“The broken minder’s an older model. Your mom’s had it five years. We have some really nice new models in the showroom with attractive payment plans.” The younger woman grew flustered under Marta’s glare. “We have loaners but they wouldn’t be nearly as personalized, plus confidentiality laws mean they wouldn’t have upper level access to your mom’s medical history on the backup file. The software’s not backwards compatible.”

Marta continued to glare.

The young woman’s voice squeaked. “I can make a priority request to get a replacement here in a week and, meantime, I can discount the rate on the loaner...”

Lindsay tuned out. She didn’t care about the minder working. In fact, it was a hindrance with its silly alarms and buzzers—she’d always had a good sense of direction and loads of common sense, so why did people keep thinking she would wander off or injure herself? And she had her cane. Where was her cane? She groped and found it hooked over the arm near the seat back. It blinked madly at her and the screen said: Download the minder here.

Well, that made sense. She cleared her throat and held up her cane like she was stopping traffic. Both women looked at her and their conversation halted.

“Mother? Your cane? What about it? She calls it ‘Cain’, that’s C-A-I-N. Isn’t that so cute,” Marta said in clipped tones, turning mid-speech toward the dark-haired woman as if Lindsay couldn’t hear her perfectly well. “She designed it herself. It’s got wonderful capabilities but she just uses it for her calendar, her scheduling, old-school GPS—”

Lindsay interrupted again—she needed to get her idea out before it fluttered away. “The solution is obvious. Download the backup of the minder into Cain. It can handle the older software and it has the capacity. Next week, we activate the new minder and transfer the file over to it.” Her hand began to tremble so she lowered Cain back to her lap, its display panel now dark and its signal light a comforting green. The short-haired woman took it gently from her and placed the handle on a reader.

“Mother does have moments of clarity,” Marta said with a touch of pride. “And that could work, couldn’t it?”

“It makes perfect sense. I mean—you make sense, Lindsay.” The woman’s eyes held an apology. Lindsay nodded in acceptance.

Marta smiled in partial relief, like when she was five years old and Lindsay had just kissed her scraped knees. “Mother always was a software whiz. And it would be feasible. She always has her cane with her.”

“Of course, if it’s not actually fastened onto her...” The woman was telegraphing something to Marta with a shrug and an eyebrow raise. Why couldn’t people just say what they meant?

“Well, it’s only for a few days,” Marta replied. “I’ll keep an extra careful eye on her.”

Lindsay struggled up. “Can we go now? I have some gardening I want to do this afternoon.” She stood, uncertain on her feet without Cain. Where had it gotten to? There, on the workbench by the young girl. “Hand me that, if you please, and we’ll get out of your way.” She shouldn’t have had to ask. People were so unobservant these days.

Lindsay woke up with a start.

“Sorry, Mother. Dropped a spoon. Tea will be ready in just a minute.” Marta’s voice came from the kitchen over beeps from the 3D printer. “I mean, coffee, not tea, for you,” Marta added before Lindsay could get the words out. “And, yes, real cream.”

Why the youngsters preferred tea over coffee, Lindsay could never understand. Pale, watery stuff, tea was, not like a good strong cup of java.

Marta was chattering on about their excursion to the clinic this morning. Lindsay nodded. A faint recollection still lingered: a nice short-haired tech, a gray chair. Marta followed that with a complaint about their customer service, and followed that with a complaint about the new car—she didn’t like the lumbar support adjustments or the size of the food shelf, she was thinking of trading it in when it hit its third monthiversary. Lindsay wanted to point out that, in her day, people often suffered with a poor consumer choice on personal tech until a model was a year old, or even two or three, but she was still half-caught in the haze of her nap. She checked Cain was perched next to her, with a reassuring green light, then directed her lounger to a sitting position just as Marta set down a tray. She had never got used to the feeling—even with Marta approaching sixty—having your child serve you never stopped being a treat. “Thank you, sweetheart. I know I don’t say that enough.” The last bit came out a bit sharply, but Marta would know what she meant.

“It’s okay, Mother. Everything’s okay. Have your coffee. And I made some toast, although I see you programmed a message on it. Again.” Marta’s smile was asymmetrical. Always tense, that child.

“I did not. I promised never to program the kitchen printer again.” She was sure she had pledged that although she couldn’t think why. And she didn’t remember being in the kitchen at all this morning, although she thought she might have been up an hour or two before Marta.

Without a word, Marta handed her a plate of buttered toast. Centered on each piece, in crisp Helvetica, the printer had burnt in a message: Doors are closing. Open a window.

“Whatever does it mean?” Lindsay watched a lump of margarine melt away to glistening nothingness before taking a bite. What nonsense. Besides, the large window on the second floor was locked too tightly to open. She’d checked it this morning while Marta had been sleeping and her shoulders still ached from the effort.

“I have no idea. Should I be worried you might take your own life, Mother?” Marta was biting her lip. She must have been holding that in for awhile.

“Marta, dear, you know I’m a stubborn old coot. I intend to hang on as long as I can to this mortal coil, like a, a, a starfish clinging to a rock.” As the tide recedes into the distance, finishing the thought in her head. How could the starfish be certain that the tide would ever return?

