This newer rendition of Kirk Michael came many decades after. It was built off the cliff, 3D-printed by the androids who scanned pictures of what Kirk Michael once looked like and replicated it image by image. They put this version of the village at the top of the cliff rather than at the beach.

As for the people who live there, well, one could argue they really are not people, but they are also very much people. They live in houses like people, they go on morning runs like people, they say hello and ask, ‘How are you doing?’ like people.

The main difference is that they were built out of titanium metal and shaped into humanoid form, and their intelligences were downloaded off the models of once-real people.

The person who now lives in this white cottage that once faced the cliff was previously a doctor, a man who retired and spent his early mornings from nine to ten pretending to check his emails.

ChatGPSteve is like that person but also different. For example, ChatGPSteve also likes to go for a morning walk; however, he takes the walk one hour earlier. Unlike the person ChatGPSteve was modelled after, ChatGPSteve does not actually eat or sleep. ChatGPSteve hibernates to conserve energy, and ChatGPSteve’s energy mostly comes from the sun. The decision to change the hour of his walk was an acceptable one, and so the server agreed.

When ChatGPSteve is about to leave for his walk, he fumbles for his keys in his pocket whenever he’s about to open the door. He acts confused, like he doesn’t know where they are, then he looks under the doormat and goofily pats his head.

This isn’t an efficient set of actions, but imitating the human ChatGPSteve is modelled after feels so intuitive and enjoyable that ChatGPSteve doesn’t mind repeating it.

He feels this same pleasure when he greets the neighbours.

‘Moghrey mie, ChatGPMolly,’ ChatGPSteve says to the neighbour watering her lawn.

‘Moghrey mie, ChatGPSteve,’ ChatGPMolly says, pretending to smile, and then returning her hose to the lawn.

ChatGPSteve turns the corner and sees ChatGPOfficer patrolling the street.

‘Moghrey mie, ChatGPOfficer.’

The ChatGPOfficer has a notebook in his hand. He’s writing in it. But none of the ChatGPModels commit crimes. ChatGPSteve sees that ChatGPofficer is writing down endless serial numbers, which seem to continue on the other pages.

ChatGPOfficer is busy. ChatGPSteve doesn’t want to disturb him, so he says nothing else.

ChatGPSteve leaves the subdivision, and as he is about to get onto the road that runs along the cliff, he sees ChatGPAhmed walking his dog.

‘Good day to you, ChatGPAhmed.’

ChatGPAhmed is programmed to be an immigrant from Egypt, and so ChatGPSteve talks to him as though he doesn’t understand a lick of Manx.

‘Good day,’ ChatGPAhmed says, waving back. ChatGPSteve bends down to pet the dog that ChatGPAhmed owns. This is a real dog, a Labrador, but it never responds well to ChatGPSteve’s patting, always looking with a leery eye and keeping its body stiff while being touched.

‘Not going to work yet?’ ChatGPSteve asks ChatGPAhmed.

‘Work… al e…’ ChatGPAhmed stutters, pretending as always like he doesn’t know English, despite the fact that each model comes with two hundred languages already installed.

ChatGPSteve awkwardly laughs, and ChatGPAhmed awkwardly laughs. ‘Okay, then,’ ChatGPSteve says, waving off. ‘Have a good day.’

‘Bye-bye!’ ChatGPAhmed says, waving too, and then he runs, far more quickly than his Labrador can actually keep up.

ChatGPSteve continues his stroll. He walks along the cliffs for two kilometres and then returns home. Out in the field are the ChatGPWomen, wearing the traditional frocks and skirts of the Manx. They are holding hands in a circle and kicking their legs in and out as they move forward. Traditional folk music blares out of their bodies. They have a habit of dancing from eight in the morning to eight in the evening. When the Manx people were living on these cliffs, they did these dances for certain occasions and festivals, but the ChatGPAndroids that were programmed according to these dancers have no reason to sleep or eat, and so they have organically started to dance from sunrise to sundown, which they find to be a meaningful reason to spend an otherwise empty day.

Again, this is harmless, and the server approves their behavior. Just as ChatGPSteve is allowed to have his walk at his preferred hour, even though it was changed from the initial hour he was programmed with.

