Christmas loomed like an insistent bum in the street ahead and Brant was similarly wary of both. He knew neither what to say or what to give, felt guilty about not wanting to give anything.
His son played with the wrapping-paper tube, a skeletal delight for the grave-robbing children of the world. Usually employed as a sword, or a telescope, the boy had opted for an arm extension.
“I am not a robot,” his son said, robotically. “Robots are evil.”
“True,” Brant said, moving into the bathroom.
Inside, he looked into the mirror and adjusted his emotion settings.