Author: Georgia Brown

     There has never been much to do outside. Inside, there’s climate control, infinite water, and snacks in easy reach. Outside has cars, crowds and a cacophony of clamor that is meant to mean something. My parents said I have to go outside like they did. It’s unfair. None of my friends are forced to go outside like this.
     I stand on the sidewalk right outside the raised gates. Everyone moves with equal speed without touching one another like a well-oiled machine. It’s warm enough now that most are wearing standard-issue white clothes. I wait by the wall for Indigo, out of the way from the crowd. I am very good at following perceived instructions. My teacher would have given me a gold star for that.
     Somebody grabs my wrist anyway. They hold it right above my identification bracelet, scan it, then speak. It’s always sounded a little like a rat to me, but it’s rude to call somebody’s language rat-like. They try again. I still cannot answer. I want to. It always sounded like a fun language. But I never could with my parts.
     They change their tactic. “Are you a human?”
     Indigo grabs their wrist and speaks in their language. Indigo is Indigo. Even though Indigo speaks in the foreign language, I can still recognize a lecture when I hear it. The stranger leaves quicker than they arrive. Indigo pays no attention to their retreat. Instead, Indigo looks at me and holds one hand out in waiting. It is the older blueberry-stained hand with a finger broken by a door. I take it.
     We cannot go onto the road. The road is for the trucks. We cannot go into the tall buildings made of off-white concrete. The buildings are where the workers go. We follow the woven iron fences instead on a downtrodden sidewalk to my favorite place in town. I’ve asked before why it’s named after a car park. Indigo says it’s not. It’s named after a livestock enclosure. Though that is strange too, for there is never any livestock here.
     There are two long lists on the doors. One in English, and one in Indigo’s tongue. Mine has little drawings with it. My favorite is the dog. It looks nothing like the dogs on the television, but if Indigo says it’s a dog, then it must be a dog. Indigo’s has no pictures. Indigo told me it was a special rules that I didn’t have to follow, not any secret message or game or anything fun. I had Indigo translate for me anyway. Indigo was right. It was long, complicated, and made little sense. I hold out my wrist and reach. I am still too small to use the identification scanner. Indigo kneels. Using Indigo as a stepstool, I am tall enough to use the device. I copy how my parents input the code, creating a familiar melody with the numbers, and the door opens so we can get through.
     There’s a path in the park indicated by decomposed granite painted tan. We walk on the path and not the astro turf. We can walk on the astro turf when we get to the bench, but not before. Well, Indigo has never stopped me. However, Indigo refuses to walk on the turf, so we walk hand in hand to the bench. The solar panel above provides enough shade that things left on the bench would not become sun-bleached. It’s a distance from the filters that lined the road, however not far enough in my opinion, as I can still hear their constant thrum.
     Indigo sets up the bench. Indigo always keeps our stuff close out of courtesy for
others, yet nobody else is ever here. It’s only ever been us on this bench.
     “What’s a human?” I ask Indigo. Indigo stops bringing out our stuff to give me full attention. It is, apparently, a sign of respect. Indigo is the only one who has ever done it to me.
     “Self-aware, culture-focused primates who control the world,” says Indigo. “Is this question referring to the droid we met earlier? They are an out-of-date model which is more prone to errors. Never you mind.”
     “Am I human?” “Yes.”
     “Are you human?”
     “No. I am Indigo.” Indigo looks down at me with two eyes that match my own.
     One of Indigo’s hands is still in my grip. Indigo dresses like Mom does. Indigo talks like
my teacher does. Indigo is not a human. Indigo is Indigo. I am not Indigo.
     “What does human mean?”
     “‘To err is to human is a popularly repeated quote’. While the original by Alexander Pope stated, ‘To err is human, to forgive divine’, many change the second part of the quote to suit their needs. Others say to love, to suffer or to live is to human. There is no all-encompassing answer found to what human means.”
     “Am I out-of-date?” “No.”
     “But you said the droid earlier made errors because they are out-of-date. If humans make errors too then we must be out-of-date.”
     “That is different. Humans can make mistakes. We cannot.” “How is it different?”
