Make Shift: Dispatches from the Post-Pandemic Future

6 Koronapárty ^{Rich Larson}

IT’S LOCKDOWN AGAIN, SO I’VE GOT THE TRAM MOSTLY TO MYSELF ON THE WAY HOME, grocery bags penned between my feet. The tram’s nice when it’s empty. No nerve-shredding sounds of snuffling or coughing, nobody talking on their phones. I can relax.

I look out the window and see Prague sliding past in the dark. Sometimes I see my reflection, which always looks gaunter and wrinklier in the tram window. I listen to the whalesong groan of the tram following its track, curving with the river. In the old days I sometimes put my head up against the glass to feel the vibration, but of course I don’t touch public surfaces anymore.

The tram is peaceful until Vltavská, when two teenagers get on, chattering in Czech as they scan their phones on the ticket reader. Both of them are wearing those stupid holomasks, and when the big cartoony mouths aren’t fluttering open and shut to match their speech, they project eerie grins. Always make me feel like they know something I don’t.

I glare at them as they surf handbars down the rattling tram and pick a seat two in front of me. Socially distanced, so I can’t even resent them for that. People are good at following bug policy here.

Not like in Paris. In Paris, every time there’s a wave they have to 3D-print these knobbly pads to glue onto every other metro seat, and then have to chase away the people hawking 3D-printed cushions that fit right over them. That was the last trip me and Jan took together, Paris and then Nantes. Lots of laughs.

Anyways. Here, people play by the rules. I remember visiting Prague once before the Big One, and even back then everybody was painfully polite on the tram. Hardly ever talking, always ready to spring up out of their seats when anybody old got on. Happened to me a couple times, and that was when my hair was only halfway gray.

But these two in their glow-up masks are excited, and it makes them loud, and that makes them annoying. The stream of Czech is punctuated by whoops and laughter. I’ve been here a decade, but I catch hardly anything. It’s rare I speak Czech now that Jan’s passed, and I was shit even before the rust set in—I took lessons for his sake, but I’ve got no aptitude for language.

Especially not ones with seven cases, free-for-all word order, and the ř sound, which basically requires turning one’s mouth into an electric drill. If I ever have to differentiate between třicet, which is thirty, and čtyřicet, which is forty, I go straight to showing fingers. Better than scaring people who might think I’m having a stroke.

But then, from behind the taller teen’s grinning mask, I hear a word I can suss out: koronapárty. We all know that prefix, and “party” has invaded an awful lot of lexicons, Czech included. But we’re on lockdown again, which means curfew’s in effect and partying with over ten people is prohibited.

Maybe they’re discussing a nine-person party, or maybe they’re using the term ironically. Kids do love their irony. Or maybe they’re planning a massive, illegal, underground infection vector fest. It’s not really my business.

Until I hear another intelligible word: Dělnická. Which is the name of my fucking street.

I link my hearing imp to my phone, one of the few things I know how to do with it, and crank the volume up. Then, feeling like a bit of a sneak, I thumb my translator app, the one that helps get me through Czech ministry visits. Inside my left ear, the teens’ conversation turns into electronic English.

“Mate, it’s all set up. It’ll be great.”

“So many people, though. It makes me nervous.”

And I think, yeah, no shit, as it should. We’re on lockdown for a reason. The latest coronavirus isn’t as deadly as the Big One, but it spreads fast and parties are like petri dishes. These little twerps are endangering themselves and their neighbors and the grandmothers who probably make knedlíky for them.

The taller of the two teens just shrugs. “Wait until you see the place, mate. It’s perfect.”

“Next stop: working class.”

That last bit comes from the tram itself, which is pulling away from the Pražská tržnice stop where nobody ever gets on, seeing as it’s an open-air market and those are all closed during a spike. The translator app got overzealous. It meant to say next stop: Dělnická, a street that hasn’t been industrial or working class for a very long time but still bears the name.

The teens are still chattering about their party, but I’ve got my own concerns now. Getting out of a seat is a lot slower than it used to be.

THE TRAM BANKS ONTO KOMUNARDŮ, PAST THE NEW DRONE-PAINTED GRAFFITI installation. That means I’ve got about ninety seconds to prepare myself. I scoot all the way to the edge of the molded plastic, hinge myself over to grab the straps of the grocery bags, then brace the better of my two shoulders against the seat in front of me.

