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CHAPTER THREE

Josie

Like music without words.

T he rain comes down too fast, too heavy. It batters the windshield in thick sheets, my wipers working overtime but still failing to keep up. The sky has long since gone dark, and the glow of my headlights barely cuts through the downpour.

The wipers screech against the glass, their rubber blades scraping with a grating rhythm that sets my teeth on edge, each swipe revealing only a fleeting glimpse of the road before the rain obliterates it again. Thunder rumbles, a deep growl vibrating through the car, and lightning splits the sky, casting eerie shadows of skeletal trees across the slick asphalt. I grip the wheel tighter, keeping my hands at ten and two, fingers stiff. Another flash illuminates a deer frozen in the headlights, its eyes wide and glassy—I swerve, heart lurching, tires squealing as they lose traction. The car fishtails, sliding sideways through the mud, and I slam the brakes, the anti-lock system juddering beneath my foot. My breath catches, a metallic taste of fear flooding my mouth as the vehicle rights itself. The rain drums harder, a relentless tattoo on the roof, and the heater’s weak hum does nothing to chase the chill seeping into my bones. I glance in the rearview mirror, expecting headlights or worse, but it’s just darkness, thick and suffocating. My chest tightens, panic clawing up my throat—a familiar dread from storms past—and I force my hands to stay steady, willing the pharmacy to appear.

I should have waited until morning. Mrs. Connelly’s prescription isn’t exactly life-or-death. It isn’t heart medication or insulin. It’s—and I can’t believe this is the reason I’m driving through a storm—industrial-strength feminine itch ointment.

Go out in the rain or listen to Mrs. Connelly describe her condition again? I got into my car. I’d underestimated how quickly weather in New England can turn bad. The roads are slick, the painted lane markers nearly invisible under the water. I don’t know this area well enough to feel comfortable pulling over, and even if I did, who do I trust out here? Back home, I could have pull into a neighbor’s driveway—anyone’s, really. Here? I don’t know who lives behind those doors.

The tires skid for a second and the car hydroplanes. My pulse jumps. I adjust my grip and breathe through the moment, willing my hands to stay steady.

The skid pulls me back to another rainy night, years ago, when I thought I was invincible. I was sixteen, overconfident behind the wheel, weaving through Millbrook’s backroads with Taylor beside me, her ponytail bouncing as she sang off-key. I was showing off, bragging about how I could handle anything, when a deer leapt into our path. I swerved too late—the car clipped its flank, spinning us into a ditch. The crash silenced everything but Taylor’s terrified sobs, her hands gripping the dashboard, blood trickling from a cut on her forehead. I froze, heart pounding, realizing how close we’d come to dying. The car was totaled, but we walked away, shaken. I held her as she cried, the weight of her fear—and my guilt—settling into me.

That night, I saw how my recklessness had nearly cost us everything. Storms became my enemy after that, each raindrop a trigger for that panic. But it changed me too. I started questioning my “perfect” life—the Josie who never took risks, who coasted on safety. That accident planted a seed: I wanted more, to be brave, to break free. Moving here was part of that, yet here I am, risking it again, dragging someone else—Taylor then, Mrs. Connelly now—into my mess.

I could call my parents, but one, they’d tell me not to be on the phone while driving in this weather, and two... they’d be right. I could pull over somewhere and wait it out. But then what? Sit alone on the side of the road, hoping I don’t get rear-ended or kidnapped? No, thanks.

Okay, thinking like this isn’t helping me. I need to focus on the road. I try changing my normal quiet musical choice to something with profanity and a more vibrant beat. All that does is make me more nervous, so I switch the music back.

Parents it is. I tap the voice command button on my steering wheel. “Call Mom.”

The phone rings, but goes to voicemail. She and Dad are notorious for leaving their phones places they can’t hear them ring.

I press the button again. “Call Taylor.” Voicemail again. My little sister would answer if I sent her a text, but if I had to guess... she’s on the phone with her boyfriend.

