“I’m busy,” Frank grunts, his fingers tracing the spine of a first-edition Don Quixote .
“Hello,” the Robot says. “I am a Home Care Assistant. I have no records currently stored. How can I help you today?”
“Robot!” Frank yells, looking back over his shoulder. “Wipe the memory! Delete the last three weeks! They can’t use you against me if there’s nothing in your head!” Robot & Frank
The Robot stands motionless. To delete its memory is to delete its purpose. It would forget Frank. It would forget the way he liked his toast (burnt) and the way he talked about the "big scores" of the 1980s.
“I wish to return to work ,” Frank corrects. “There’s a jewelry store in the village. New security system. Laser grids, pressure plates, the works. If you’re so smart, if you’re such a ‘helper,’ help me map the blind spots.” “I’m busy,” Frank grunts, his fingers tracing the
He is alone. But somewhere, in a white plastic shell, a ghost of a memory had once lived, and that, Frank thinks, was almost as good as keeping the jewels.
“Fine,” Frank says, his voice cracking. “But if I’m going to stay sane, I need a project. I need to feel like I’m still the man who could crack a safe in three minutes flat.” I have no records currently stored
Frank flinches. The "Center." A place where the wallpaper is chosen by a committee and the doors are locked from the outside.