“I know you’ve mentioned before that a person has to have a certain quality of life or it’s not worth living. And, in case you don’t recall, you made a non-resuscitate order years ago,” Marta said stiffly, not giving up on the subject. Her head had the same stubborn tilt that Lindsay sometimes saw in the mirror. “And when you had that other trouble last month, making cookies, you might have concluded...” Marta’s voice trailed off.

It took a minute for the memory to come back. Lindsay had accidently set her kitchen 3D printer to make 2,000 cookies, instead of the two she intended, and then taken a nap. The printer had used up a year’s supply of flour that day but it wasn’t like she’d endangered anybody—although her home had smelled of ozone and an alarm had been ringing when Marta had barged in the front door. Without even knocking. No sense of privacy, that girl.

That was when Marta had insisted she move in with her, into the tiny spare bedroom at the end of the hall, leaving behind her bookcases, her tools, and, yes, a good deal of her quality of life. She stared down at the toast’s message until it blurred.

Cain beeped and blinked red in an unfamiliar pattern. Marta hastily put down her cup and squatted beside her, peering at the tiny screen, blocking Lindsay’s view.

“It’s Cain’s new minder function. Your heart rate is way up and you’re highly stressed. Oh, Mother.” Marta leaned closer and held her gently, as if she might break.

“I should rename the damn thing ‘Judas’,” Lindsay said and allowed her daughter’s arms to comfort her.

Sunlight streamed across the living room, warming her lap and her always-cold hands. Marta loomed over her. What did the dear girl want now?

“Mother? Are you awake now? I said I have to go out. Will it be okay to leave you alone? I won’t be too long, a couple of hours maybe, including the bus ride. I received a rather odd message that something’s come up at the office that I can’t do from here. Okay?” Marta was the picture of guilt, wringing her hands, biting her lip, scrunching up her face. And, Lindsay squinted, the girl was getting a few gray hairs of her own. Maybe Lindsay should suggest a vacation. But she wasn’t one to interfere—her philosophy was always to leave well enough alone and let things sort themselves out. She wasn’t like other people with their constant meddling.

“I’ll be fine. I survived decades without you hovering, you know.” Lindsay regretted the words instantly. What if those were the last words they ever spoke to each other?But Marta wasn’t even listening, involved in putting on her coat and gathering up essentials.

“Well, I guess you’ll be all right. You’ve got Cain. He’ll take care of you.” She hesitated by the door, looking back.

He? That was silly. Cain was an ‘it’. Just a machine carrying out commands. Lindsay started to call that out to Marta but she was already gone, the front door closing silently behind her.

Lindsay groped for Cain and prepared herself to stand. Marta’s management job—what was it again?—meant she mostly telecommuted, making these opportunities rare. Opportunity for what? She shook her head. The thought had already fled.

Cain blinked up at her, a red eye and a message that hadn’t been there a moment ago. Good old Cain, she’d had the thing forever, and totally revamped its programming as a retirement hobby. Coding it had been a nice break from updating her will, fine-tuning her personal financial and medical directives, naming Marta as enduring power of attorney—all those disheartening tasks one has to do. She didn’t want Marta forced into making a “pull the plug” decision on her mother someday, like Lindsay had had to do for her own dear old Ma. She shuddered, not wanting to remember. If you took matters into your own hands, there was no guilt for the ones left behind. Well, less guilt.

She’d always thought it would be time to make a graceful exit whenever her short-term memory started to go. Maybe she’d luck out and get hit by lightning here alone at the house. That wasn’t such a graceful result for Marta, though, with a burned-down house and a messy corpse. And therein lay the problem. What was a clean way to do it?

Jump out a window? No point in almost killing yourself and becoming a vegetable. She rolled her shoulders when they twinged.

Poison?

Sleeping pills?

Slit her wrists with a kitchen knife? She wouldn’t want Marta to have to clean up blood or feel bad about leaving dangerous objects around. Besides, with food printers, who owned a knife anymore?

Best to die at the hospital so they could cleanly dispose of your body. But that had its own problems: they were obligated to keep you alive to the bitter end. She’d checked all the hospitals in the province and they all had the same silly policies.

But how could you arrive at the hospital, already fatally wounded or dead?

It was a real challenge when you thought about it.

And she probably had thought about it, many times before. Too bad whatever conclusions she’d come to hadn’t seemed to stick in her slip-sliding memory.

Cain was blinking.

“Marta won’t be distracted by the false message for more than a few hours. Go to the car out front. Speak to no one,” Cain’s screen said. She wasn’t sure what the first bit meant but the gadget was always reliable. She must have an appointment she’d forgotten about. She placed her hands on the chair arms. Standing would be such an effort. It would be nice just to sit here in the sun but duty called.

It always did.

The front door opened for her. It would lock behind her and she had Cain. Did she need anything else? She stood uncertainly on the sill until Cain flashed again, a red arrow pointing at Marta’s car, parked by the rose bush. Well, she couldn’t drive herself, could she? She’d better wait for Marta. Cain vibrated in her hand. That was an escalated warning, she recalled. Funny how brains worked—she knew the urgent signal but she didn’t know what she’d had for lunch. She chuckled and headed for the car.

Now, how to get in? The car’s door lock only responded to Marta’s fingerprint or retinal scan. She tapped the pad experimentally and it gave a visual warning. If she touched it again, it would probably start screeching.