In the kitchen, Aki is introducing the girl to my late wife’s robo-dog, a husky puppy she named Hollywood. “Sit,” the girl says. “Shake hands, speak, let’s dance!” She tells Aki how she carries her dog everywhere in a bag and how Mochi likes to press her paws to the train window on the way to school. She tells him that her father died last year but still tells her stories every night through the recordings in Mochi’s memory bank. I’m inspecting Mochi’s head cavity with a penlight when I hear Aki whisper something to the little girl—and then after a few clicks of Hollywood’s paws, I hear my late wife’s voice singing.
I’m certain I won’t be able to return Mochi to her former self, but I bring her to my workshop anyway, sifting through the dozens of robo-dogs I’ve collected for spare parts—some donated by their owners in an effort to move on, others found online or in secondhand shops. Each has a name tag, and if I activated one, I might get a snapshot of their former life: a child’s prayers, a math game where numbers flash on the head screen, brief recordings of their family during happier times. I’ve promised their former owners that when I’m done salvaging their dogs for parts, I’ll hold a service so they can say goodbye. Somewhere among their ranks should be a replacement memory board. It won’t be Mochi, per se, but for a little girl who needs her best friend, who needs to believe her robo-dog will always be there for her, it’s something, at least.
I replace the motherboard and return to find the little girl sitting on the living room floor with my son, petting Hollywood. I set Mochi down in front of her. I’ve given the dog a pink collar and affixed a floral bow to her head.
“She’s just like new!” the little girl say, opening up her tote bag on the ground. It’s nearly as big as her, and she stuffs Mochi inside.
“Remember, Mochi is going to need some help getting back to her old self. Play with her, remind her of all the fun you’ve had together. Teach her the rules because she might have forgotten.” The little girl nods. I feel both heartened and guilty for how excited she is to have her best friend back. Maybe she’ll realize what I’ve done when she’s older and forgive me. I do know that one day, hopefully far enough in the future for her to outgrow the comforts of a plastic dog, Mochi will falter—a misstep leading to a fall down the stairs, an unbreakable audio loop, a failure to charge. I realize these are realities for Hollywood, too, that I’ve been pretending the occasional glitch or failure to respond to a command is simply a quirk in the technology. “Speak,” I say. Mochi lets out an excited series of barks and the girl’s bag shakes. “I’m glad I could help,” I tell her.
Before my wife, Ayano, was infected almost three years ago during a visit to her mother’s fishing village, I never understood the fascination with robotic pets. My job at the robotics factory was merely a paycheck. Since then Hollywood has given me a bridge to my son. In our old life, I would come home, ask Aki about school, and if he was doing well, I’d tell him to keep it up. If he was doing poorly, I’d yell and take away his game consoles. And that was that. But when his mother was admitted to the hospital, I tried to step up as a father, checking his math, practicing his English with him. We’d watch the news together over dinner—endless reports about how the worst of the plague would be over any day now, the government committing to a decade-long seawall project to protect Osaka and Tokyo from rising sea levels. Mostly, we pretended to be absorbed in these reports to avoid speaking to each other.
It was Aki’s idea to buy his mother a robo-dog, something to keep her company when we couldn’t. He met me at a closeout sale where the last robo-dogs were being sold, and I let him take charge, questioning the vendors, playing with the robo-Pomeranians, -Akitas, and -poodles, adding bandannas and other accessories to our purchase without asking my permission.
“Dad, check it out,” he said, pointing to a husky puppy. “I think this is the one.”
I shook the dog’s paw and it barked cheerfully. “I think you might be right,” I said. Aki hoisted the gigantic box onto the cashier’s counter and for one of the few times in his life, he looked me square in the eyes and thanked me without being prompted.
We wrapped a red bow around the dog’s neck, sanitized it to protect Ayano’s compromised immune system from any germs it might be carrying, and took it to the hospital, set it on the tray table over her bed. When she woke up, I told her to pet the dog’s back and command it to shake hands. Ayano beamed and shook its latex paw as the dog wagged its tail, barked, and said hello in a digitized English accent.