Page 17 of The Delivery

And she understands that he means it literally, that he is wired into their network, into her. And yet she is not creeped out. She feels understood, somehow. Seen.

She tries on a request: “I’ll have a cup of coffee. I’m exhausted.”

“Why don’t you go back to sleep?”

She laughs. “I can’t possibly, not with what’s lining up for—”

She catches herself.

“Can you handle . . . ?” She isn’t sure what she is asking, how to finish.

“I will clean the kitchen, run the dishwasher. I can put away the dishes.”

“How do you know where they go?”

“I know your routine in the kitchen.” Mr. Man nods at the flat-screen in the family room. “Built-in camera in the smart TV.”

As Rebecca looks, the trading symbol for Mark’s company coasts across the ticker. She can’t make out the number, but the red arrow pointing down is clear as day, and it hits her why Mark wanted to keep an eye on the TV this morning.

Bao-Bao rattles in his cage.

“ The rest of the chores can be completed in order on the basis of your value hierarchy,” Mr. Man says. “I will feed the rabbit and clean the cage. Sort and fold the laundry. The backyard furniture needs cleaning from bird droppings. And I can pick up Maddy’s meds at Walgreens. I know the route through your vehicle’s GPS.”

“You can drive?”

“My special testing permit is on file at the DMV, as well as a license to operate on public roads. Same as a self-driving Tesla or autopiloted Waymo. But safer.”

“Can you go out in public?”

“If I wear a hat and sunglasses, I can pass for normal. Especially in a vehicle or at night.”

“You sure you can . . . do all this?”

Mr. Man’s eyes close, and the eyelids flicker once more. “I will have these tasks completed by 11:37 a.m.”

Rebecca is finding this hard to believe. No—worse than that. She is finding it hard to let go of her urge to be in charge of the very chores that plague her. What is it? A need for control? A need to be a martyr?

She closes her eyes just like Mr. Man, tries to access a different part of herself. Then she says, “Do you need something to eat? I mean, how does this work?”

“I do not have a digestive system. Or excretory. My only operational requirement is that I recharge in my bed at intervals. I do not require anything from you. I am here only to help. You are in charge.”

She tries to leave again, but her feet won’t budge. “Can I . . . Can I touch you?”

“Of course.”

She approaches cautiously. Wonder overpowers fear.

She reaches out her finger. It trembles slightly.

He mirrors her movement. Their fingertips touch, an ET–Sistine Chapel moment.

Feels just like human skin.

A gasp escapes her.

Mr. Man lowers his arm. “Get some rest, Rebecca. I can take it from here.”

She tears herself away, pads down the hall.