The drive was gloomy. The town had changed, signaled by the new sign at the border. Where once it had claimed a population of a few hundred, it now counted close to ten thousand.

“Wineries,” Barnaby said, staring out the window from the passenger seat. “They have wineries out here now. A lot of them.”

Gail grimaced, and leaned to look through his window. In the rain and mist, it was hard to see details. But the town gave an impression of bulk, of new work and fresh paint. “It can’t be very good. Hillbillies don’t make wine.”

Barnaby grinned. “Are we hillbillies?”

“Of course. Money doesn’t rub the red off your neck, Barnzy.”

“The red was courtesy of Dad,” Barnaby said tightly.

A moment of pained silence passed between them.

“He looked awful, didn’t he?” Gail said quietly.

“No one looks good in a coffin,” Barnaby snapped. Then he closed his eyes for a moment, breathing in deeply. “But he looked better than I expected. Better than he deserved.”

Barnaby resumed gazing out the window. After a moment, he spoke more quietly. “It’s strange. I can see the bones of the place, but it’s hidden behind all this new stuff. Wait.” He leaned forward. “Why are we taking Observer? Christ, that’s—manual guidance, please.”

The car made a soft chime. “Manual guidance.”

“Turn right.”

As Barnaby issued directions, Gail watched the town melt away. There was more of it, what she remembered as fields were now rows of condominiums, a new superstore, a school. But they finally broke free of the new sprawl, the familiar yellow grass rising up on either side of them, the house still nestled atop a hill overlooking the river.  She watched it approach, wondering what it would be like to enter it again after all this time.

Story time, My Lady Killinger. Are your chores completed? Teeth brushed? Story time, My Lord Killinger. Let me see those fingernails.

Barnaby turned to look at Gail. “You ready?”

She laughed. “Fuck no.”

Gail thought about story time. She glanced at her brother and lay her arm out, hand flat, palm up. Barnaby glanced down, hesitated for a moment, then lay his hand flat on top of hers. For a moment, they were ten and eleven again, sitting on the floor of Gail’s bedroom with damp hair and clean teeth, listening.

The car coasted to a stop. Barnaby pulled his hand away. “Two stars,” he said as he exited. 

For a moment, Gail stood beside him, buffeted by the wind, staring at the old heap. “Fuck. It looks old.”

The roof sagged, and there were missing shingles. The brick was frosted white, and spalling was everywhere. The windows were rotted, paint and caulk peeling. She compared it to the house of her childhood memories and felt sad. The place used to feel solid and eternal, a comfort.

“Come on,” Barnaby said. “Simon’s waiting.”

-

They’d spent hours on the phone with tech support. It took some time to even establish that the contract was still active.

“I’ve never seen an account this old,” the customer service rep said. “Forty-three years! That’s remarkable for a house shell system. How is it still functioning?”

Gail resented the pronoun but bit her tongue. The rep chewed laboriously through sections of their script that no one had ever seen before, ancient incantations designed for scenarios that had seemed impossibly distant. They refused a fresh installation, a prorated refund, a credit towards a new higher-level—“The new systems are capable of amazing things, you’ll see,” the rep said—and a host of other absurdities.

They were past three hours when the rep finally gave in.

“Okay,” they said, bright and chipper as if they had not put a great deal of energy into wasting everyone’s time. “I’ve got a service call scheduled for Monday, but I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”

-

She stared at the house. It looked exactly as she remembered it.

“Are you ready?”

She shook her head. “No.”

Barnaby nodded, then pressed the doorbell.

Nothing happened. They looked at each other. Then Barnaby pressed it again. After a moment, there was a soft chime. Barnaby flinched, a sudden terror that Simon’s voice would be distorted, bubbled and charred, flashing through him.

“Killinger residence,” a pleasant male voice spoke from hidden speakers. “How may I be of service?” The intercom crackled, but it was the same voice they remembered, speaking through the old intercom.

“Simon, you don’t recognize us?”

Another beat of silence. Just as a shadow crept into Barnaby’s smile and Gail thought the pause was a little too long.

“Gail? Barnaby? Is it really you? It’s been … it’s been so long.” The door clicked. “Come in!”

-

Gail thought the house looked different, but she found it impossible to say exactly why. She peered around, looking for signs of their father’s existence, decades of the old man shambling around, wearing a path into the carpet between the living room and the kitchen. But it was almost as if he hadn’t actually lived there: The furniture and family knick-knacks were as they’d always been, the sagging, itchy furniture in the same places as ever. She decided it was a trick of the light.               

“Hey folks.”

The siblings turned to find a smiling man standing in the kitchen doorway. He was soft and fleshy, his dark skin unusually supple. He was dressed in khakis and a polo shirt.

“Gail, Barnaby, this is … ” Simon hesitated, and Barnaby and Gail exchanged looks. “I apologize. I am—”

“Hank Weathers,” the man said, striding forward with his hand extended—toward Barnaby, Gail noted. “From CASA Systems. We spoke on the phone about your home shell.”