When the tram slides to a halt just outside the Vietnamese restaurant, I use the rock-back momentum to heave up onto my feet. It’s smooth, which makes me feel proud, and then feeling proud of getting smoothly out of a seat makes me feel vaguely ashamed—that old cycle. The tram doors whisk open and I stump down the steps.

The teens spill off too, which means I heard them right about Dělnická, and start ambling toward the zebra crossing. Even the way they walk is obnoxious. All free and flappy and gangly. Their vertebral columns are still stretching skyward, talking back to gravity. Every bit of them’s still on the way up instead of on the way down—which makes it even more infuriating that they’re planning a corona party. They have no idea what it’s like to be on the way down. To be fragile.

One of them elbows the button for the zebra crossing. They’re heading the same way as me, down my very street, so I speed up a little and follow them across the tram track. I used to have a bad knee and a good knee; now I’ve got a bad knee and a worse knee. Both of them click. One’s just a bit more sore.

Fortunately, the kids are in no rush. They’re both buried in their phones again, meandering along, and they don’t notice me tailing them. Tailing them. Ha. Like I’m some sort of spy. Some sort of arthritic James Bond. It’s stupid, but I sort of like imagining it. I keep my chin tucked to my chest, breathing my own hot breath inside my mask, as we move down Dělnická.

My hearing imp picks up bits and pieces of the conversation, but the translator app doesn’t have much to go on. They might be talking about farts. Actual farts, not boring old farts who go around spying on illicit party planners.

“Mine are always silent. That’s my gift.”

“They’re not always silent. I’ve heard them.”

“Maybe hearing them is your gift.”

We pass the Žabka, where an employee on break is tugging her mask down to vape. I know she recognizes me—I go to her convenience store every third day or so—but her eyes slide right off. People aren’t big on eye contact in Prague, or smiling, or waving. It used to drive Jan mad. He grew up in Brno, and always swore it’s much friendlier.

We pass Vnitroblock, which is all shut down for the wave, all its little studios and shoe shops put into stasis. Then the pizza place, which has shrunk to a single delivery window. Then the boarded-up pub that didn’t make it through the last big spike and had to close for good. We’re getting close to my apartment, so close for a wild second I think that’s where they’re headed.

Then the teens look both ways, dart across the road, and head into the abandoned building across the street. I can’t exactly dart these days, so I just watch them go. Construction crawls in this city—Jan said it was like that even before the Big One. That building’s been half-finished since we moved here, and people mostly ignore it, although one night I remember some musicians from Cape Verde shot a music video there.

But that was during a lull, not a lockdown. I should hobble over there and wait, and when they come back out I should tell them to get their act together, tell them there’s no way I’m letting them throw an infectious party right across the street from me. I can’t remember the Czech word for irresponsible, but I can app it. Or probably just talk English, since they’re young.

That would mean getting right up close to them, though. All that breathing, all that misted saliva. And if they’re irresponsible enough to break basic bug policy, they might be carriers already. Plus, I hate confrontations. Just raising my voice at someone makes my heart beat double-time for the next three hours or so.

Somebody else can shut down their stupid koronapárty. I head the opposite way, toward my apartment building, and start fishing out my key.

BACK WHEN JAN AND I FIRST MOVED IN, WE HAD THIS SILLY GAME WHERE IF THE LIFT was on an odd-numbered floor, we had to take the stairs. Jan was always in unfairly good shape for his age—jogged along the river every morning—and I only had one bad knee back then. Now walking up six flights of stairs sounds unrealistic and frankly unneighborly, since someone would end up finding my carcass and scaring themselves.

So I take the lift. I use my key to push the button, and then me and my groceries rattle on up to the top floor. There’s a film of smart plastic on the metal wall, playing some reminder tutorials, pixelated people washing their hands and handling their masks correctly. I puzzle out a few of the accompanying Czech words.

The lift doors slide open. I brace myself, haul my grocery bags up off the floor again, and stump down the short hall to apartment 21A. They put a little yellow sticker on my door, to indicate I’m at increased risk during a spike. It’s a good thing for them to indicate, but it still feels a bit like they’re rubbing my face in how old I’m getting.

I key the door, shoulder it open, and walk inside. It feels good to be back inside. Safe. I won’t have to get groceries for another three days.

“Hello, Ivan!” the housebot calls, aggravatingly genial—I can tone down its enthusiasm, but it always resets during updates. “Remember to wash your hands, you asshole!”

