I got a text from Leo on Tuesday. He sent a photo. A big box. Unmarked, beige.
I texted back.
finally
He replied.
right?
That was the whole conversation.
I wanted to go over. But I thought he should have time with it. He’s waited long enough. We both have.
When Sunday comes, I let myself in like usual.
“Leo-?”
He’s at the kitchen counter. He looks up and grins and I see it. Gray straps across his chest and right shoulder, some kind of darker webbing. A small white module that sits just below his neck.
There’s a blue light pulsing slowly.
I think it looks like someone made a wearable commercial fire alarm.
“Look at you,” I say.
“I know.” He spreads his arms. “Two years and eleven months.”
He’s so excited. I’m holding my breath. Maybe he can manage a week alone. I don’t know what to do with that.
“So are you going to show me?” I say.
He takes me through it. His CareFrame.
The sensor is under the skin of his forearm. A silver disc, smaller than a watch battery. That’s the Morizono bit, so he can show off and let the filigree catch the light. He had it...installed...on Thursday. The skin’s still red.
The harness is Synetica. Less glamorous, but it’ll probably work forever. The module tracks biomarkers, logs his meals through a relay. It manages his medication schedule, tracks his energy registers and tells him when to rest.
“It’s like having a nurse,” he says. “But one who doesn’t sleep or get paid.”
I smile. “Oh, they’re still getting paid.”
He grins. It’s the most excited I’ve seen him in a while.
I busy myself making lunch. The pasta with the broccoli rabe that I know he likes. Lemon and breadcrumbs. I remembered to pick them up from the shop on the way. I’ve been bringing him his groceries for a decade.
Maybe the CareFrame will help him remember to buy ricotta.
I put the plates on the table and he sits down. His harness chimes. Not loud. A single note. Not much more than a regular phone notification.
He glances down at his device. “Says I should have more protein.”
I look at the plate. “I put chicken in it.”
“Not skimping me, are you sis?” he says.
He eats everything.
He checks his module afterward. Logs the meal. The blue LED pulses twice. Apparently that means it’s satisfied. I watch him do it. I wonder if it’s read all the books on nutrition that I did.
After lunch he puts the kettle on. The CareFrame chimes again. This is a different pitch, longer. A bit more discordant. He looks at the module, then at me.
“It’s a rest reminder,” he says.
“Okay.”
“It’s probably fine. I can ignore it.”
“It’s supposed to take care of you,” I say.
He sits down on the sofa and the module pulses in approval. I finish making the tea. I sit across from him and there is nothing else for me to do.
“So...”
I’m at a loss. It’s my job to notice. All we ever talk about are early signs. Creeping weight loss. Whether he looks tired or not. I can read it in his voice. It’s been a decade.
Is that all we have to talk about?
The CareFrame doesn’t need to hear his voice. It just knows.
I sip my tea.
“You’re quiet,” he says.
“Just tired.”
“That’s my line.”
I suppose I can go to work tomorrow and not worry. Might be able to have a date that doesn’t slowly falter because I have to watch my phone. I stopped dating to be Leo’s primary contact.
Is that me? And is CareFrame better at it?
Leo doesn’t push.
We half-watch a movie, neither of us really saying anything. It’s starting to get dark outside. The CareFrame’s chimed three more times. Medication, hydration, and a second rest reminder even though he’s already sitting down.
I don’t say anything about it.
When it’s time to leave, he stays on the sofa.
“Will you remember the chili in the freezer this week?” I ask him.
“I promise.”
“And your infusion?”
He taps his harness. “I think we’ve got it.”
I’m at the door when he says my name.
“Maya.”
I turn. He’s standing up now. The harness is creasing up against his shirt. The blue light is steady. He looks at me.
“It’s weird, isn’t it?” He says. “Getting it, finally.”
“It’s good,” I say. “We both needed it.”
“It’s what I needed,” he nods. “But it’s not the only thing I needed.”
He takes a step closer.
The module chimes. A medication reminder. He doesn’t look down.
“I know,” he says. To the module, I think.
He reaches out and his hand is on my shoulder. He squeezes once, and draws me in for a hug. The harness is scratchy and the module bumps up against me. but I don’t mind.
“It never built a treehouse with me,” he says.
The module chimes a third time. He ignores it.
“You’re such an idiot,” I say.
We stand there. The CareFrame chimes again.
We hug some more.
Another chime.
“Yeah, yeah,” he says.
A story from the Static Drift universe.
Article photo by علیرضا افتخاری on Unsplash.