Bound to a System, But Six Years Too Soon

The roll was still hard enough to bruise my gums when the voice in my head said, "Hello. I'm—" A burst of static swallowed the rest. I jerked so hard that the mug slipped in my hands. Hot water sloshed over my fingers and onto the counter. I dropped the roll, grabbed a dish towel, and stared at the kitchen door. Nobody stood there. The birthday card beside my plate had a glittery blue twelve on it. It came from the county worker who visited once every other month and never remembered whether I liked cake. There was no cake. The card had a grocery-store sticker still on the back. I rubbed my burned fingers under the tap. The voice returned, quieter. "I'm a personal support system. My designated user is Riley Hart. Intended activation: age eighteen. Current age: twelve. Activation occurred six years ahead of schedule." I shut off the faucet. "Did you hear that?" I asked the empty kitchen. "No," the voice said. I spun around anyway. The residential building I called Alder House used to be a private school. The kitchen had a walk-in pantry, a stainless-steel island, and a cracked clock that had been stuck at 2:17 for as long as I'd lived there. It was late, and the other kids were supposed to be in the common room watching a movie. I'd slipped away to find something to eat because the dinner trays had been smaller than usual again. There was a plastic delivery sheet clipped to the pantry door. I'd noticed it when I came in. The dinner order said forty-two rolls. There were only thirty-one in the basket. I pulled the sheet closer. "Can you see this?" I whispered. "I can process information you provide." "Are you a ghost?" "No." "A radio?" "No." "Then where are you?" "I don't know how to answer that in a way you would find useful." That made two of us. I looked at the delivery sheet again. Forty-two rolls on the order. Thirty-one in the basket. The empty storage shelves had a way of making every shortage feel deliberate, even when people told us not to be dramatic. "What are you supposed to do?" "Support planning, organization, and independent decision-making. I cannot make decisions for you. I cannot access external records. I cannot guarantee your safety." "Great." "I can assist you in describing what you observed." "Why?" "Your system record indicates that accurate documentation may be useful." I had no idea what that meant. I did know that Mr. Keene, Alder House's director, had accused my friend June of taking food from the pantry the week before. June hadn't. I'd seen her eating a bruised apple she'd brought from school, and I'd seen the staff move two full boxes of snacks into Mr. Keene's office. I didn't say any of that out loud. Alder House was supposed to be a temporary home for foster kids who needed extra support. "Temporary" was one of those words adults used when they didn't want to explain the future. I'd been there fourteen months. June had been there three years. We both knew better than to ask when we were leaving. "I'm not writing a report about a roll," I said. "Understood." The voice didn't argue. It didn't tell me I was brave or special. It didn't make the kitchen brighter. It simply waited. I found a pencil in the drawer. On the back of the delivery sheet, I wrote the date, the number on the order, and the number in the basket. Then I added the time I'd found it and the fact that nobody had told me to count the rolls. I took a picture with my battered tablet, though I had no idea what good that would do. "Would you like to save this as a note?" the voice asked. "What does that mean?" "I can store it for you." "Can anybody else see it?" "No." "Can Mr. Keene?" "I have no connection to Mr. Keene." That answer made me feel a fraction better. I took the sheet to the common room. June sat on the carpet with her knees tucked under her chin, not watching the movie. Her brown hair fell in a curtain across her face. "Happy birthday," she said without looking up. "Thanks. I found the food sheet." She glanced at me. "Again?" "There were forty-two rolls on the order and thirty-one in the basket." June's mouth tightened. "Don't start something over bread." "I'm not starting anything." "Last time I asked where the yogurt went, Keene said I was keeping a grievance list." "What did he do?" "He said I'd be moved somewhere with better structure if I kept accusing staff." She rubbed her thumb along a frayed seam on her jeans. "I don't want to be moved." I sat beside her. "I don't either." "What's the paper?" I showed her my notes. "You wrote it down?" "Yeah." "Why?" I almost told her about the voice. Instead, I said, "So I don't forget." A door opened at the far end of the hall. Mr. Keene came in carrying his clipboard. He looked at the paper in my hand, then at my face. "Birthday girl," he said. "Everything all right?" The voice spoke in my head again. "Task suggestion: ask for the signed delivery receipt." I swallowed. "Could I see the signed delivery receipt for tonight's food order?" Mr. Keene stopped smiling. For a moment, I thought I'd made a mistake. Then he glanced at June and held out his hand for the sheet. "Where did you get this?" "The kitchen." "I'll take care of it." "It's my note," I said. His fingers closed over the edge of the paper. "And it's a staff matter." I held on. June sat up straight beside me. Mr. Keene looked from her to me, then released the paper with a soft, annoyed laugh. "Get some sleep, Riley. We'll talk tomorrow." He walked away with his clipboard. I still had the note. The system remained silent until I folded the paper and tucked it in my pocket. "Would you like help identifying your next step?" it asked. I watched Mr. Keene disappear down the hall. "Not yet," I said.