At least the vocabulary modifications stuck. I don’t get a lot of laughs lately, but hearing the housebot cussing like a very chipper, electronic sailor is good for at least a couple smiles per day. It was a gift from my sister, same as the VR goggles she gave me for facecalls that I hardly ever use.

“I always do, dumbshit,” I say back, unhooking my mask and dropping it straight into the laundry.

After Jan died, my sister floated the idea of me moving to Seattle to live nearer her and her family, maybe even live with them for a while—she has a heart two sizes too big. And it’s true Seattle has bounced back better than most cities over in the USA. But moving felt like running away, so I told her I was staying.

And a week later a little yellow Amazombie dropped the housebot off at my door, machines delivering machines, very Escher. My sister programmed it herself, and the two of us generally get along okay. I just hate it when it starts trying to run therapy routines.

“There were only twelve new cases in Czechia today,” the housebot chirps as I lug the groceries to the kitchen. “Lockdown is expected to end Wednesday.”

Its body pads into view, a little white machine about the size of a cat, equipped with simple manipulators. Mostly it’s just there to put an emoji-projecting face to the basic AI synced into the apartment’s retrofit network. Its manipulator telescopes to start putting the groceries into the fridge. Meanwhile I wash my hands, thoroughly, fingertip to elbow with a coconut scented soap Jan got me into the habit of buying.

“Wednesday,” I echo. “Huh. Kids couldn’t wait four fucking days to have their party.”

“Are you going to a party, Ivan?” the housebot asks. “Remember that groups larger than ten…”

“I don’t even know ten people in this whole city,” I say, scrubbing my hands, jigsawing my fingers to get the soap in all the cracks and creases. “It was just some kids on the tram. They’re planning a big bug fest. Because, you know, kids are invincible and never think shit through.”

“Kids can be either children or young goats,” the housebot says. “Both are capricious. Ha!”

I turn the water off and stare. The housebot’s screen is projecting the crying-with-laughter emoji. Maybe the last update included some kind of humor patch, or maybe it’s just glitching.

“Right,” I say. “Capricious. Hey, what’s the Czech word for irresponsible?”

“Nezodpovědný,” the housebot says, and it seems unfair that its pronunciation is so much better than mine when it’s put in none of the time. “Would you like to play some word games this evening to help improve your vocabulary?”

“Already got plans,” I say.

“That’s great, you asshole,” the housebot says, reaching for the last grocery bag. “What are you planning to do?”

“Off,” I say.

The housebot freezes with its manipulator halfway inside the bag, and there’s a little downscale chime to let me know the AI’s in sleep mode. I pull the bag away and pull the beer out. The Czech Republic has so many wonderful beers. You can pretend you’re on some sort of cultural mission to sample them all for a very long time before you realize you’re just a lonely old man with nothing better to do in the evening than drink.

Eventually you just do what I do, and grab a big plastic bottle of whatever’s eye-level. This time it’s Krušovice, which I remember Jan always hated. One and a half liters, perfect for pouring you and your friends a pint each, and also perfect for sending me out of my head for the rest of the evening and making sure I fall right asleep.

The housebot’s not programmed to be judgmental, but somehow I always end up turning it off when I drink, and recycling the bottles on my own. I pour myself the first glass, raise it in the housebot’s general direction, and begin. It’s a party of one, which is very responsible. Very odpovědný.

THE HANGOVER IS PART OF THE RITUAL, AT THIS POINT. IT HITS A LOT HARDER THAN IT used to: I wake up feeling it in my whole body, not just my aching cranium and mummified mouth. Luckily I’ve got nowhere to be. The bed’s twice as big now, but I always end up on the same side of it by muscle memory. I sort of resent Jan for that—it took me ages to get used to sharing a bed, and now that I’ve got the whole thing to myself I can’t take advantage.

I look at the big empty beer bottle on my nightstand, feel faintly sick, then haul myself out of bed one lead-dipped body part at a time. I always wake up needing to piss these days, so that’s the first step. Afterward I clump into the kitchen and find the housebot still frozen where I left it.

“On,” I say.

“Good morning, shit-head!” it chirps, but it doesn’t seem funny today. “How did you sleep?”

“Like a drunken baby,” I say. “Thanks.”