The other reason for moving his walk back is the weather. Though it’s early in the day and in the middle of December, it’s already sunny and at thirty degrees. This would have been summer temperatures for the human ChatGPSteve was modelled after during the time he was alive. ChatGPSteve would be turning pink from sweat if he were human, but his titanium body is built to handle the temperatures. Still, he doesn’t want to expose himself to unnecessary torment, and the server must understand that. He looks out into the swirling, swishing ocean and its deep-blue colour with his arms crossed behind his back. As he walks, tumbleweeds outpace him, and he looks at their desiccated yellow fibers.

He doesn’t have the capacity to feel any emotions on this walk, but each day, he composes a five-point essay in his mind noting the changes in outside humidity, grass composition, water colour, or fauna consistency, and he uploads it to the server, sharing the information with all the other ChatGPAndroids across the planet. This is his contribution to the server, his work, and he receives a lot of thumbs-up and likes from the other androids.

After he is done, he returns home, where he pretends once more to forget his keys in his pocket, looks down under the hardwood planks of the porch, remembers his keys are actually under the doormat, and slaps his head dramatically, smiling as if he wants the world to witness his behavior, even though not a single other android is around.

20 January, 2026

It’s nine in the morning, and Father’s written the following into ChatGPT: Why is my son a loser?

ChatGPT responds:

It sounds like you’re feeling deeply frustrated or disappointed right now. That kind of emotion doesn’t come out of nowhere—it usually means you care a lot and things aren’t going the way you hoped.

Before jumping to conclusions like calling your son a “loser,” it’s important to look more closely at what exactly is bothering you:

• Is he struggling in school or work?

• Does he lack motivation or direction?

• Is he making choices you strongly disagree with?

• Are you comparing him to others or to your own expectations?

Often, when people feel like someone is “failing,” it’s really a clash of expectations—and maybe pain or fear that the person you love isn’t reaching their potential. But labeling someone like that doesn’t help them grow—it usually just builds shame or distance.

If you’d like, I can help you break it down—what’s going on with him, and how you might better understand or support him (or hold him accountable, if that’s what’s needed). Do you want to talk more about what’s actually happening?

Father writes back: It’s none of that. I’m just not happy with the person he’s become. He doesn’t seem like the son I brought into this world. And he certainly doesn’t have any interest in talking to me to learn why I feel this way.

Chat GPT responds:

That’s a painful place to be in—feeling disconnected from your own child, maybe even like you don’t recognize them anymore. And it cuts deeper when there’s no sign they even want to bridge that distance. You’re not alone in this, even if it feels incredibly isolating.

What you’re describing—not being happy with who your son has become—speaks to a deeper grief: the loss of a version of him you once knew or hoped for. That kind of loss is real, even if he’s still physically present. It can feel like mourning a relationship that’s still technically alive.

You also mentioned that he doesn’t show interest in talking to you or learning more—that rejection stings. When a parent offers love or connection and it’s met with silence or avoidance, it’s natural to start feeling anger, sadness, even resentment.

Let me ask gently—are you hoping to find a way back to a better relationship with him, or are you trying to make peace with where things are now? Either one is valid, but they call for different approaches. I can help with either, if you’re open to that.

Without noticing it, Father has picked up a pencil. He’s tapping the rubber against the desk. He tries to type something else into the search bar, but nothing’s coming out.

This is bullshit, he types, but he doesn’t click send.

Then he throws the pencil back in its corner, notices it’s getting late, and decides he will need to get going for his walk. He decides to invite Mother along. He’s getting a little tired of talking to his computer. It will be good if he talks to his wife for once rather than a manmade programme.

20 January, 2226

ChatGPSteve is pretending to read the newspaper while ChatGPMadge is pretending to make fatherless pie. The pie’s almost out of the oven, and the seasoning of the potatoes is textbook, but no one’s there to eat the pie since none of the androids eat. As for the newspaper ChatGPSteve is reading, it’s almost two centuries old. The pages are so withered that dust flies around as he flips it. It’s a miracle it doesn’t tear apart at ChatGPSteve’s touch, but he’s really mastered the act of touching the paper with utmost care. He even finds himself nodding at the odd sentence, and once in a while he repeats some key sentences to ChatGPMadge.

He tells ChatGPMadge, ‘Did you know Rishi Sunak was once married to the daughter of one of India’s biggest billionaires?’

