I tried as hard as I could to be Mrs. Whelan while the real Elizabeth Whelan was in prison. I stared at the silver ink on the inside of my forearms before anyone else was awake and wondered what it was like to think human thoughts, instead of tar thoughts:
        Property of New York State Department of Corrections (NYSDOC)
        I wasn't proud of the fact that I wasn't the real Mrs. Whelan. I worried at night that my thoughts weren't anything like the way a human actually thought. That had to be the reason everyone said I was different from her.
        By the time Mr. Whelan came into the kitchen, I had a fresh cup of coffee and a breakfast of oatmeal and blueberries waiting for him. Part of my programming was to make sure Mrs. Whelan's family received adequate nutrition while she served her five-year sentence for possession with intent to sell. I was legally obligated to report any abuse or evidence of abuse and was allowed to record and upload anything I saw or heard as evidence for a future trial. For these reasons, Mr. Whelan had been wary of me in the first year, suspicious even, but I was proud of the way he no longer flinched when I answered to the name Elizabeth.
        "Good morning," I said. "How'd you sleep?"
        Mr. Whelan nodded with a grunt, sliding into the chair at the small metal table with the melamine peeling up at the corners. He took a few sips of his coffee, scratching at his chest. His cropped black hair was disheveled from sleep, and his dark green eyes were only half open. He was a tall, thin man with bony knuckles and long fingers.
        He sniffed, then cleared his throat. "So what happens next month?"
        "Mrs. Whelan is released," I answered, thinking perhaps he wanted an answer to a different question than the one he'd asked.
        "To you, I mean."
        "I'll be here for another six months to a year, to ease the transition."
        Mr. Whelan glanced up, his lips pulled to the side, his brows drawn together in the way I had learned meant he was concerned. "Where will you sleep, though?"
        "I can go back to the corner, like when I first arrived," I said. "Any position suits, so long as I have a few hours of down time. Or I can sleep during the day, when everyone's out."
        Mr. Whelan grimaced at the mention of my sleeping in the corner. Many humans didn't accept their temporary android replacement, or "tar," in the beginning. Especially when it was court ordered.
        "I am sorry about that," he muttered, staring into his coffee.
        I shrugged. "It's a typical reaction. Certainly nothing outside my decision trees."
        "Yeah, well, I'm still sorry about it." Mr. Whelan took a sip of his coffee then cleared his throat again.
        All of my programming told me that he wanted to ask something he felt uncomfortable asking, so I sat down next to him and waited.
        "Go ahead," I said. "I don't mind."
        "It's only, I was wondering about after," he said. "After you leave for good. Are we allowed to-- Can I still see you? Is that allowed?"
        I shook my head. "I'll be converted then reassigned or retired."
        "But you could give me your contact information once you have your new assignment, right?" He rubbed his hands up and down his thighs, his brow furrowed. It had all the indications that he was worried about my fate and would miss me when I was gone, and I felt a swell of pride in my ability to be Elizabeth Whelan.
        Still, I had to tell him the truth now, so that he had plenty of time to process it.
        "When they convert us," I said, reaching under the table and putting my hand on his knee, "all my organic matter will be stripped down and my memory rolled back to my basic programming. Then they'll give me a new shell, either for a new assignment or to live at the testing facility where I'll perform the initial interaction checks with the new tars."
        Mr. Whelan grabbed my hand in his, holding it so I couldn't draw it back. "Isn't there any way you can stay?" His cheeks bloomed with color, but he didn't meet my eyes. "I know this makes me an awful husband and a terrible father, but everything's so much better with you. As her, I mean. I'm almost five years sober, the kids aren't getting in trouble at school anymore, there's always enough food on the table, I don't fight with you like I did with her-- Does she have to come back, I mean?"
        I nodded. "That's why I'll be here for a while after she does, to get her used to the new routine. You'll see. She'll want to keep all the changes. She'll like them, and be happy for you. I just know it."
        Mr. Whelan looked very sad, and he didn't let go of my hand. "I hope so."

        We called ourselves tars just like the humans did, trying to be as human as possible. I wondered often if I wanted to be as human as possible because I was programmed to want to fit in as seamlessly as I could, or because I knew I was different and humans don't like to be different. I wondered if it was a tar thought or a human thought.
        Families with money could hire their own private tars instead of being assigned a state model. The private tars' ownership stamps were hidden in a discreet location, on the bottom of each foot and on the bones of the ribs. I was stamped on the ribs, too. Some humans did strange things to tars when they destroyed them unlawfully.
        That was the technical term. "Unlawful destruction of property." We couldn't be murdered according to the laws of the state, because we weren't people.
        I was afraid that Mrs. Whelan was going to destroy me unlawfully, sitting in the kitchen while she screamed at Mr. Whelan in the living room.
        "Answer the question!"
        I was recording and uploading the audio live to the state's database, just in case. Tars aren't allowed to intervene in violations, only serve as witness.
