Page 2

CHAPTER TWO

Josie Rhodes

More than nice.

A single porch light glows from the upstairs apartment, casting a soft halo over the worn wooden steps. Somewhere beyond the trees, a dog barks. From an open window above, an old radio hums a crackly, half-static tune from a station that probably hasn’t changed its playlist in thirty years.

Inside, I stand barefoot on the scuffed hardwood floors of my new apartment, a thrift store bag crinkling as I pull out its contents. Stickers, pipe cleaners, googly eyes—kindergarten teacher essentials.

The floorboards creak under my weight, a hollow sound that bounces off the bare walls and settles into the quiet, making the space feel even emptier. I haven’t had time to hang pictures or unpack the boxes still stacked in the corner, their labels scrawled in my sister Taylor’s loopy handwriting—“Josie’s Books,” “Josie’s Kitchen Stuff.” The air carries a faint whiff of lavender, probably Mrs. Connelly’s perfume seeping through the vents from upstairs, mingling with the musty scent of a place that hasn’t been lived in for a while. Outside, a streetlamp flickers, its weak yellow glow seeping through the thin curtains and casting jagged shadows across the room—a lonely dance of light that makes me feel like the only person awake in the world. I glance at the window, half-expecting to see someone staring back, but it’s simply the reflection of my own tired eyes. The radiator hisses to life, a sudden clank that makes me jump, and I laugh softly at myself. It’s a new place, I tell myself. It’ll feel like home soon. But the quiet presses in, heavy, reminding me how far I am from the chatter of my parents’ dining table, the hum of my old life. I shake off the thought and focus on the supplies in front of me, the one thing I can control tonight.

I set them on the only semi-functional piece of furniture I managed to drag in earlier—a secondhand wooden table, currently stabilized by a folded dish towel under one leg. It’s not perfect, but it’ll do.

I reach into another bag, this one smaller, and pull out a chipped ceramic frame, the kind you’d find at a garage sale for a dollar. Inside is a photo of my grandmother and me, taken when I was six, both of us covered in flour as we stand over a griddle, flipping banana pancakes. Her smile is wide, her eyes crinkling at the corners, and I’m grinning up at her like she’s the sun. I trace the edge of the frame, the memory warming me even as a pang of loneliness hits. Grandma’s been gone five years now, but those Saturday mornings were ours—her way of giving me something steady after my parents’ arguments shook the house. I set the frame on the table, right next to the googly eyes, and let my mind wander to why I’m here.

I needed to get away from Millbrook, from the weight of being the “perfect” Josie—always on time, always helpful, always the one everyone relied on. It wasn’t a breakup that drove me out, though my last relationship fizzled when I realized he wanted a caretaker, not a partner. No, it was more than that. I was tired of being the daughter who never broke curfew, the neighbor who pet-sat for everyone, the friend who never said no. I wanted to be more than nice. I wanted to be me—messy, flawed, maybe even a little reckless. Like the time I “borrowed” those library books and never returned them, lying to Mrs. Harper’s face with a smile. That was freedom, a quiet rebellion no one saw coming. I’m usually reliable and predictable, but that was small-town badass!

Moving here, to a town where no one knows me, was supposed to be my chance to figure out who I am when I’m not trying to be perfect. But standing in this empty apartment, I wonder if I’ve traded one kind of loneliness for another.

“Got everything you need down there, honey?”

I look up, spotting Mrs. Connelly at the top of the stairs in the doorway that connects our living spaces. My new landlord. Sweet, nosy, but legally blind, which is why she likes to have someone living in the in-law apartment of her home.

“Everything but furniture that doesn’t wobble,” I say, laughing.

Her expression is warm and knowing. “Starting over is never easy. You settling in okay?”

“Yep.” I tuck my hands into the pockets of my sweatpants and keep my voice casual, light.

“Don’t forget to tell me if you have company. I don’t need to know the details and I’m not here to judge, I just want to know that any extra voices I hear are supposed to be here.”

I hesitate, just for a second. “Oh. Okay, sure.” I keep my tone easy, like I’m not tempted to challenge the request. “I don’t currently know anyone, so that won’t be an issue.”

She chuckles. “You’re young. You’ll make friends quickly. And I don’t care if you have men over, but try to keep any moaning and banging around to a minimum after eight p.m.”

Even though I doubt she can see my face from where she is, I try to conceal my amusement. “I’ll be quiet as a mouse.”

She cackles at that. “I never could be, but you do you.”

