Barren Cove (18 page)

I heard the sound of somebody crying. I turned to see Kent with a handkerchief to his eyes, although they were quite dry. The sound was real, though. As Clarke had done with his laugh, Kent had downloaded a recording of a real human's tears.

We were burying his sister and—would he say . . . his brother?

I thought again of the story he had told me weeks before. He had been left with nothing. Or perhaps, by being left with grief, he had more than any of us.

Clarke started filling the grave at once, and Kapec followed his lead. I expected Kent to protest, and I almost protested on his behalf. There should be something said. There should be some ceremony. But Kent just cried. Clarke and Kapec worked. I stood to the side, watching. It was as if I had been granted an opportunity to see firsthand part of the story that I had learned from Dean. This could just as well have been Philip's funeral. Only now, it somehow lacked and yet was overwhelmed by the same sense of tragedy.

The ground was flat in only twenty-four minutes. Clarke and Kapec walked away, taking their shovels with them.

“And so it goes,” Kent said, dabbing at his dry eyes one more time. Then he too turned and went back to the house.

I stood over the bare patch of dirt. The sun was on its way down, casting the backyard in the shadow of the house. The ocean was dark now, but still vocal. I started toward the cliff stairs, on my way to the cabana.

I had hoped that Beachstone would be able to give me an answer about life and death. To have the human knowledge of your own end must be the most comforting feeling in the world. Instead, I was left with Mary's conviction, Kent's mimicry, and Clarke's robotic stoicism. It made my own decision no clearer.

How could I ask to be shut down? What would tomorrow be without me? I might be old, but my interest in humans didn't seem to extend to a desire to share their fate. Shouldn't I have known that before I even left the city? I had ordered my spare parts after all. It was the first thing I had thought to do after I had let the bus hit me.

No, I thought, sitting in the cabana, watching the black waves, I had not found the answers I was looking for at Barren Cove.

ALSO BY ARIEL S. WINTER

The Twenty-Year Death

One of a Kind
(for children)

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