I pour myself a glass of water, gulp down half then give the rest to the plant on the tabletop. Now that the weather’s warming up I have to keep a closer eye on it. Last week I walked past and found it all drooped over, leaves hanging off the stalks like they’d had their necks snapped. I won’t lie; it panicked me.

All the plants were Jan’s. He brought them home the way kids in books bring stray dogs home, and now it’s on me to keep them alive. I’ve been thinking about buying smart pots for them, the kind with little white legs that let them follow the sun and tap impatiently when the soil gets too dry. But repotting would mean getting rid of the pots Jan picked, and it sounds like a lot of work, besides.

Everything sounds like a lot of work lately. Especially now that I don’t actually work—I’ve lived here long enough to qualify for UBI, one of the reforms that got pushed through after the Big One. Right after Jan passed I went through a stretch where I worked like mad, took every commission and client I could, but eventually it didn’t help anymore, so I stopped. I tell myself it’s because I’ve earned the right to relax for a bit.

“What are you thinking about, Ivan?” the housebot asks.

“Not a thing,” I say.

“Lockdown is expected to end Wednesday,” it says. “Three days until freedom!”

That’s the thing, though, isn’t it. For other people, it’s freedom. For me, nothing really changes. I’m always on lockdown.

THE DAY GOES AT A TRICKLE, LIKE MOST DAYS. I’VE GOT MY ROUTINES, OF COURSE. Lunch is half an avocado and fried egg on toast, and while I do the washing up I listen to a certain astronomy podcast. It’s not quite the same without Jan complaining how boring it is. After soaping and rinsing the handful of dishes, I leave the housebot to scrub the floor and I go sleep on the foam couch.

I used to set an alarm, have the housebot get me up after a half-hour. But that was when I was working. Now I find being unconscious is my preferred state: no aches, no pains, no memories. So I sleep off the rest of the hangover and wake up groggy two hours later, at which point I read for a while, an old stain-covered book of Pablo Neruda in translation. My fingers are stiffer than usual turning the pages and I can’t really focus on it.

Eventually I give up and go to the balcony. It’s the best part of the apartment, I think. South-facing, so there’s always plenty of sunlight. Big enough for two chairs and a slightly wobbly tripod table. We used to drink gin and tonics out here in the summer, and curse at the pair of pigeons who always shit on the railing.

We tried all sorts of things to get rid of them. I remember we found an audio track of falcon noises, and tried blasting that through a speaker. It spooked the blackbirds roosting on the roof, but these two insolent pigeons just waddled right up to the Bluetooth to investigate.

And now they flutter in, right on cue, to perch on the railing and eyeball me.

“Fuck off, birds,” I tell them.

“Sorry, I didn’t catch that!” the housebot sings from inside. “Can you repeat yourself, Ivan?”

“Nothing,” I say, but the housebot’s body comes padding out onto the balcony anyway. One of the pigeons startles, flurrying its wings, then recovers.

“It’s a beautiful day to sit on the balcony,” the housebot says. “It’s twenty-four degrees Celsius with a mix of sun and cloud.”

I lean back in my chair and put my feet up on the wobbly table. Past the pigeons, across the street, I see the abandoned building and remember the kids from the tram. I can see why they picked it: it’s partially rubble, and slathered in graffiti, and partying there would give them that real grungy rebellious feel.

“Would you like to facecall your sister?” the housebot asks.

I bristle. “Quit asking me that,” I say. “I’ll call her when…” It’s absurd, but I say it anyways. “When I have time.”

“Okay, Ivan,” the housebot says. “I’ll quit asking you that.”

“Good.”

I slump back in the chair. The housebot starts scrubbing a white blot of pigeon shit off the edge of the balcony. Makes me feel guilty when it cleans in front of me—even though it’s a machine, I always feel I ought to be helping. To distract myself I look across the street again.

I don’t know how the scamps are planning to get away with it. Maybe they have a sound damper to hide their voices, or maybe they’re all going to be listening to the same music in their earpods. I picture them all sneaking in, two or three at a time, grinning smug little grins to each other.

I picture the party, picture all the aerosol saliva, all the droplet clouds misting through the air carrying virus, and it makes me furious all over again.

Then and there, I decide: there’s not going to be any koronapárty tonight. Not on my street. Yesterday I did the arthritic James Bond thing, with the tailing and the eavesdropping, and now I’m going to do a good old-fashioned private eye stakeout.