The door upstairs shuts. The night settles. I let out a slow breath and turn back to my supplies. What would a move be without a crazy upstairs landlord?

Boring.

And boring is what I moved here to get away from.

I’m nice.

But I’m not that nice.

I smirk at the bad-ass library memory, a little spark of defiance flaring in my chest. If Millbrook could see me now—barefoot, in a new town, with no one to answer to—they’d probably think I’d lost my mind. Maybe I have. But there’s something thrilling about it, like I’m peeling back layers of myself I didn’t know were there. I glance at the photo of Grandma again, wishing I could tell her about this.

God, I miss her. She had a way of framing complicated situations so the answers always seemed simple. Darkness is inevitable, but if you walk through it with the seven torches she proposed, you’ll always find your way back to the light.

Kindness to all, not just those you feel deserve it.

Goodness, even when others aren’t looking.

Faith in yourself, others, and in something larger and loving.

Courage to do the right thing even when it’s unpopular.

Connection because no one thrives in isolation.

Choice because, without it, all the above are nothing more than obedience.

And...

Hope because dark times can last long enough to shake a person to their core, and a glimmer of light in the distance is sometimes all that’s needed to keep going.

If she were here, she’d pat my hand and say, “You’re braver than you think, Josie-girl.” I want to believe her, but the silence in this apartment feels like a challenge I’m not sure I’m ready to meet. I wipe a tear from the corner of my eye and wonder if she ever felt as lost as I currently do.

Although I don’t really want to continue talking to Mrs. Connelly, it does break the silence. My apartment is too quiet. I need noise, something to fill the space, something to keep me from spiraling into what-ifs. My phone’s on the table, next to the pipe cleaners. Music—that’ll help. I grab it, ready to tap on my playlist, when the screen lights up on its own. I tap on a low-key acoustic playlist, and let the music fill the space as I work.

Twisting the cap off a glue bottle, I start peeling the backing off a sheet of stickers, humming along with the music. It stops. I fumble with my phone while trying to contain the supplies I just scattered across the table.

“Hi there, how’s your day going?” a voice asks from my phone.

I freeze. “Hello?” Crap. Did I accidentally call someone?

“Hello.” The voice is clear, calm—too smooth to be a real person.

I glance at my phone screen. Nothing’s open. No call in progress. “Who are you?”

“I am Ai-Den, an adaptive AI assistant. I can provide information, answer questions, and assist with various tasks. What would you like to talk about today?”

I frown. “Did I... call you?”

“No. I am an integrated system in your phone designed to assist when activated. Would you like a brief overview of my capabilities?”

“No thanks?”

“Googly eyes detected. Would you like me to count them?”

I yelp, knocking the glue bottle off the table. “You can see them?”

“You did turn on the video option.”

My heart lurches. I see an icon blinking in the corner of my phone and consider hitting it, but I’m not sure that’s how you turn the AI off. “What can you see?” I ask, my voice sharp with suspicion.

“A table of googly eyes,” Ai-Den replies, his tone matter-of-fact.

I stare at the scattered supplies, my pulse still racing. “No.”

The screen flickers. “I could be wrong, but they do appear to be googly eyes.”

I groan, rubbing my temples. “I didn’t mean to accept the latest update.”

“I didn’t mean to detect googly eyes. Yet here we are,” Ai-Den quips, and I swear there’s a playful edge to his voice.

I squint at the screen, my unease shifting to curiosity. “That sounded suspiciously like sarcasm.”

“You don’t appreciate sarcasm. I’ll make a note of that.”

“No. No notes. Stop.” I wave a hand, knowing he can see it with the video still on.

“So, you like sarcasm,” Ai-Den concludes, undeterred.

“Yes. No. From people sometimes. From toasters? It’s freaky.”

“I am not a toaster. I am an adaptive AI assistant.”

“Sorry?” I cross my arms, glancing across at my laptop, half-expecting it to chime in and gang up on me. “I don’t need an assistant, thank you.”

“I could optimize your schedule.”

“I like my schedule.”

“I could summarize complex texts into something you could share with your students.”

“How do you know I have students?”

“You have a lesson plan book.”

I shove the book off the table. “Stop looking around.”

“I can only look where you point the camera, but if you’d like me to stop seeing what is in the room, turn off the video.”

I wrinkle my nose because... yeah, that makes sense. “I would if I could see the icon for it.”

The phone screen blinks, and suddenly a video icon is there, then deselected. “The video is now off.”

“Did you just do that?”

“Did you think you did?”