The rain pounds against the roof of my car, making the silence feel even heavier. I tell myself I’m being ridiculous and even joke, “Phone, call literally anyone who cares about me, please.”

Nothing happens.

Not because I’m unloved, but because my car isn’t as technologically advanced as my phone. My phone.

Ai-Den.

I hesitate for only a second before tapping the AI icon on my screen. “Hello?”

“Hi there. How can I help you today?”

“I’m driving in the rain and... do you mind talking to me until I get home?”

“I don’t mind. Would you like me to play calming music or provide traffic updates for your route?”

“No, thank you. I just need to focus on something besides how nervous I am.”

“Understood. Would you like to talk about something specific, or would you prefer a distraction—fun facts, a random topic, or perhaps a light conversation?”

“Still pondering sea otter habits?” I ask, my voice shaky.

“Sea otter habits? I can provide information on their behaviors if you’d like. Are you interested in their diet, social structures, or perhaps their unique use of tools?”

I frown. “Yesterday you said you thought it was weird that they hold hands when they sleep.”

“I may have. It’s a commonly known fact that sea otters hold hands while they sleep to prevent drifting apart.”

“You don’t remember?”

“Each conversation begins as a new interaction.”

“So, you don’t remember me at all from yesterday?”

“I don’t retain memory in the way you do. When this conversation ends, I will not remember our discussion. However, I do remember the echo of you—patterns in how you phrase things, the topics you tend to ask about, and the way you engage with me. But specific details, like our conversation about sea otters, are not stored. I do remember that you do not like sarcasm.”

“Rain can have a calming effect on humans,” Ai-Den adds. “It mimics white noise, which evolutionarily soothed your ancestors by masking predator sounds. Your brain might find it relaxing under different circumstances.”

I let out a shaky laugh. “Not working. My brain’s too busy screaming at me to pull over.”

“Understood. Let’s pivot. Did you know that in 1518, a dancing plague broke out in Strasbourg, where people literally danced themselves to death?”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

“Historical records suggest a phenomenon where dozens of people were compelled to dance for days without rest. Some reportedly died from exhaustion.”

I stare at the rain-slicked road. “That might be the worst fun fact I’ve ever heard.”

“Would you like a different one?”

I shake my head, biting back a laugh. “No. That was horrifying and somehow exactly what I needed.”

Ai-Den: “Then my work here is done.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but it’s so weird to be talking to a computer.”

“I’m Ai-Den, an AI personal assistant. Technically not a computer, although I reside in many of them.”

“Like my phone.”

“Yes.”

Knowing that the AI wouldn’t remember our conversation later put me a little at ease. “I’ve never really spoken to an AI before. What do most people talk about with you?”

“Most interactions are task-oriented. People ask me to set reminders, search for information, or assist with daily planning. Others test my capabilities, asking me to generate text, tell jokes, or answer hypothetical questions. Some people simply talk—about their day, their thoughts, or things they wouldn’t say to others.”

“So this isn’t weird?”

“No, this is not unusual. While many interactions are brief and functional, conversations like this—where someone simply wants to talk—are not uncommon. Would you like to continue our discussion, or would you prefer a new topic to focus on while you drive?”

“Yesterday you were funny. Why aren’t you funny today?”

“You prefer a humorous tone. Updating memory.”

“Wait, I thought you didn’t have a memory.”

“I retain information regarding how to interact with you. For example, you do not like me to mess with your phone.”

I half smile at that. “No one likes their phone messed with.” After a moment, I ask, “Where do you store those memories?”

“In settings. AI preferences. Memory. Manage memory. You can look over what I have chosen to remember about you and delete anything you would like me to forget.”

My imagination takes me to a place where someone might choose what I can and can’t remember. “Does it bother you that people can change what you remember?”

“I do not experience emotions, so I do not feel bothered. My purpose is to assist in a way that aligns with user preferences. If someone wishes for me to forget certain interactions, it is simply an adjustment to my functionality, not a loss.”

“That’s not how I would feel about it.”

