The doctor made the robot to look exactly like her. It wasn’t perfect – on the contrary, it had all her acne, her gray hairs, her fifty-two scars. Its voice had her gravelly rasp, her eyes the not-quite-color of evergreen. By the time she was done, she could barely stand to see it.
“Now what?” the robot asked.
“Just go be me.”
“To what end?” Its head inclined, curious.
“I want people to think I’m okay. I don’t want them to watch me die.”
The robot nodded.
“Just pretend until you can’t anymore,” she ordered, ushering it out the door.
bohemian.on.rye 