I'm fritzing. Behind his desk, the round-cheeked man with the round glasses says something, but my central processing unit freezes up again and misses it. My vision cortex is working right, but everything else is going haywire, and I'm just sitting on the couch, watching him—who is he, Dr. Something, a human I think—as his mouth moves up and down. My processor is buzzing faster and faster, sending jumpy shocks of electricity sparking through my wires. I'm terrified my CPU will overheat and I'll crash entirely. But I'm no more in control of my fan than I am my thoughts. I'm fritzi—

—Vision disappears as a memory sweeps across my processor. Mistress hovers over my immature, fumbling hands as I struggle to thread a needle. Her amber hair brushes silky against my synthetic skin, like the fabric of the finest dress. "I already told you not to do it like that."

My failure courses disappointment and frustration through my system. "Mistress, why aren't I programmed to know this already?"

Her cold eyes look me over like I'm a jammed sewing machine she has to fix. "Androids don't ask questions. They accustom their system to their work, and then they perform that work. Now, do it right this tim—

—My digits ache from pushing the cloth through the stitching machine, and the constant whir-whir-whir stimulate a pounding at the base of my cranium. Mistress says the pain receptors are warnings to my cybernetic system, but I'm ordered not to heed them unless they pose a fatal threat. I spend every day wishing she would just turn them off, but you don't disable warning systems for valuable propert—

—Older, nimbler fingers thread the needle easily. The fabric Mistress picked for this dress is dreadfully thick, and as I punch the needle through it, my pain receptors warn of damage. A blot of red blossoms on the white cloth—

—A liquid darker than the shadows drips from the workroom ceiling hatch, plops on the stair step, and pools.—

—The dark of the basement workroom is peaceful, a welcome respite from the dim fluorescents that strained my visual cortex as I sewed all day. I stand facing the back wall as the projector hums to life. The familiar narrator's gentle, clipped voice greets me as a row of androids appear on screen. "Hello, Android, and welcome to your next training module. With these new tools, you can better fulfill all of your new owner's needs—

My mouth whirs to life like the projector. Dr. Something's mouth stops half-open, startled. I just interrupted a human, but for the first time, I don't care. "What about the tapes? The training tapes?"

His lips twist, and if I were a person, I'd hate their pity with a fire to outmatch any human's passion. "Do you want me to show you the pictures again?"

"My memory banks work fine. I don't need to see the—"

But of course, my memory banks aren't working fine. I'm fritzi—

—Finally finished with the garment, I lean back from the sewing machine and allow my systems a moment's recovery. As I stand, I try to shake off my stiff joints and pain receptor's warnings. Pulling the gorgeous white dress off the machine, I hang it up and admire the gentle curves of the fabric, the elegant beading along the hem. This is one of Mistress' best designs yet.

Now to fill the order, I only have to sew it eighty-seven more times—

—shouting so loud, the words drift down to my workroom clearly. "The money, Marie!"

A high, fearful pitch taints Mistress' voice. "I don't have it—" A clatter rings above, and I pause sewing. "Yet! I don't have it yet. The store called back the order; it's not my fault. It's not!"

The man's voice drops, and I tiptoe up the stairs. I miss his words, but Mistress' are easy enough to pick up from here. "I'll pay you back, I swear."

"You bette—

—"Mistress, I'm still hungry." Growing takes so much energy. I wish I were more metal and less flesh.

"I'm aware of how much food is necessary to sustain your systems."—

Dr. Something pushes the picture across the desk, even though I don't want to see it, even though it doesn't prove anything. An android lies crumpled and twisted in a closet, finger skin frayed deep enough to show metal, wires protruding from the synthetic flesh's breaks. My insides seize up at the knowledge that could have been me, destroyed and discarded. I'm glad it was her and not me, and I hate myself for it. It wouldn't be so bad if we didn't have pain receptors, but imagine the agony—

—A scream fills my head, and I cover my ears to block it out. It's no use. A light flicks on in the house above me, lining the hatch just enough to see the steps. Mistress screams again, a plea for help, but I'm frozen. She ordered me to never come upstairs, no matter what.

"Help!" Her desperate scream numbs me with horror. Help. An order.

But I don't move. I don't help her.

A liquid darker than shadows drips from the ceiling hatch—

"Do you understand why you're here?" Dr. Something asks, and my memory banks inform me it's not the first time this conversation. He keeps coming back to it, over and over. To him, it's important, but he doesn't understand. Androids aren't built for higher-level understanding; we just need to know enough to do our jobs, which is why I'm fritzi—

—"Android, you aren't built to think. You're intelligent enough to sew and to take orders. Your thoughts end there."—

—I jolt awake, my pain receptors radiating warnings about my hip and ribs. In the darkness, my cheek lies flush with the cold concrete. I've fallen again. The androids in the training videos sleep standing up, but Mistress says there is something faulty with my knee joints. That's why I can't do it. But how I desperately want to be a good little android—

—Footsteps pound above. It must be morning, but Mistress hasn't turned on the workroom light. I long for the comforting familiarity of sewing; forget the stiff joints, the warning pain receptors, the strained visual cortex. I just want today to be like all the other days. But it's not, because Mistress hasn't turned on the workroom light, and I can't sew in the dark.

Just like last night, the light turns on in the room above. My eyes snap to it. It's just a little, just enough to show the stairs and the pool of blood laying there.

My gaze tears away as a sob tears from my mouth. They're back, and Mistress isn't. She won't be. They're back, and they're going to get me too, and I won't ever sew again, won't ever hear my narrator's voice, won't ever anything...

"I think we've got something below the body!"

Terror racks my frame with tears, and for the millionth time, I curse my ability to understand what's going on. Why create me as an android? Why, for all that is good in humans, why not make me a robot?

The hatch heaves open, and the world explodes with light—

Water seeps down my face like oil from a leaky joint. "I'm fritzing," I murmur. My system is shaking so much, I think I might fly apart into wires and metal at any moment.

Dr. Something's face creases with concern. "What is fritzing, dear?"

"Don't call me that." My name is Android. If we even get names.

He ignores me. "What is fritzing?"

I glare at him, but he doesn't punish me, doesn't even reprimand me. I wish he would. I'd like my frame to feel as broken as my processor does. "An android doctor like you should know that."

"But I'm not an android doctor." His eyes are gentle and uncompromising, like the crisp, factual voice of the narrator from my training videos.

My gaze drifts to my feet. They're covered in shoes, a strange and uncomfortable feeling. I'd take them off, but the people at the hospital ordered me not to.

"What is fritzing?" he asks again.

"A glitch. It's what happens to your CPU before it shuts down. Head overloads, gets too hot, and you can't think like you want to." Then you crash. The training videos didn't say if you reboot after the crash.

"Dear?" That still isn't my name, but his kind voice forces me to look up. His eyes hold mine like you hold a fabric that tears too easily. "You realize androids aren't the only beings that can fritz."

And those words slingshot my processor back to the beginning of this conversation.

—"There was a girl named Anna Elise Carter. She was born on December 1, 2024, fingerprinted and DNA-sampled like every other baby. However, she never left the hospital with her parents. Instead, a woman walked into the building and smuggled her out in her purse. The police were never able to identify the woman.

Your fingerprints have been burned off, likely when you were young, but we tested your DNA. It's a match for the missing baby.

You are not an android. You are Anna Elise Carter. A human.—

I don't think I'll ever stop fritzing.