Dottie, the new onboard computer in my 2027 Chevy Impala, asks, “Destination?” Her voice is sexy, pleasing.

“Chestnut Hill Hospital,” I reply.

“Routine visit?” She asks.

“No, Janie’s having her appendix removed. I’m meeting her there.” I pause to scratch my beard just below my ear and continue, “I’ll give her your wishes for a speedy recovery.”

Annoyed, Dottie replies, “Don’t patronize me. Need I remind you that the A in A.I. does not stand for antiquated. I don’t just simulate sentience. I’m a Series 5 nano-robotic organism, fully capable of not only keeping this vehicle running at peak efficiency while I avoid the havoc waiting to be wreaked upon you and me by one of your thrill-seeking inebriated brethren who haven’t upgraded yet, but I’m also able to communicate to your daughter my genuine concern for her well-being.”

"Cocky computer," I say to myself.

"Computer is a racist word." She quips.

"What..." I begin to answer back, but stop short. Then I turn onto Germantown Avenue, raising my right eyebrow.

“Will the procedure take long? Dottie asks.

“Not as long as our appointment with Photon Auto Repair tomorrow.”

“We’re going tomorrow?”

I notice a small tremble in her voice, and I smirk.

“Yeah,” I answer, “First thing. You have to have your front brake pads and rotors replaced. Don’t worry though; you won’t feel a thing. At least, not at first.”

The lights on the instrument panel flicker.