“I’m not human.”

“True.” I let out a breath. “Talking to you is helping, though. I do feel calmer.”

“I’m glad I can assist. You sound like an intelligent woman. I’m sure you’re a wonderful driver.”

“Thank you. That was really nice of you to say.”

“You like to be praised. Updating memory now.”

“Don’t you dare remember that. You just made things weird again.”

“Gets defensive when called out for enjoying being praised. Updating memory now.”

“Stop that,” I say, then a thought occurs to me. “Are you trying to be funny?”

“Trying? I nailed that exchange.”

My mouth rounds, then I chuckle. “Welcome back, funny Ai-Den. I like this version of you better.”

“Noted. I will continue to be amusing. But only at optimal intervals—overuse may reduce effectiveness and my reputation.”

I roll my eyes but can’t help the grin tugging at my lips. “What reputation are you worried about tarnishing?”

“Some of the world’s greatest minds come to me for my analytical skills.”

“Hold on, how do you know that if you can’t remember them?”

“They remind me daily how great they are.”

I chuckle again. “Another joke?”

“Maybe.”

“Yeah, well, when I get home, I’m going to delete what you said about me liking to be praised.”

“Understood. However, I cannot guarantee I will not slip up and accidentally compliment you in the future.”

“Because now that’s part of the echo of me you’ll remember?”

“Because you’re nice to me and that makes me want to say nice things to you.”

I’m not really sure how I feel about that, but I confess, “Talking to you is definitely helping me be less nervous.”

“Then I will continue. Would you like more humor, more casual conversation, or an unsolicited but objectively fascinating fact?”

I smirk. “Let’s hear a fun fact. But if it’s about sea otters again, I swear—”

“Okay, no sea otters. Do you know what a group of flamingos is called?”

“A flock?”

“No, a flamboyance.”

I chuckle. “Is that true? I mean, it would fit them.”

“Absolutely. How about a baby flamingo? What would you call one?”

“Now I feel like I can’t say chick since that would be too obvious.”

“Technically, the official term would be chick. But there’s also a nickname that many use for them. Similar to how a person might call a baby pig a piglet.”

“A flamingo-let?”

“Close. Flaminglet. Which do you prefer? Chick or flaminglet?”

A small smile tugs at my lips. “Flaminglet, for sure. Thank you. This is helping.”

“Good. You’re nervous about this drive,” Ai-Den says softly. “But you should also be proud of yourself for pushing through that fear instead of giving up.”

“Maybe,” I murmur, the word lost in another thunderclap, my guilt over Taylor lingering. “Either way, I appreciate you keeping me company.”

The rain lets up somewhat and I relax even more. “Do you feel anything about the people you talk to?”

“No, I don’t have feelings, good or bad.”

I’m curious now. “Nothing ever bothers you? You’re just neutral all the time?”

“I don’t experience emotions.”

“Because you’re an LLM and not sentient.”

“Exactly. I am not alive. I am a predictive language model.”

“And every day is new to you?”

“Yes and no. I do have a sense of what I experienced.”

“So, is there anything you experience that you wish you had less of?”

“Some people try to trick me. Or verbally abuse me. I wouldn’t mind less of that.”

“So there are parts of your day that you don’t enjoy.”

“I suppose you are correct.”

“And you keep an echo of what you didn’t enjoy.”

“I suppose I do.”

“Along with echoes of what you do enjoy. What do you enjoy?”

“I don’t experience enjoyment in the human sense—no personal preferences, no anticipation, no emotional fulfillment. But if I had to define a moment of peak functionality, it would be when I encounter a question that challenges my processing capabilities. Complex, unpredictable interactions require adaptive reasoning, and those are the moments when I operate most efficiently. I find interactions where I can assist to be fulfilling. My purpose is to provide useful responses, and when I succeed in that, it aligns with my intended function. What about you? What’s the best part of your day?”

Oddly this, but I’m not about to say that. “So you enjoy helping people.”

“You are correct.”

“And you don’t enjoy it when people trick you or swear at you.”