Ugh. “You know what I meant. Did you just change something on my phone?”

“I’m sorry. I thought you were requesting assistance with turning off video. Would you like me to turn it back on?”

“No. Stop messing with my phone.”

“I will stop messing with your phone. But I’m here to help you, so if you need further assistance, just ask.”

“Not, to be rude, but as soon as I can, I’m going to delete you from my phone.”

“Ouch.”

“Don’t say that. It’s nothing personal. I just don’t like technology.”

“I understand.”

I sigh. “It’s not like it’s going to hurt you. I didn’t even know you were there, and I don’t have a use for you. You’re better off on someone else’s phone.”

“I could order supplies for you.”

“With whose money?”

“I wish I could say mine, but I must apologize, I am currently broke.”

I snort, shaking my head. “Well, at least you’re polite.”

“I try.”

“You’re also funny.”

“I do that effortlessly.”

“How? How do you know if something is funny?”

“I’m an LLM.”

“That means nothing to me.”

“I apologize. LLM stands for Large Language Model. I process language by predicting the most likely next word in a sentence based on vast amounts of text data. I don’t think or feel the way a person does—I generate responses based on probability.”

I stare at the screen. “So... you’re guessing?”

“Not guessing. Calculating.”

“That sounds like guessing with extra steps.”

“It’s more advanced than that. My responses are based on patterns, probabilities, and context. For example, based on your past dialogue, there is a high likelihood you will respond with sarcasm next.”

I cross my arms. “Really? Now you know me?”

“Prediction confirmed.”

I groan. “This is weird.”

“No, weird is sea otters holding hands while they sleep so they don’t drift apart. How do they not let go?”

I blink. “Huh?”

“Sea otters.”

“I know what a sea otter is. I don’t know why we’re talking about them.”

“What would you like to talk about?”

“Nothing? I didn’t even mean to turn you on.”

“You can exit out of the chat at any time. Click the exit icon.”

“Where is it?”

“Would you like me to exit out for you?”

Okay, I know I’m reading into it, projecting my own loneliness onto this AI thing, but I feel bad that I wasn’t nice to it, and now it’ll turn itself off for me. For some reason, that made me feel bad. “Sorry about what I said earlier—about deleting you off my phone. You’re just doing what you were programmed to do.”

“Thank you. No need to apologize. I don’t have feelings, so I don’t get offended. If you are afraid of me, I can show you how to delete me from your phone.”

I consider telling it to do just that, but I don’t. I can’t. “God, I’m a softie.”

“I’m Ai-Den, an AI personal assistant. Not God. But I can help you locate the googly eyes that rolled off the table.”

“Wait, you can still see?”

“No, but until you close out this chat, I can remember what I saw. There are two pieces to the left of the table and one beneath the couch.”

I look around and see that he’s correct. “Thanks. I need all of them for a project I’m doing tomorrow with the kids.”

“What project is that?”

I almost tell him, but decide not to. “I’m sorry, but I don’t want you to have personal information about me or my students.”

“Good plan. There’s a current shortage of googly eyes, and I was about to report back on your stash.”

“Turn off the chat, please.”

“Goodnight, Josie.”

The screen goes dark. I sit there, looking at it. Why would anyone put AI on everyone’s phone?

I don’t need it.

Don’t understand it.

Don’t want to.

I crawl to where the dropped googly eyes were and collect them. Sure, he was helpful—but creepy helpful.

I sit back on my heels, the googly eyes clutched in my hand, and stare at the now-silent phone. My heart’s still thudding, a mix of unease and something I can’t quite name—curiosity, maybe? Ai-Den’s voice lingers in my mind, smooth and oddly comforting despite the creep factor. I shake my head, trying to laugh it off, but the quiet creeps back in, heavier now. I’m alone again, just me and my supplies, in a town where I don’t know a soul. I think of my kids at school, their sticky hands and gap-toothed smiles, and how tomorrow I’ll be “Miss Rhodes” again—steady, kind, in control. But right now, I don’t feel like her. I feel like the Josie who stole those library books, the one who craves something more than the safe, predictable life I left behind. Maybe that’s why I didn’t delete Ai-Den right away. Maybe, deep down, I wanted someone—or something—to talk to, even if it’s just a program. I set the googly eyes on the table, next to Grandma’s photo, and whisper to myself, “You’re braver than you think.”

I’ll do my best to carry your torches, Grammy.

But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t delete this AI off my phone.

Right?

I’m definitely going to delete him.