Bound to a System, But Six Years Too Early

I held the roll under the hot water for exactly twelve seconds before it split down the middle. The kitchen door at Cedar House had a window in it, and I kept looking through that window even though I knew nobody was supposed to be there. The staff had locked the kitchen after dinner because someone had left a burner on the night before. I had been hungry again after lights-out, and my twelfth birthday had not made me less hungry. I squeezed the roll over the sink. Water dripped from it, and a piece of white bread came off in my hand. "Happy birthday to me," I whispered. "Hello, candidate," said a voice inside my head. "I am the Personal Development System. I can help you—" A burst of static chewed through the next words. I dropped the roll. The mug hit the sink with a clank. I spun around. The kitchen was empty. Beyond the narrow window, the hall's night-light made a pale stripe across the floor. "Who said that?" "Binding error," the voice said. It sounded like a woman trying to speak through a bad telephone connection. "Scheduled activation age: eighteen. Current age: twelve. Please remain calm while—" "Are you in the vents?" "User location not applicable." "That's what someone in the vents would say." "Please select a development objective." I backed away from the sink until my shoulders touched the cabinets. My heart was going hard enough to make my throat hurt. The voice made a soft chime. "Objective prompt: identify one thing you want and state it without apology." "I want you to stop talking." "Objective accepted." It stopped. I waited. Ten seconds. Twenty. The only sounds were the fridge and the little drips from my ruined birthday roll. Then the voice said, "This system will provide limited prompts. It cannot contact others, change records, or guarantee outcomes." I was grateful it had stopped pretending it could help me. "How did you get in my head?" "Binding error." "That explains nothing." "Correct." I was still standing there when the hall door opened. I shoved the wet roll into my sweatshirt pocket. My caseworker, Mara Ellis, came in with a clipboard tucked under her arm. She wore her outside coat, and her hair was damp from the rain. She glanced at my hand, then at the mug. "Lila, what are you doing up?" "I was thirsty." "Were you trying to eat that?" "No." Mara looked at the roll hanging damply from my pocket. I felt my face get hot. "It's my birthday. I thought there might be something left." Her expression softened, but not enough to undo the question she had brought with her. She set the clipboard on the counter. "I'm sorry. I thought they'd saved you a slice of cake." "Someone ate it." "I'll talk to the staff in the morning." She took a breath. "I also need to tell you that we're reviewing placements for you and Mae." The voice chimed inside my head. "New objective available: ask for information." I wished I could turn it off like a lamp. "What does that mean?" I asked. "It means the group home is closing at the end of the month," Mara said. "We've been trying to find the best next step for everybody." Mae and I had been at Cedar House for almost a year. She was eleven, small, and good at remembering lyrics to songs we weren't allowed to play after nine. She slept in the room across from mine and left her books on the stairs because she said she liked knowing where I'd find them. "What about Mae?" "We're still looking at options." "Together?" Mara looked at her clipboard instead of me. "There's a family interested in you. The Cormacks. They're licensed for one child right now." "I don't want to go without Mae." "You haven't met them yet." "That isn't what I asked." The voice spoke so quietly I almost thought I imagined it. "Objective complete." Mara rubbed her forehead. "You deserve to hear the options before you decide." "I just told you my option." "We'll talk tomorrow. It's late, and you need sleep." She put the clipboard under her arm. I wanted to ask if a family could change its mind once it had picked you. I wanted to ask if "interested in you" meant they had read my file or just looked at a picture. Instead I said, "Can you tell me why they only want one?" "They're approved for one child. They have a young son already." "Then they have two." "They can take one more." The voice stayed quiet. Mara took the mug from the sink and put it on the counter. "Try to sleep, okay?" I didn't answer. She left the kitchen, and the door clicked shut behind her. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the wet roll. It had fallen apart. I turned the soggy pieces over in my palm. "System?" "Active." "Can you make the Cormacks take Mae too?" "Cannot change other people's decisions." "Can you make them choose me?" "Cannot guarantee outcomes." "Then what can you do?" A pause. Then the voice said, "Help identify your next action." I carried the roll to the trash and washed the mug. I didn't know whether I believed in a system. I did know the question in Mara's office was real. That night I lay awake with my hands folded on my stomach, trying to make myself want a home enough to leave my friend behind. The system offered no answer.