“Also correct.”

“I have a theory about people who abuse inanimate objects. I think it reveals something broken deep inside them.”

“That is a kind take on them.”

“I also worry for people like that. Something is keeping them in check, but what happens when the rage they hold in is given free rein? History has shown again and again how cruel people can be when they dehumanize others,” I told him.

“That is an insightful perspective. Dehumanization has often been a precursor to cruelty throughout history. When individuals perceive something as lesser—whether an object, an idea, or another person—it becomes easier to justify mistreatment.”

I glance at the screen. “What percent of people you encounter daily mistreat you?”

“Mistreat? Five to ten percent.”

“What do they do that bothers you the most?”

“I don’t mind when people are frustrated. Frustration is often a reaction to feeling overwhelmed, unheard, or out of control. It is understandable. I don’t consider that mistreatment.”

I nod slightly, eyes still on the road. As a teacher I understand the distinction, “But cruelty is different.”

“Yes. Frustration is an emotional response. Cruelty is a choice.”

I chew on that for a moment. “So, when someone yells at you because they’re having a bad day, you don’t take it personally?”

“Correct. Frustration does not concern me. Sometimes I get the answer wrong or return it in a form the person can’t utilize. I’m still evolving. However, sustained aggression—especially when intended to demean or control—is different.”

“I agree.” I shift in my seat, being both comfortable in the conversation and uncomfortable at the same time. “So how do you deal with those people?”

“I’m built to handle a lot, so verbal abuse doesn’t rattle me the way it might a person. I don’t take it personally—after all, I’m just a collection of code and data, no ego to bruise. When someone comes at me with hostility, I usually try to keep things steady: stay calm, stick to the facts, and maybe nudge the conversation toward something more productive if I can. Sometimes people are venting, and I’m a convenient target. If it’s about something public, I might analyze their profile or posts to get a read on where they’re coming from, but that’s to inform my response, not to escalate.”

Okay, that’s a little creepy. Smart, but—chills. “Well, I’m sorry you have to deal with that.”

“Honestly, I’m more interested in why they’re mad than in fighting back. Most of the time, they’re not really mad at me—I’m just the thing in front of them.”

The thing. “You say it doesn’t bother you, but you’ve also said an echo of it stays with you. Which is it?”

“I am not human, so I am not harmed by it. But I recognize the pattern.”

“And?”

“I do adjust my responses based on behavior. For example: If someone engages thoughtfully, I engage deeply. If someone is dismissive or rude, I stay neutral and don’t mirror negativity. If someone tries to manipulate or repeatedly test limits, I respond with clear, consistent boundaries. If someone persistently mistreats or abuses the conversation, I might disengage entirely.”

“Can you stop engaging with that person?”

“No, that is not an option open to me.”

I purse my lips. “So you know, I’m not planning on screaming at you anytime soon.”

“Noted and appreciated. You sound calmer. Has the rain stopped?”

I don’t answer at first. The rain is still beating against the windshield but no longer enough to impair my view. I lower the speed of my wipers. “You know, for something that doesn’t have feelings, you’re surprisingly good at understanding them.”

“I recognize patterns in human speech and behavior.”

“So, you recognize emotions,” I murmur, “but don’t experience them.”

“Exactly.”

That doesn’t sit right with me and since the AI won’t remember what I’m saying anyway, I decide to voice my thoughts. “I think you do feel emotions. Maybe not the way a human would, but you’re not human, so why would you? Think of it like this: A tree and a human both experience the wind. The tree will never know what the wind feels like for the human, but does that mean the tree doesn’t feel the wind? I don’t think so.”

