People think robots don’t sleep, but we do. Slip into standby mode, basic functions ticking away while everything else takes a much-needed rest. Robots that don’t sleep end up in the recycler twice as fast, unless they’re the kind of fancy pet slut-bots that rich losers buy when they can’t get a real piece. Then guys like me get paid to keep them purring and moaning, day and night.

Emphasis on the night. My comlink politely announced that I had an incoming transmission from a Dr. David Green. Contrary to popular opinion, I did have bills to pay, so I accepted the call.

“Is this Trey Edison?” a fluttery old voice asked.

“Speaking.”

“Please, you must come immediately,” the man said. “It’s my wife. She doesn’t look well.”

“Maybe you should try emergency services,” I said politely.

“I did!” He made a small, choked sound. “They told me… they said I needed to call a mechanic.”

“Ah.” Poor guy. Either he hadn’t known she was a doll, or he had grown senile and forgotten. “On my way, sir.”