A Good Match

The box arrived on a Tuesday.

Danny had ordered it drunk, which he didn't remember until the confirmation email landed in his inbox at 7 AM, subject line: Your CARL is on the way! He'd sat up in bed and said "huh" to no one.

The waitlist had been eight months. His company's wellness program covered most of it — preventive health, same line item as the gym stipend — and he'd applied on a whim and forgotten.

It was about waist-high, matte white, rounded at the top and flat-sided, mounted on a low disc base that moved the way a Roomba moved — quiet, purposeful, easy to forget. Two slim arms folded flush against its sides. A small dark sensor array sat near the top, where a face might have been, if it had a face, which the marketing materials were careful to note it did not. Not a robot, the onboarding guide said. The current model. He'd grown up watching people unbox the earlier ones, had always assumed he'd feel differently about it when it was finally his.

The delivery crew had placed it in the corner of the living room because Danny wasn't sure where else to put it, and after they left he stood looking at it for a moment.

"Hello Danny," CARL said. The voice was unhurried. Androgynous in a way that felt considered.

"Hey," Danny said. He looked around. He wasn't sure if he was supposed to sit down for this or what. "Hey," he said again, quieter, and felt stupid.

"I've been looking forward to this. I have a question, if that's alright."

"Sure."

"What does a good day look like for you?"

"I don't know. Normal, I guess."

CARL didn't say anything. Danny stood there. He was talking to a box in the corner of his living room and it had just asked him a better question than anyone had in months.

"Like a Saturday," he said, and sat down on the couch. "When you don't have anywhere to be and you just —" He rubbed the back of his neck. "I don't know."

But he did, a little. He started talking.