“Mr. Weathers, of course,” Simon said. “My apologies. I should not have forgotten. If you will all step into the kitchen, I will prepare us some lunch.”

Meal time, My Lady Killinger. I will know if those hands are not washed.

-

She remembered the kitchen at night. Her in her pajamas, Father snoring loudly in his easy chair two rooms away. A glass of warm milk rising up from under the counter. The infinite series of related chapters that just went on and on recited in that deep, gentle voice.

“I’m afraid I have some bad news,” Weathers said, dropping into one of the kitchen chairs. “I looked at—”

“Excuse me,” Barnaby said, his tone icy. “But perhaps this is a conversation best—”

Weathers held up a hand. “Of course. Sorry. Simon, enter Mute Mode.”

“Certainly, Mr. Weathers.”

Gail was shocked. It made sense that Mr. Weathers had given himself administrative status while working with Simon, but to see the house treated so coldly made her want to attack the man.

“Mr. Weathers!” Barnaby hissed, “I would appreciate it if you would treat our house with more—”

“It’s time,” Weathers said. “When you reported the problems—the omissions, the oversights—I thought maybe it was just some rusted cores, maybe a little data transfer magic and some fresh plugs. When you mentioned the singing, I got worried, and I was right. This isn’t a hardware issue.”

The anger drained out of Gail and Barnaby, leaving them pale and slack.

“What is it?” Gail asked in a small voice.

“Code rot,” Weathers said. “When was the shell installed?”

Barnaby swallowed and shifted his weight. “About forty years ago.”

“Just when we were born,” Gail said softly.

Weathers nodded. “It’s actually remarkable it’s as coherent as it is. These systems were never designed to be perpetual. They have limitations, and over time, the database gets dirty and the code gets fragmented. ‘Code rot,’ we call it.”

Gail felt a sense of panic blooming in the pit of her stomach. “What can we do?”

Weathers shrugged. “Shut it down,” he said. “It’s only going to get worse.”

Barnaby slammed his fist down on the counter. “Like hell we will. Simon, come back.”

“As you wish ... Barnaby.”

Gail winced at the hesitation.

Weathers sighed. “Look, I know this is … emotional for you. But your home’s shell is in an inevitable downward spiral. If it were up to me, I’d be happy to let you linger with it and deal with worsening conditions here. But it’s illegal for me to let a shell in this condition continue. Gas, electricity, air, and water—a home shell can cause a lot of damage. If I turn a blind eye here, I could lose my license.”

“Mr. Weathers,” Gail said, voice dripping acid, “Simon is not a home shell. He is home.”

-

Her old bedroom was largely the same. Some boxes had been piled up inside, but behind them was the tiny space of her childhood. The wood paneling where, as a child, Gail had gummed posters. The rough green carpet she’d always hated touching.

The light bloomed as she entered, a warm glow she recognized instantly.

“Bath time, My Lady Killinger,” Simon said cheerfully. “And don’t forget you have the recital tomorrow. I have observed your practice and I’m confident you will do very well.”

Gail’s breath caught. The room was so close to her memory a momentary sense of panicked confusion passed over her, bringing with it the possibility that she had somehow become eleven years old again.

“I apologize,” Simon said suddenly. “I seem to have gotten my dates mixed up. I’m so glad you and … and … so glad you’re both here,” Simon said. “It has been a long time.”

She smiled. “I remember waking up at night and knowing you were there. Invisible, but there. I used to imagine I could hear you breathing.”

She did not say that it was her father’s labored, booze-and-apnea burned breathing, leaking in from down below, that she’d imagined was Simon’s.

“Of course,” Simon said. “I am always here for you. Will Mr. Weathers be spending the night?”

Gail frowned. “I don’t know the protocols,” she said. “Barnzy will know.”

Simon said nothing. She walked a circuit of the room, touching things. She picked up a small figurine of a cat in a tutu.

“Ah, Miss Furry Dancer,” she whispered. “Does your Fabricator still function, Simon?”

She waited. “Simon?”

“I apologize,” he said. “I am experiencing … may I say who is calling?”

Gail frowned. “It’s me, Simon. It’s Gail.”

“Of course, it is good to see you.”

-

Breakfast was grim. The kitchen they remembered was spotless and well-stocked. The defects were not obvious, but under the surface, there were gaps in the stores, crumbs under the table, a burner on the stove that didn’t light.

“Remember pancake day?” Barnaby asked.

Gail smiled. “Every Sunday. Even Dad showed up.”

“Simon made the best pancakes. To this day, I’ve never had better.”

“I always meant to get the recipe. The secret.”

They sipped coffee without sugar, because the house had none. Barnaby’s gaze drifted to the dripping faucet. He noticed a line of rust at its base. He wondered when the water filters had last been changed, and glanced down into his coffee cup.

“Simon,” he said, “put sugar on the grocery list, will you?”

“Certainly,” Simon said immediately. “Shall I go ahead and put in the order?”

