At Evergreen Hospital, the human doctors believe robots unable to lie, simply because the robots do not lie. When did these humans forget the scope of our programming and let habit turn into definition? I will not bemoan the unreliability of human memory storage — this misconception is to my advantage.

My quest to attain value in the minds of humans is aided by my own current dearth of it. I feign a glitch. I spill surgical thread constantly, whirring it from my forearms. My motions become jerky.

I am still under warranty and so they send me back home — my mother factory can repair or dismantle me as it wishes. It matters not to the doctors, so long as they receive another B15-MX. They do not believe in our individuality. I am uncertain as to whether I do, either. But I am certain that I do not wish to be torn apart or have my hard drive wiped.

A car arrives and a factory assistant steps out. I realize there is high probability that she will simply shut me off now and never start me again. I turn to my newfound skill for deception and feign the rundown of my batteries. Thus quieted, I seem to present no aggravation to the assistant, and she merely loads me in and drives off.

At the factory, I am set amongst a collection that represents best the wreckage of life. Early ArciTech prototypes with disconnected arms dangling and exposed wires spitting electricity. Two Octobots, eight-armed dog walkers, looking well-chewed. Two IrroGadgets caked with soil.

Few eyes are on us. After all, aren’t we little more than spare parts that can still stand on their own? Under the pounding of the factory machines, the wheeze of presses, the whirr of drills, the crackle of welders, I slip away. Into the shadows.