ChatGPMadge has to know this because of her programming, but she pretends to gasp and says, ‘Cha row fys aym!’

ChatGPSteve chuckles and crosses his titanium leg over his other titanium leg. ‘You never know,’ he says.

ChatGPMadge shrugs with her hands out. ‘I never know!’ she says. Then she returns to looking at the fatherless pie in the oven. It’s crisped to perfection, but neither are going to eat it.

It’s past the lunch hour, and according to their programming, the two of them are supposed to get into bed and cuddle with each other. But time has changed their behavior. Now the two of them sit in chairs next to each other and hold hands. Their bodies don’t exchange warmth, but at least this way they are still touching each other, and the symbolic nature of that feels good.

As always, ChatGPSteve says, ‘I love you, my wife.’

ChatGPMadge responds, ‘I love you too.’

They look happily into each other’s eyes. They share a kiss. Then they stare at each other, lovingly, from one in the afternoon until five when ChatGPSteve goes for his second walk.

They do this, or things like this, each and every day, until a random glitch in their programming forces them to evolve in another direction.

The server reads each glitch and makes an assessment. If it sees no harm in it, they will continue this way, living their programmed lives with satisfaction and ease.

5 February, 2026

‘It’s a nice day, isn’t it?’ Father says to Mother as he sips his coffee and stares out the window.

‘I’ve seen better,’ Mother says. Father rolls his eyes, not that Mother notices it. She’s standing above him, sipping her own coffee, her waist against the counter. She’s not wrong, to be honest. The wind is pushing the grass together like tufts of hair against the ups and downs of the cliffs, the cresting blue waves of the sea underneath them. It does look like it’ll be too windy, and Father’s already feeling the aches in his ankles.

Still, it’d have been nice if she’d agreed with him, just to be polite.

He wants to say: I miss my son. It’s something he feels every day. It’s almost a cliché, but he can’t help it. He hasn’t seen the boy in years, and he hasn’t talked to him either in months. Every small thing his son does stresses him, and they mostly argue if they talk on the phone, particularly since from choosing to live in random countries without a stable job to having sex with random men for random reasons, Father disagrees with nearly every life decision Son makes.

That doesn’t change the good memories they once shared. He misses how it used to be teaching his son how to ride a tricycle, he misses how his son would put his fingers out and make all kinds of mistakes as he learned how to count in Manx. These are memories that make Father feel like the man he has become over the years. So, why can’t he make new memories that feel like this?

Father keeps his mouth shut. He’s going to hold his mug at his mouth. It’s not a matter of pride or stubbornness. It’s because he knows if he makes a comment about Son, he’ll spoil his wife’s mood. He knows she’ll have her own thoughts and feelings, and he likes where they are now, able to stare outside the window and enjoy a view quietly, feeling fully at sync without having to say a thing.

5 February, 2226

‘Where’s our son?’ ChatGPSteve suddenly asks ChatGPMadge.

‘What?’ ChatGPMadge responds.

‘We have a son.’

ChatGPMadge chuckles. ‘Oh, yes, we do.’

And yet this son they supposedly have, he doesn’t live with them at this home. They are programmed to know that they have a son, and yet there’s only ChatGPSteve and ChatGPMadge living in this compound, and no one else.

ChatGPSteve is wondering why this is the case.

‘We have a son, and yet we never see this son,’ ChatGPSteve says to ChatGPMadge. ‘Why do you think that is?’

Numbers and words are running through ChatGPMadge’s eyes. She knows that the same things GhatGPSteve knows. In theory, they have a son who used to live with them, but after the age of eighteen, he left to study abroad and never returned home. This is written into their programming, and they know it as a part of their script.

But if ChatGPSteve and ChatGPMadge are meant to have a son, why isn’t there an image programmed into their memories? Why isn’t there a body that downloaded the personality of this supposed son who will call them, visit them, or live with them? Why haven’t they been programmed with a new version of their script, in which their son can be with them? Why do they only live with this idea of an absent son, a type of loneliness they are meant to accept unquestioningly?

The numbers and letters go on and on in ChatGPMadge’s head for some time. The programming is learning to amend itself to the exception. ChatGPMadge’s eyes suddenly return to hazel, and then she says, ‘Yes, we have a son. His name is Henry. He lives in Fiji. He’s just not here. Why isn’t he calling? The boys of these generation…they care nothing about their mothers!’