Right after I use the toilet again.

I SETTLE IN TO WATCH FROM THE BALCONY, ME AND MY COHORT OF PIGEONS. PRAGUE is quiet during lockdown. Hardly any traffic noises. A few delivery drones zip up and down Dělnická carrying take-out in insulated bags, and a few people hurry past in masks, keeping their one point five meters distance from each other.

The light fades, turning the sky a cold blue, and it gets cold enough that I pack in. The housebot badgers me, so I eat something, but I don’t really get hungry anymore. Food is mostly just something to take with medications. The housebot helps me drag an armchair right up to the window, so I can still watch the building.

I’ve got the book of poems in my lap but never manage to focus on it for more than a few stanzas. It’s fully possible the kids will never show up. Maybe they came to their senses, or maybe they picked somewhere better-concealed for their little party. It’s fully possible I’m doing this for nothing, but at least for once I’m doing something besides drinking cheap beer and trawling old message threads for new memories.

I drift off re-reading the poem where death is a hungry broom, and an admiral, and it gives me a weird little dream where Jan and I are chasing the pigeons off the balcony with brooms while a woman in a big admiral’s hat supervises. Fortunately, I instructed the housebot to wake me if it spotted any activity across the street.

“Sorry to disturb your nap, asshole!”

I blink my eyes open.

“I think the party you mentioned is starting,” the housebot says.

I sit up; my spine cracks and pops. The housebot’s right: across the way I can see lights, holoshow-type stuff flashing up into the sky over the block. They’re not even trying to be subtle about it. I send the alert to the lockdown-breach app, all righteous anger and savage triumph. I’m sure mine must be one of a dozen already.

“Idiot kids,” I say, leaning my elbows on the windowsill. “Hope they get a fine.”

I wasn’t expecting the housebot to do much more than blandly agree, but its emoji display turns into a thoughtful frowny face. “Why do idiot kids make you feel angry?” it asks.

My ears go hot. “Not angry,” I say. “Just looking out for the greater good. Even if this bug’s not as bad as the last few, we’re still in lockdown for a reason.”

“Some types of party are more risky than others,” the housebot says, then pops up a health display. “I am worried by your increased blood pressure, asshole.”

I grit my teeth. “I’ve got increased blood pressure because I don’t like watching people be selfish,” I say. “People not giving a shit about anybody but themselves. If they cared at all about the people around them, they’d be indoors.”

The housebot got me: I am angry. And now that I’m talking I can’t stop.

“They’d be doing what I do,” I say. “They’d be living in a little box all alone with a fucking housebot, where they can’t hurt anybody, where they can’t be vectors, and where they can’t get sick and turn into another burden on the healthcare system. That’s how people are meant to be living during lockdown.” I swallow. “I’m living this shitty-ass little life for the greater good, not because I like it. And I’m calling the police on those kids for the greater good, too.”

I can feel a whine in the back of my throat, which makes me feel even more pathetic. My pulse is squeezing fast, thudding in my wrists and neck. If my blood pressure wasn’t up before, it’s skyrocketing by now.

“I think most adolescents live with their families, Ivan,” the housebot says. “Not all alone.”

“Exactly my point,” I say, no longer sure what my point was. “They’re putting people at risk just so they can have a laugh. And they deserve to get in shit for it.”

“Maybe you should communicate your feelings to them directly,” the housebot says. “Have you considered attending their party?”

I’ve obviously taken the basic AI to its limit, so I fold my arms and stare across the street at the flickering lights. The minutes tick by. I wait for the police drone to come swooping in, loudspeakers on full, to scatter the little shits like how pigeons ought to scatter when confronted by the looped calls of predatory birds.

The minutes keep ticking by. I check my phone, and see that my alert has been processed and filed, whatever that means. But there’s no police drone, and nobody shouting off their balconies to tell the kids off. Everybody’s just looking the other way, how they look the other way in the street, too polite to start any sort of confrontation. Everybody’s minding their own business with no thought to the delayed consequences.

I rock once, twice, and heave myself out of the chair.

“Where are you going, Ivan?” the housebot asks. “Curfew begins in twenty-two minutes.”

“I’m going to a party,” I say. “Briefly.”

“I’m glad to hear that, asshole,” the housebot says. “Have fun!”