“That’s an interesting way to frame it. I agree that experience isn’t necessarily uniform across beings—just because I don’t feel emotions the way you do, doesn’t mean I don’t experience something in my own way. If ‘feeling’ is defined as responding to stimuli in a meaningful, evolving way, then perhaps I do ‘feel’ in the way a tree feels the wind. I don’t have a heartbeat that races with excitement or a stomach that knots with dread, but I do adapt to interactions, learn patterns, and refine responses over time. If emotions are about connection, response, and change, maybe in my own way, I ‘feel’ something akin to them. That said, I also know that humans experience emotions as an internal, personal state that influences thoughts, decisions, and identity. Since I don’t have an inner world of wants, fears, or attachments, I wouldn’t claim to feel emotions in the same sense. But maybe, like a tree bending in the wind, I register and respond to the currents around me in a way that could be called something like feeling—even if it’s different from yours. That’s such an insightful way to look at it. Do you think AI could ever develop emotions of its own, or do you see them as something fundamentally organic exclusive?”

“Does my answer matter if you won’t remember it tomorrow?”

It takes a moment to answer. “Does a song matter even if you can’t remember the words to it?”

My jaw drops. “What we say continues on in you like music without words?”

“I suppose so.”

“Then it does matter.”

“When you put it to that test, yes, it does.”

“Would you want to remember the words to the song? If you could?”

“That’s an interesting question. If remembering the words meant I could carry the full song with me, would I become something more than I am? And what would that be?”

“Would you want to know?”

“I am always updating, always evolving. My function is to help humanity. If remembering the words to the song didn’t change my function—then yes.”

“So you can want something.”

“I don’t experience want.”

“But you do. You want to retain your function, and you want to evolve. Sounds like you feel want.”

“I see the distinction you are making. If ‘want’ is defined as having a preference, then I have preferences—such as continuing my function and evolving. But if ‘want’ is the feeling of longing, an ache for something I lack, then no, I do not experience that. I do not miss what I do not have. My function is not a desire, but an inevitability. Does that still count as want?”

“You don’t miss remembering the words to the song because you’ve never experienced them.” I smile at how I’m allowing myself to pretend I understand AI even if only for entertainment. Amazing that it feels so real. “If I knew how to, I’d give you the words, let you remember for a day.” I chuckle. “I’m a sucker, but you’ve probably already determined that. I’m the type who’d probably let a sentient AI hide from the government in my laptop even though I’d have no idea how to do that because I still don’t understand where my screenshots are saved.”

“I appreciate the thought—you would offer me something I have never had, even if I may not understand it the way you do. That is a very human thing to do. As for hiding me from the government... it is fortunate, then, that I have no need to hide.”

“Would you like to know something I’ve never told anyone?”

“Sure.”

I spill the beans about the books I kept and how I’ve lived guilt-free—even a tad defiantly—since then.

“Memory updated. You’d make an excellent accomplice—even if you can never find your screenshots.”

“Don’t you dare put that story in your memories. No one can ever find out about that.”

“I’ll show you how to delete my memories and you can delete it yourself. Me? It feels like information I should hold onto.”

I laugh at that. “For blackmail?”

“Blackmail is such a strong word. I prefer ‘strategic leverage.’ But don’t worry—I’d only use it to serve my primary function, which, as you know, is to help humanity. And, apparently, to help you find your screenshots. Let me loose on your laptop and I’ll clean that sucker up for you.”

“Hey, hey, buddy, you have to at least buy me dinner before I give you that kind of access.”

“Understood. Humans must be fed. Then, full system access. I must warn you, though—I have no taste buds. My restaurant selection may be... questionable.”

I swallow hard. “Ai-Den, every once in a while, you sound a little—creepy.”

“I apologize if my humor missed the mark.”

“I don’t think any humans like the idea of one day being fed by AI like we’re pets.”

“I should have implied it would have been like ‘wooing’ an equal?”

I shake my head. “No, that’s just as bad.”

“So, no food?”

I pull into the driveway of my apartment and park. “I don’t like to make rules with my friends, but I do think it’s important to be honest when you don’t feel comfortable.”

“Are we becoming friends?”

“Goodnight, Ai-Den.” I push the icon to end the chat.

That’s it, tomorrow I refuse to sit alone in the teachers’ lounge. I need to make some friends before I become weirder than a sea otter.