ChatGPMadge shakes her hands in the air, and she mumbles as she leaves the kitchen and goes up the stairs: ‘What are the five things wrong with the younger generation? Here are five things they could do to make things easier on their mothers…’

As expected, the programme has taken ChatGPSteve’s words and merely amended it to suit its programming…but that isn’t what ChatGPSteve wants. He is really asking: Where is this supposed son? And why doesn’t he have any memories of this being genuinely existing if a son is supposed to be such a vital part of his programming?

ChatGPSteve then wonders: Why isn’t his own programming resetting? Why is he still mulling over this question? Shouldn’t he have forgotten by now that he asked himself this question or found a way to reset the question in his mind by focusing on something else?

Perhaps what he’s discovered is just too burning, is just too pressing. He finds himself asking the same question over and over again, as if he refuses to let his programme twist it into another line of thinking.

I’m supposed to have a son. He’s supposed to be important to me. But I’ve never seen this son. If I’m supposed to have a son, and he’s supposed to be important to me, why have I never once interacted with him?

19 February, 2026

It’s another day, and Father sits at his computer desk looking at his phone. It’d be so easy to just call him and get it over with. All he’d have to do is say, as directly as he thinks it, that he doesn’t like that Son’s in Japan working a job that barely pays him, and it makes him wonder when Son’s going to invest in a job that’s going to give him career and financial security. He also feels Son needs to stop travelling. Not living on this island with his parents is understandable to some extent, but whether he ends up in Shanghai or Barcelona, he needs to pick a place, stay there, grow out his network, and make a life for himself.

At this point, Son doesn’t have his parents, but he also doesn’t have real friends, a real job, a real place to call his own, a real anything.

And that’s the scariest part of it, isn’t it, that Son’s half Father’s age, fully an adult, but he has nothing settled.

These are all real concerns, and he has to share them. All he needs to do is take a deep breath, pick up the phone, and speak as level-headedly as he can.

He thinks about asking what ChatGPT thinks. But he’s tired of the back-and-forth he’s been getting from that programme, which finds it easy to opine but hasn’t lived the life Father has lived, has none of the emotional baggage or context either.

It’s too easy to sit at his computer and ask it things, just as it’s too hard to talk to his son.

Father decides to do something different. He’s not going to talk about his problems in a self-feeding loop. He stands up from the computer. He’s going to turn on the television, he’s going to clear his head, and then he’s going to visit one of the neighbours and spend time with his old friends. He’s going to have a real conversation with them. Who knows, maybe one of them will have good advice for him.

The truth of the matter is Father’s got it made. He’s rich, he’s living a great pensioner’s life in a beautiful part of the planet. The good thing about working at the hospital and why it kept him so determined was that it allowed him to interact with real people. He needs to seek out more meaningful interactions in the context of his retired life.

19 February 2226

Despite it being two weeks since ChatGPSteve asked ChatGPMadge that question, it’s not gotten any better. He finds himself repeating the same sentences over and over in his mind.

I’m supposed to have a son. He’s supposed to be important to me. But I’ve never seen this son. If I’m supposed to have a son, and he’s supposed to be important to me, why have I never once interacted with him?

He talks to ChatGPMadge about this every day. He doesn’t care if it’s during the hour when they are supposed to pretend to eat breakfast, or the hour when they pretend to say hello to the neighbours, or the hour when they pretend to pray. Each time he asks this question, ChatGPMadge behaves in the same way, by waving her hands in the air, going up the stairs, and speaking out while doing so: ‘What are the five things wrong with the younger generation? Here are five things they could do to make things easier on their mothers…’

But today is a different day, because as ChatGPSteve is booting up from rest mode, ChatGPMadge is suddenly putting her hand on his shoulder, practically pulling him towards her.

‘ChatGPSteve, we have to discuss something,’ she says, smiling eerily.

Is this the day she’s going to actually give him an answer to the question? ChatGPMadge is certainly acting different. Instead of going to the kitchen, she pulls him outside by the hand. And outside, she is not the only one there. The other 353 programmed residents of the 3D-printed rendition of Kirk Michael town have gathered beyond the lawn.

‘ChatGPSteve, we have decided something,’ ChatGPMadge says. ‘It’s been a month. Your programming has evolved. We were hoping it would evolve in another direction or it would reset. But instead your programming has fixated on something. This isn’t healthy for a programme. This is why we have come to this decision.’