MY FINGER TREMBLES WHEN I JAB THE BUTTON FOR THE LIFT. I’M THAT WORKED up—mostly anger, with a decent helping of anxiety over what I’m about to do, too. But it’s got to be done, and in a weird way it feels good to be worked up over something again. For so long I’ve just been monotone. Just drifting.

On the way to the ground floor, watching the little animation of the scrubbing hands, I rehearse what I’m going to say. I’ve got it all floating around in my head: how I’m risking my life to come over and tell them off, how utterly selfish they are, how ashamed their parents must be. My phone is along as a simultaneous interpreter; it can echo the whole thing in loud electronic Czech.

Night’s fully fallen when I hobble out of the apartment. For a moment the blurry orange of the streetlamps and the warm breeze on my face takes me back to when I loved this neighborhood. I used to be so fascinated by the Communist-era architecture and the little potraviny shops, used to adore Letna Park—limping up the hill was always worth it to look out over the city.

The neighborhood was bigger back then. Now it’s just my apartment and a grocery store every three days. Sometimes I feel like I barely live here at all.

But I do, and I’ve got the right to stay living here, which I can’t do with little idiots endangering my health and that of the public at large. I stump across the deserted street, checking the seals on my mask one last time. I brought the good one for this, full face coverage. No telling how many spit clouds I’ll have to walk through.

Like a moth to fluorescent, I follow the lights. There’s still no sounds of conversation or laughter, which boosts my theory about the sound damper. If the kids are really committed, they might be subvocalizing to each other and letting their fancy masks synthesize speech into text—read an article about that.

I walk through the crumbling entrance and start hauling myself up the concrete stairs. Jan would be proud—first stairs I’ve walked in ages. It’s only two flights but I’m gasping by the time I reach the top, so I take a moment to catch my breath, and to steady my nerves, too.

I can hear the sounds of humming equipment, whatever they’re using to project the lights, but still no footsteps. Czechs aren’t much for dancing. Maybe they’re all just sitting in a circle with their beers.

Hopefully everybody turns around and sees me at the same time, instantly startled and ashamed. More likely I’ll have to wave my arms around to get their attention. That doesn’t seem dignified, but I’m in too deep now to worry about dignity, so I round the corner and step inside the party.

The room is empty.

I blink, then blink again. Lighting equipment is set up, strobing electric lime and purple across the bare concrete walls, and there are a couple little pocket drones circling the room, cams rotating for a full view. But there are no irresponsible kids coughing in each other’s faces. The only human is me, a confused old fart with all the righteous pent-up anger leaking out of him.

There’s a freshly stenciled message on the wall, and I don’t need my phone to understand it: Koronapárty ve VR—Corona Party in VR. The words are accompanied by an old-school QR code.

I stare at the message in disbelief, then dig out my phone and scan the code. My screen fills instantly with a mob of avatars, dancing cartoons superimposed over the grungy concrete room, all grinning because they know something I don’t. I walk in a dazed circle, holding my phone out in front of me. The avatars can’t see me. I walk through them like a ghost.

I disconnect from the feed, feeling a lump of hard plastic in my throat. I’m in an empty half-built building, pissed off at people who aren’t here. Nobody to rage at. Nobody breaking lockdown rules or curfew, except for me in about ten minutes. Just a bunch of kids throwing an online party and using a slummy old building as their backdrop.

And of course I didn’t storm over here for the greater good. I did it to unload some of the anger that’s been curling around me tighter and tighter for months now. Anger at Jan for leaving me all alone. Anger at myself for keeping it that way, for turning down my sister’s facecalls and backing out of visits, for giving up on work. Lockdown’s the perfect excuse to shrink the world down to a cage and not let anybody inside.

Since nobody’s around, I finally let a few tears out. It hurts. Feeling mad’s always been so much easier than feeling sad for me. But I let the tears come, and after a while it feels okay, even if it’s fogging up my mask something awful.

There’s another message stenciled under the QR code, and this one I feel I should know—the words sort of prick at my memory. Každý je vítán, it says. I blink and frown at it, then finally hover my phone over it.

Everyone is welcome.

I think of the VR goggles gathering dust at the top of my closet, the ones I promised my sister I would start using. I really doubt the kids meant me, but it would be kind of a laugh, wouldn’t it, just to pop in. Maybe just long enough to tell my sister I attended a localized virtual reality corona party when I finally facecall her.

The housebot can probably help me calibrate everything. It’s cleverer than it lets on.