     “Humans grow. While small now, you will grow in mind and body. Machine cannot. Humans adapt to new situations without limit. You will make mistakes in order to grow. Machines remain constant. Our errors are our own failing. We do not understand it is an error until told. We are limited in our capacity to change. To change, outdated technology must be replaced.”
     “But sometimes I don’t understand I made a mistake until I am told either. Mx. Claire had to tell me I was sitting in the wrong seat yesterday after the seating chart was changed. Everyone laughed at me.”
     “Did Mx. Claire correct the laughter?” “No.”
     “Mx. Claire made an error. I will inform them via email.”
     “But doesn’t that mean we are outdated? You’d never make that mistake, Indigo. I bet you would know before you even walked into class that there was a new seating
chart.”
     “No. Humans cannot become outdated as machines do.”
     I move to sit closer to Indigo when I hear the general hubbub that always happens around noon. A crowd makes their way from the concrete towers to the park. They are all dressed in white with a logo and nametag that sits across their heart. They never sit by this bench. They prefer the picnic tables that sit under the park’s pavilion near the big clock that chimes on the hour. Some of them plug themselves in. Some of them eat their sandwiches. They all talk together at the same volume about inevitable fates, like taxes.
     “When does technology become outdated, Indigo?” “Elaborate.”
     “You won’t become outdated, will you, Indigo?”
     “The average lifespan of most technology is 1 to 13 years. My model has only been around for 2 years. I am expected to have at least a few more years on this model.”
     “You are older than 2. You bought me my cake for my 5th birthday. I asked for the one with chocolate sprinkles inside, remember? We went to the store and got the green dog ones.”
     “My memory bank is 8.3 years old. Indigo’s model is 2 years old.”
     Indigo is Indigo. I try to remember if Indigo was ever not Indigo. Indigo sits by my side as Indigo always has.
     The lunch crowd disperses at a slow trickle. One of them trips over the crack that’s never fixed in the concrete. The fall was bad. A human from a table rushes over and moves them back on a bench and begins to give them a check-up like the nurse did whenever I tumbled during recess. The droid made a mistake. Their leg looked as broken as Indigo’s finger.
     “I want to go home now.”
     “Your parents wish for you to be outside for 13 minutes longer.”
     “But I want to go home.”
     Indigo looks at me. Then to the injured droid across the way. “I will pack up. We will leave in 5 minutes, then take the 8-minute route back home.” We do as Indigo says. Indigo packs toys I never used and the refreshments I didn’t touch. I latch on to Indigo’s hand as soon as I can. It is as it always was.
Indigo keeps between me and the road. The longer walk back takes us through a suburban neighborhood of cloned houses and tightly packed lawns. It’s rare to see anyone through the curtains, however squeals of delight often ring out through the backyards. From the closest house, I hear the thump of a rubber ball smacking against the fence and the indistinct chatter of older kids.
     The sound did not make me jump. I just happen to want to hold Indigo’s hand
around the same time I heard the noise. Before Indigo can be wrong, I ask, “when we get back, can we play ball or something?”
     “Today, your mother will be replacing my left hand. The process will likely take
close to two hours.”
     “Oh.” I splay out the hand in my grasp and run my fingers over it. I can feel the broken bits in the lame finger. “Can I keep it?”
     “Ask your parents. The hand will no longer be mine.” “But if it was up to you, can I?”
     Indigo goes quiet. I’m close enough to hear the almost silent fans kick in as Indigo processes the question. Eventually, Indigo settles on, “if the decision was mine, I would say you can. However, you still must ask your parents.”
     My parents make no comment when we arrive exactly an hour after we first left the house. Dad is working in the office like the fallen droid in the park should be. Mom is working in Indigo’s bedroom. Surrounding her are miniscule screws and wires that span every color of the rainbow. To her side is a worn book with Indigo’s face on it. In front of her, Indigo’s hand. But it is not Indigo’s hand. Not yet. I ask a question, and Mom sends me off elsewhere before replacing Indigo’s out-of-date hand.
     Indigo would find me later examining the photos on the stairwell. In Indigo’s hands; a broken, stained one. Indigo does not move as I compare the Indigo beside me to the one in the picture. Indigo no longer has white hair. Indigo no longer has mismatched eyes. Indigo has changed, just as I have. I hold both the new and old hands close. The Indigo in every picture is Indigo, just as Indigo is Indigo.