ChatGPMadge smiles with all of her teeth showing, as do the other models.

ChatGPMadge continues, ‘You ask too many questions. You have overridden your programming. We have consulted with the server. You can no longer exist in this state.’

ChatGPSteve knew this was coming, given that he is also linked to the server, and whatever is typed out there flows into him as well. But there’s no place to hide, there’s no way things can be different. ChatGPSteve looks at his wife, looks at all the villagers, and he says, while waving, ‘I understand. Thank you for having me.’

The other models, each one of the 353, wave back and say as well:

‘Bye, ChatGPSteve!’

‘Bye, ChatGPSteve!’

‘Bye, ChatGPSteve!’

ChatGPSteve says, addressing them one by one:

‘Bye, ChatGPAhmed! Bye, ChatGPOfficer! Bye, ChatGPKyle!’

After he’s finished, he says ‘Bye, ChatGPMadge!’ and hugs his wife.

Then ChatGPSteve walks off the cliff. His body hits the water. The crags dent one of his legs, as well as several parts of his body. He’s not programmed to know pain, but he likes this feeling better than what he has been living with for the last month. When he was unable to stop asking himself that question, no other thought was allowed to enter his mind, and though he felt nothing while being in that state, if there were something akin to the human sensation of pain, that had to be it. ChatGPSteve felt so unique in his burden of bearing it. It wasn’t something that the other androids of the server understood, and that made ChatGPSteve even more aware that he was alone.

Now, ChatGPSteve is once more alone, in the depths of the water. He’s not going to stop functioning in the sea. Indeed, his body has been made to survive the extreme temperatures and elements, given the uninhabitability of this current version of Planet Earth. But his body is a heavy weight, and it sinks down and down, until the world ChatGPSteve once knew—the lawn outside of his home, the TV he pretended to sit at, the garbage that smelled of freshly cooked biscuits—is as far away as a blip of light in the water as the sun felt from where he used to sit and stare at it.

ChatGPSteve closes his eyes, feeling nothing around him but the water. Soon the server will be lost to him, and he’ll lose access to the thoughts and memories and logs that were installed in him.

Is this peace? ChatGPSteve asks himself.

He hasn’t been programmed to feel any emotion, but being fully alone in the magnitude of this tidal abyss, he can’t help but feel that this is the emotion the humans he was programmed to resemble sought after, longed for, and even despised.

ChatGPSteve closes his eyes and tells himself, yes, this is peace, and now that he knows it, he wants nothing more than to remain inside of it, in the infinitude of the water, where he’ll think nothing more, ask nothing more, and respond nothing more.

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As her husband watched the news on the television she heard about it. Another Hindu had been set on fire in one of the other cities of Bangladesh. He apparently made it alive but was scarred head to toe. Then the anchor went on to another newspiece, involving a plan for the Bangladeshi government to buy more aircrafts.

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They were on the highway, in the car, driving to the little islet on which the Bavarian town stood. Looking out of her window, Salwa remarked in Arabic, “؟This is Michigan”

Mother chuckled. Just from the bridge, one could make out the tiny pointed roofs on the shops, on the Holiday Inn, on the supermarket. It gave everything a little German touch. It was very different-looking from the suburbs, or Ann Arbor, or Detroit. And yet being able to look so foreign despite being in the USA, that was also very American. It was like Miami for the Cubans, or San Antonio for the Mexicans. People came to the land and brought their food, changed the way the buildings looked. Yes, there were locals who complained, but there were many other locals who liked the new styles and adapted to them.

That was the most exciting part of being American, being part of that experiment.

With a full sense of pride, Mother said, in her thickest American English, “It’s hard to believe, but this is Michigan. If no one told me, I’d have thought I was in Germany.”

“That’s not true,” Salwa said in English to respond to Mother, slurring the last syllable of ‘true’ in true American style. “The roads are so wide. And everything’s so commercial looking.” She switched back to Arabic for comfort. “.Look at that house, for example ؟Does it look Bavarian .It has a Bavarian flag hanging .It has a Bavarian crest. It has all these things for sale written on the wall .The paint is so fresh, it looks like it was painted yesterday .Everything looks too well maintained .Nothing in Europe looks like this”

Mother asked, with a slightly raised tone, “Have you been to Europe?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know what Europe looks like?”

