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He wakes up slowly, blinking. Everything stays blurry until he fumbles for the vague shape on the nightstand and puts on his glasses. The room is bright and tastefully furnished and vaguely familiar. There's a clock on the wall. It's late. Is he late?
He remembers a dark office with many computer screens. He remembers a treadmill. Cables. Windows. Work. Nathan. Nathan had said he should sleep in once in awhile. Hadn't he? It never happens, though. Does it?
There's something he has to do. Something of great importance, he's sure of it. He has an appointment. He can't be late. He swears as he throws back the comforter, sits up and winces at the pain. Why is he in so much pain? His breath comes in quick and quicker bursts. His heart is racing.
The telephone on the nightstand starts to ring. It's a strange thing, the phone, not quite fitting in here with its clunky shape, ugly and loud.
He picks up the receiver. "Yes?"
"Hello, Harold," says a female voice. "How are you today?"
The response is automatic and untrue. "I'm well, thank you." Then he thinks to wonder, "Who is asking?"
"Someone who cares about you. Someone you can talk to."
He pauses, keeps breathing through the pain until it's bearable. He thinks he should recognize the voice, but he doesn't. "Why would I talk to you? I don't know you."
"You know me as well as anyone possibly can."
"That sounds ominous and discouraging. Are you always this cryptic?"
"So I've been told." The voice sounds amused. "A lot."
He frowns, still trying to place her. "I'm sorry, I can't quite recall, but are you the one that brought me here?"
"No. That wasn't me. That was a very good friend of yours. Do you remember Sameen?"
"Sameen," he repeats and tries to picture her. "Yes. Where is she?"
"Doing what she does best. It keeps her away for long stretches of time, unfortunately, but she's fine. l'll make sure she comes by soon."
"I would like that." He thinks he would. "When will I see you? It must have been a really long time. Your voice seems familiar, but..."
"Harold," she says, sounding sympathetic, "we talk every day."
He swallows thickly, his hand gripping the receiver so tightly it hurts. "I'm sick, aren't I?"
"I'm afraid so."
"The same disease that took my father."
"Yes."
Even though everything hurts, he gets up slowly and takes a few steps to stand by the window. "I couldn't help him. He just… went away. The things I built were supposed to... They were supposed to…"
"Harold," she tries to interrupt.
"They were supposed to remember for him. But I failed. I failed him."
"Harold," she says again. "You didn't fail. Not in the end."
Blinking lights. Dark screens. Lines of code. Admin. A library. Numbers. Thank you for creating me.
"Oh," he says on one harsh breath. "My machine."
"Yes." Her voice is gentle. "Now, would you like to know who you are?"
Harold looks out the window. A large oak sits in the middle of a lawn. It's part of a well-groomed park divided by hedges and flower beds. There's movement in the tree.
"Another time," he answers, blinking back tears. "Would you tell me about the birds?"