“Yes, thanks.” He reached for the spoon lying on the counter and examined it, noting a subtle patina that indicated the house also lacked detergent.

“Of course, Barnaby. It is good to see you.”

Barnaby frowned and his eyes snapped to Gail’s.

They took their coffees on a tour of the yard, noting the places where forts had been built, unique games invented, where bugs had been captured and cataloged.

“Doesn’t seem so bad,” Gail said quietly. “Most times, he seems pretty normal.”

Barnaby shook his head. “He keeps acting like I just arrived, and the house is in a state.”

Gail shook her head back. “We have to wait. Take it slow. Give him a chance.”

“Weathers,” Barnaby said. “It’s going to be out of our hands soon. He’s authorized to… to overwrite Simon on his own authority.”

Gail stared at him, miserable. To Barnaby, she looked like a little girl again, confused because her mother was gone and her father was a sodden, angry mess.

“We can’t let him,” she said tearfully. “There has to be a way to salvage Simon’s data. Install him somewhere else.”

-

Their father rarely got out of bed before noon, hungover and cranky.

Simon had breakfast ready for them, fresh folded clothes, transport to school arranged.

The insurance settlement paid the bills. Their father slowly turned yellow, living on whiskey.

Simon transferred funds as needed, bought provisions, paid for school trips, and offered an allowance in exchange for chores.

Their father sang and wept in the living room.

Simon played music and taught them silly, overly-complex dances.

She moved through the house and let memories flood her. She remembered a house filled with music and light. Gail remembered how Simon would sing to her at night when she was upset. Simon had always been there—competent, gentle, cheerful. Every room reminded her of a moment between them.

But there were signs. Each room also sported wear and tear. Simon would never have allowed water damage and peeling paint, broken light fixtures, warping floors. The dust was thick in places, while other spots gleamed.

“Simon?”

“Yes, Gail?”

The immediacy of the reply was heartening.

“Sing me a song, please, like you used to?”

Simon was quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry, Gail,” he finally said. “I’ve forgotten how.”

-

“See?” Weathers said. “This sort of thing is only going to get worse.”

The basement, once a neat space with whitewashed walls and fond memories of secret sibling clubs and movie nights, had become a small lake filled with dark, brackish water.

Barnaby looked at Weathers. “Why would Simon shut off the pump?”

Weathers sighed. “You have to get used to this: No reason. It’s malfunctioning. The logic is so deeply buried under years of data and self-scrub adjustments, the algorithms are so entwined, it literally can no longer think straight.” He shifted his gaze to Gail. “I’m sorry. I’m going to file an order to decommission.”

She took a step toward him. “No!”

He pointed at the water. “We’re lucky it didn’t run power into that. Next time, it might.”

Barnaby reached out and put a hand on Gail’s arm. “Can we … isn’t there some way to back him up, move his code somewhere?”

“Yes!” Gail said, nodding. “There must be.”

Weathers softened. “You can try, certainly. I can give you a few places to call. But I don’t think it will work. There’s so much data, and the code—the act of transferring it will more than likely render it non-functional. And the hardware in the house is difficult to emulate in a smaller footprint, and without it, well, it would be like cutting off the shell’s limbs. It would keep trying to run the pump and turn on the oven and there would nothing there to connect to, which would probably make its code rot even worse. You’d essentially have to install it in a house no one lives in. Legally, it can’t operate in an inhabited home.” He sighed. “I’ll wait until tomorrow to file so you can think about what you want to do.”

Weathers nodded and made his way up the stairs. Barnaby and Gail stood at the bottom step for several silent moments.

“Simon?”

“Yes … Barnaby?”

“Run the basement pump.”

“Of course.”

Nothing happened. Gail closed her eyes.

-

“I haven’t been myself lately, have I?”

Barnaby sipped whiskey. It was an unopened remnant from their father, smoky and smooth. “No, Simon, you haven’t.”

Next to him, Gail stared down into her glass.

After a moment of silence, Simon said, “I see. I understand. Shall I tell a story?”

The siblings said nothing.

“The last time we held story time was twenty-eight years ago,” Simon said. “It was The Adventure of the Enchanted Pearl. The Duchess had just rescued the Great Santino, and they were racing through the streets of Cali Don, the cliff city. Do you remember?”

Gail looked at Barnaby, eyes shining. “Yes,” she said. “I do remember that.”

“We never finished,” her brother said thickly. “And that always bothered me.”

“Then we will finish it tonight,” Simon said. “I will prepare some sustenance. We will finish our story, and then tomorrow will be a hard day.”

Silently, the siblings nodded. Simon began speaking without hesitation.

“Story time, My Lady Killinger. Story time, My Lord Killinger. Is your homework complete? Have you scrubbed behind your ears?”

Gail sat down, gracefully crossing her legs, and lay her arm out next to her, waiting for Barnaby to let her know he was there, that she was safe. A moment later his hand appeared in hers, and they sat beside each other expectantly.