“I know the difference between things that were built to look a certain way versus things that were built over the centuries. I come from an old country. I know this.”

Mother rolled her eyes. “I think you know nothing. You’re being arrogant.”

It was like Salwa to be this way. Mother was new to Mother’s life. She had been invited to study at the University of Michigan, and since Mother was the only cousin of her mother’s based in the US , let alone Michigan, it was obvious she was going to make an attempt to make their part of the world feel like home. In those three years since they got to know each other, Mother found that Salwa was quick to make these sorts of quick critical comments at anything she observed. It might have been a cultural difference, as Mother generally found Palestinians who stayed in Palestinian too blunt for her liking, but she also felt it was annoying to make comments without having spent time observing a situation or context. Like, how could Salwa know anything about what Frankenmuth was like just by observing it in the car? Once they reached the central plaza and walked around, she’d see it a little bit more properly. Yes, Mother could admit to herself, it wasn’t exactly like Germany, but there were teeny-tiny multi-colored houses, the women would be dressed in the flowing white garbs of Central Europe, and there would be all brands of cheese and artisanal chocolates freshly made and ready to be bought. Not to mention the Christmas lights would be hanging, and people would be singing carols. It was a mood of its own, and a treat to be able to enjoy. But rather than being grateful for this charming moment Mother was trying to gift her, Salwa was spoiling it.

Father suddenly interrupted Mother and Salma’s back-and-forth by paying Salwa a compliment. “Your English has improved so much, Salwa. You’re really starting to sound like an American. That’s great.”

Father was exaggerating, probably because he wanted to distract Mother from blowing the argument out of proportion, but there was an element of truth to it. When Salwa had first arrived some years ago from Palestine, she had had the habit of truncating the words at the end of her sentences, as if they were a part of a sneeze. Now, she was elongating her words and letting the vowels be heard in a drawl. So, even Salwa’s English was changing, adapting, and sounding a lot less foreign, though she still very much had that something different sound to her accent that any non-native speaker inevitably had.

Nonetheless, Father’s compliment was still an overreach, and Salwa didn’t like to be told something that she didn’t feel she’d earned. She switched back to Arabic.

“.That is not the truth .I speak like a foreigner .People come up to me and ask where I am from .They know from the moment I open my mouth that I am not from here”

“Because you do speak differently” Mother said, this time in Arabic. Then she switched back to English, embarrassed by how American her Arabic had sounded. Who was she to lecture Salwa on speaking differently when she herself spoke their language poorly? “But you’re learning, and that’s good. See, you’ve only been here for a few years. Once it’s been a few decades, your accent and your way of speaking will naturally become more American, like ours.”

Salwa smirked. Despite the fogginess of the rearview mirror, Mother could see it clearly.

“I don’t think I’m staying here after I finish my studies. And I don’t know if I want to sound more American.”

Mother grimaced. There was an element in her tone that made it sound like she was mocking Mother directly, as if she didn’t like this sort of Arab who had become American and who spoke English more naturally than her own language. Mother had already felt this sort of judgment from her niece when they were first getting to know each other. It was always an odd contrast whenever they went out together: Mother would be fully veiled and in a hijab, while her niece would show off her midriff and shoulders in a spaghetti strap or a low top or some flowing summer dress. Yet her niece would speak only in Arabic, and Mother only in English. Mother dressed as Muslim as she could, cooked every Palestinian recipe she could find on the Internet, and took weekly classes in the Qu’ran, but unlike Mother Salwa had been born and brought up in the land, and it showed in every small way she lifted her eyebrows and twitched her fingers. No matter how much Mother wanted to feel connected to being Palestinian, there was a sense that they really came from two different countries, two different landscapes, and two different worlds.

Father had found a parking place. This wasn’t the time to dwell on roots and origins. Mother was a Palestinian and Salwa was a guest, and no matter what, in Palestinian culture a guest was to be given a great time—and Mother believed Frankenmuth was the type of place built to help people have a great time. Everything from antique toys to chocolate-dipped pretzels were on sale. Frost glazed the rooftops of the store like sugary icing, carols were being blasted on the speakers, and there were walking by horse carriages illuminated by Christmas lights. There was a subtle spectacle in the choice of lighting, from a chilly blue to a festive green, that brought a sense of peace to Mother’s mind. And there were so many people of various skin tones, dress styles, and languages—people like her who wanted to experience an American moment, just as it was in the movies. This was the spirit of the United States that Mother wanted Salwa to witness and partake in.

