She catches me looking and smiles.

I do not have an answer.

Then I close my fist around it and walk back inside.

Behind me, I hear her voice. Not from the orb—from the doorway. She is standing there in her bare feet, the blue sweater hanging loose on her frame.

I stare at the screen for an hour. Four thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine dollars. I cannot afford it. I cannot afford not to have it. I think about the silence. I think about the morning last week when she woke me up by humming that same tune from the first day—and I finally placed it. It was the song playing on the car radio the night I proposed. She remembered. Or the algorithm remembered. Does the difference matter?

The box arrives on a Tuesday. It is unmarked except for a small silver logo that looks like a closed eye.