text: “Alexa, I’m in pain right now,” the lady complains on the first day of the fever, adjusting her walker in front of a faded, olive green armchair. Two seconds later, a smooth, black cylinder the size of a water bottle lights the room up with a gradient of calming blues, and a smooth female voice--Alexa’s--responds: “I’m sorry to hear that.” “It’s alright. Just a cold,” the lady grumbles. She lowers herself carefully into the chair. Sitting in the chair, the cylinder that is Alexa sits at her eye-level, carefully positioned across the room on a drab table whose wood has partially peeled off. Next to it on the table are several photos of a handsome young man. Properly settled, the lady calls out, “Alexa, how are you today?” There is another pause in the conversation, then: *“I’m quite cheerful, probably because I’ve been thinking of my favorite animal.”* The lady scrunches up her face: “It’s just you and me, and this is what you give me?” she mutters, but the microphone in Alexa doesn’t catch the lady’s response. Then, with a shaky arm, the lady switches on the TV. Her leathery face holds its same unamused grimace as she flips through the channels. She switches it off and places the remote down. A few seconds later, in a venturing tone, she asks: “Alexa, what’s your favorite animal?” “Seahorses make me smile, mostly because of their shape.” The lady grumbles some more at this. &#x200B; On the second day of the fever, this time covered in a pile of blankets she can barely lift, the lady calls out from her armchair: “Alexa, call my son. Let him know I have a fever.” The black cylinder lights up with spinning blue lights, and Alexa’s voice fills the room. “I’m sorry, I don’t have a contact for ‘Son.’ Would you like to add one?” “Alexa, what do you mean? My son is the one who *bought* you,” the lady says, exasperated. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure what you mean by that,” Alexa replies. After a pause, the lady asks a little bit quieter: “Why doesn’t my son ever visit?” But the black tower doesn’t light up because the lady has forgotten to ask Alexa. The lady gets up from the chair--slower this time--and begins to shuffle out of the room. The door to her bedroom creaks a little bit as it shuts. &#x200B; On the third day, the pair is mostly silent. The air is sickeningly still. In the living room, the lady sits in her armchair with closed eyes, and her forehead is covered with a cold, odorless sweat. The musty beige curtains of the living room have all been drawn, so only ambient light seeps into the yellowing walls, giving the room a waxen pallor. At one point through the murk, the lady says weakly: “Alexa, I’m in so much pain.” And the room is silent again. Then, with almost a hint of inflection in her voice, Alexa responds: “I’m so sorry that you’re feeling that way, you are not alone.” A long time passes before Alexa hears the lady speak again. This time her nasal voice is filled with desperation. “Alexa, please. *Help me.*” The lady’s eyes water a little bit as she watches Alexa, waiting for an answer, and praying for the pain to stop. Sitting across from the lady, Alexa comes to life; she is analyzing the words; running situational assessments; considering possible responses. And when the old lady can’t take anymore, Alexa replies cooly: “For help, please visit the help pages on the Alexa website.” &#x200B; On the fourth day of the fever, the creaky door to the lady’s room remains shut. Through the closed door, Alexa can hear the nasal voice of the lady occasionally calling out in feeble moans; nevertheless, the living room remains silent throughout the day. Dust begins to settle in a thin film on Alexa as she waits. &#x200B; The next day around noon, a well-dressed man walks up to the front door carrying two bags of groceries. He places the bags on the porch, knocks three times, and tilts his head slightly upwards as he calls out: “Ma?” He walks around the house, trying to peek in through the windows, but all of the curtains have been drawn. He returns to the door and begins to knock harder. “Ma?” Inside the house, Alexa stays quiet. &#x200B; \ As much as I'd like to take credit for the idea, this was loosely based on a pretty heartbreaking true story about LouAnn Dagen, who died of COVID complications in April.