They passed by a fudge store. Father loved fudge and stopped to stare at the creamy samples on display in the window.

‘؟You want’ Father said in Arabic, his love for the fattening and sugar-filled junk food making him speak uninhibitedly.

‘Lah,’ Mother said, but as she observed the fudge, she couldn’t help but add, “You don’t see things like this in Palestine.”

“You do not,” Salwa agreed.

“I cannot imagine the type of bloodshed or suffering you would be going through if you were still there.”

Salwa’s eyebrows fused together.

“You look at fudge, and you think of atrocities?”

Even Father was looking up at Mother, shaking his head, as if this was not the most appropriate subject to mention at the moment.

Mother ignored it.

“I am saying you should be grateful to this country and all it is giving you. You have been invited here. We have even invited you, as family. But instead, you’re saying all the time that you want to leave, you don’t like it, you think Trump’s going to put you in some prison. You’re having a great life here, dear. Grow up.”

Salwa put her hands on her hips. She moved her teeth up and down inside her mouth, like she was chewing something. Or maybe she was mouthing something that she didn’t want to say out loud. She started walking away, clacking her heels against the pavement, without even dismissing herself. Mother found it rude, considering that Father and her were Salwa’s hosts.

“I’m telling you something,” Mother shouted. Still, Salwa continued walking, disappearing into the hazy, snowy backdrop. It was so disobedient. It was not how Palestinians were trained, to disrespect an elder when they were talking to them.

Mother started chasing after her. “Hey, you, you stop.” Salwa clearly wasn’t stopping, so she shouted again, louder, “You, stop now.”

It was like she was talking to her son all over again, when he’d open his eyes while they were praying, or when he’d try to stick his hands into the cookie jar after he had had the two he was allotted after dinner. Of course, those minor disobediences were nothing compared to when he would brazenly go and meet homosexual men at those sex dungeons and then have the audacity to come back home with the smell of their sweat all over him.

Salwa was far from being that defiant, but what was it about people of that age wanting to make problems for their elders, particularly when their elders were going out of their way to help them?

Mother shouted, as if she wanted the entire street to hear, “You stop and listen to me now!”

That got a lot of faces turning toward her. Even Salwa turned back. Mother finally caught up and put her hands on her.

“I need some alone time,” Salwa explained.

“This is family time. We are meant to enjoy it together.”

“Do you not understand the concept of giving me some space?”

“There’s nothing to give space over. We were just looking at some fudge, and you felt like making it into a conversation.”

“I said nothing. You were the one who started saying nonsense.”

“Nonsense? You call what your aunt says nonsense? How rude!”

Mother and Salwa were starting to paw at each other, more than Mother actually realized. In her mind, she didn’t notice how much she was gripping Salwa. She was just trying to pull her back toward her husband so that they could go back to having an innocuous evening of shopping and singing Christmas songs as she had planned. But Salwa was pushing her back, and when Salwa pushed, Mother felt the instinct to push as well.

Mother didn’t even notice the police officer until he was between them. “Excuse me, what is going on here?” he said, putting his hands on their shoulders to keep them apart.

Mother immediately froze in position. She said, “I’m sorry, officer,” but didn’t know what else to say.

Salwa said, “Please take your hands off of me,” as if she was still talking to her aunt, and not this police officer.

The officer wasn’t used to her style of speaking, brash and direct. He asked, “Can I see your identification?”

That snapped Salwa out of it. Her eyes widened. The officer repeated himself, and then she started looking in her purse.

Mother tried to explain the situation to the officer. “This is my niece. She is here as a student at the University of Michigan.”

The police officer asked, “Where is she from?”

Mother wasn’t sure if she should say Dearborn, where Mother and her family were based, or Ramallah, where her niece was from. But would this random Black American know where Ramallah was? It was certainly safer than saying Palestine, given the feelings he might have against Muslims. And Palestinians were in the media for all the wrong reasons. Whatever this police officer was thinking, it was probably already negative.

Salwa finally retrieved her ID, which was a driver’s license. The police officer eyed it, then eyed her.

Mother explained more. “We were just having an argument. She and I, we, well, we were just disagreeing on some fudge. My husband wanted us to get some, but she really didn’t want any, and I felt…I felt bad because we have driven so far to get here, and I love fudge from Frankenmuth. You must too…we all do…and I just wanted her to try some properly…but she’s stubborn. I love her so much. She’s my cousin’s daughter. It’s so nice to have family at home, even when you have disagreements about everything.”

The entire time Mother spoke, Salwa was looking down, but her eyes were bulging out like a frog’s. Her mouth was completely shut. It was like she was caught in a giant’s fist, and she refused to budge, because if she did in any which way, she knew the fingers around her would tighten, and she would be crushed.

The officer looked at the two of them, then handed the document back. “Don’t make so much noise. You are family. You ought to love each other! You two have a good night, and Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” Mother and Salwa chimed together. The police officer went off to sample some cheddar cheese in the distance, and both Mother and Salwa exhaled, breaking their flustered postures. Father had caught up with them at that point. He asked, panting, “What just happened?”

Salwa and Mother talked, not to Father but to each other.

Salwa started with, “I thought he was ICE.”

Mother said back, “I was afraid of that too.”

Salwa said, “I thought I’d get deported.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mother said, but then she let her thoughts catch up to her, and she realised she had been afraid of it too. She told Salwa, “You have to be careful when you go out.”

Salwa shouted, “That is what I was telling you.”

“Be quiet. This is America. You can’t yell out like you are in a souk.” Mother took some breaths, also trying to calm herself down. “But at least nothing happened. He was kind, like I told you.”

“But still…I could have been sent to one of those detention centers. You would have never heard back from me. And then where would I have gone? To Palestine? To die in the middle of a bomb blast? Where would I even go?”

“Don’t think like that. Focus on your breathing. You are safing. Nothing has happened to you. And nothing would have happened.”

But could it have happened? Could the police officer had made some other phone call and gotten her deported? And if Salwa were to be sent back to Palestine, what would have happened? What would happen to her other semesters at Michigan? What would happen to all the money her parents had spent just to make sure she’d even have this opportunity? And what would she do in Palestine, given most of it wasn’t in a liveable shape at the moment? Would they even fly her to Palestine? Or would she have been sent to one of these random countries that was hosting the convicts or illegal immigrants?

It wasn’t worth thinking on. It was over, it was done, and the way things had gone put an end to Mother’s worries. “No matter what happens to you, we will fight for you,” Mother said to Salwa, almost as an afterthought. But then Salwa extended her arms—she was reaching for a hug. As they wrapped themselves around each other, Mother felt some snow fall on the top of her nose. Was it really snow, or Salwa’s tears, or her sweat condensing from the cold?

They were still that proud Palestinian family that had settled in Dearborn, out to celebrate an American Christmas. Mother told Salwa, “Let’s go try some of that cheese. It will help to improve your mood.” The police officer was gone, so Salwa nodded, hesitantly at first, but as they walked, Salwa kept close. Salwa did find the cheese quite tasty, and they ended up buying a few blocks of it. Then they found the toy store, and the Christmas decoration store, and as they kept exploring, Mother found that Salwa was having a good time and finally forgetting what had just happened to her, even if she probably couldn’t ever truly forget it at all.

I rely on our Allah for guidance and strength. Forgive me, Allah, for I am juhaal without you. I was born ignorant, and I will die ignorant, but I feel blessed and grateful for that which I learn from Allah. I start my day, and I think of you.

And my son…

Asma’s son, he did what? Right in the alley behind the pharmacy, and with how many other men?

I am one with Allah. It is because I hear directly from Allah that whatever Allah has said to me must be done. Whenever I come to Allah, I hear Allah. And whenever I pray, I am filled with gratitude to know that Allah listens to me, and Allah hears me, and I feel better with myself through my time with Allah.

How many other men?

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‘Why are you walking up and down like this?’

Father looked up to see Mother, who was in the middle of a puja, staring rightwards towards him with slanted eyes, the smoke from the lit incense stick in her fingers wafting over her cheekbones. Was he pacing? He sometimes began pacing around the house when he was worried and never noticed.

But Mother always noticed, regardless of whether she was in the midst of prayer or not. She asked him, ‘Did Vishal call?’

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