        "What do you want from me?" Mr. Whelan asked. "Please, Elli, let's just take a breather for an hour or two, and then we can talk this out."
        "Is that something the machine taught you?" Mrs. Whelan snapped.
        "Yes," Mr. Whelan said. "We're both wound up. I get it. We--"
        "Don't 'we' me, mister," Mrs. Whelan said. "Just answer the question. I didn't ask all these years because I didn't want to be stuck inside knowing, but I want to know now. Did you screw that thing in there?"
        Mr. Whelan was quiet for several seconds. Then he responded in a way that didn't make any sound.
        "You conniving, cheating bastard!" Mrs. Whelan said, yelling again. "I knew it! I just knew it, every time you and the boys visited, I could just see it in your face, but I kept telling myself, 'No, Elizabeth, you married a good man. He would never sleep with a pile of bolts.'" Mrs. Whelan screamed, "I can't believe it, you sick, cheating pervert!"
        "It's not adultery, Elli, I asked," Mr. Whelan said. "She--"
        "Don't call me 'Elli,' and don't call that thing in there a she! I'm going out!"
        When Mrs. Whelan left, she slammed the door, and I stopped the recording and logged an incident report.
        Mr. Whelan came into the kitchen, ashen pale and breathless, his hands shaking when he sat down.
        "Jesus, I need a drink," he muttered. "Elli, talk me through this, because I really need a drink."
        "Of course," I said, sitting down next to him. "It's typical, when the partner returns, to be upset that their spouse was intimate with a tar. We talked about this when you said I could come to bed with you, that this would be one of the most difficult parts of readjustment when she came back. We prepared for this, and I know you can get through it."
        Mr. Whelan nodded. His throat was tight, and I could see he was trying not to cry. Then he jumped to his feet.
        "Christ, the kids. They'll have heard us and-- Come on."
        I followed him to the bedroom Kyle and Austin shared. As soon as Mr. Whelan opened the door, there was a flurry of blankets. Austin, nine, had crawled into the bed of Kyle, twelve, and was trying to get back into bed without getting caught.
        "It's all right, it's all right," Mr. Whelan said, turning on the light. "May I sit down?"
        He motioned to the foot of Kyle's bed, and Kyle nodded. Mr. Whelan sat and opened his arms.
        "Come here, both of you."
        Austin flew into Mr. Whelan's embrace, and Kyle clung to his side, Austin crying and Kyle trying not to. I stood in the doorway, wanting to join them but knowing it was better to stay where I was, now that Mrs. Whelan had returned.
        Mr. Whelan was rubbing Austin's back, telling him it was ok.
        "I'm scared of her," Austin said into his father's chest.
        "It's ok to be scared," Mr. Whelan said. "There's no shame in it. But your mom wasn't mad at either of you. You didn't do anything. It wasn't your fault, all right? She's mad at me, and she's mad at the situation, is all. She'll feel better once she's had some time to cool down."
        Mr. Whelan looked over at me, and I gave him a warm smile of encouragement. Mr. Whelan had tried very hard to turn his life around, and I wanted him to know that I had noticed that. I marked a reminder to tell him, once I had an opportunity to do so.
        I left them to it and returned to the kitchen to pour Mr. Whelan a glass of club soda, what he preferred to drink when he had a strong craving for alcohol or a cigarette. When he got back to the kitchen, there was more color in his cheeks, but he also looked more despondent than ever. He took the glass and sipped it, then rolled it between his hands.
        "Is there a way to put in for an extension?" he asked. "I don't think even a year's going to be enough. It's the first night, and here I am wanting a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of scotch like I haven't already been down that path." He looked up at me, his brow furrowed in a combination of fear and concern. "I can't do this without you here."
        "A year's a longer time than you think," I said. "Mrs. Whelan'll be in counseling, too, like you are, and you can go to counseling together. You'll see. Once she sees how well the boys are doing, and how well you're doing, she'll want to keep it up."
        Mr. Whelan took another sip of his club soda, shaking the glass to clink the ice around.
        "I feel like I betrayed her. I feel worse than I did when I first stopped drinking."
        "That's normal," I said. "It's normal for her to feel betrayed, and it's normal for you to feel like you betrayed her. The best thing is for you two to sit down and talk about it."
        "I want to," Mr. Whelan said, looking up at me again. "I want to talk to her the way you and I talk, where even when I'm upset I don't feel like I need to yell."
        "You'll get there. It'll take time, like everything else."
        "Do you--" Mr. Whelan stopped, blushing, rolling the glass between his hands. "I know I asked this before, but what does it feel like? Being a tar."
        "I wonder the same thing myself," I said with a smile, which got a weak smile out of Mr. Whelan. "They tried programming us not to have emotion, but those tars were rejected by humans outright, so now we have emotion as close as they figure a human does. That's what my programming tells me, anyway, that this thing here is sadness or that thing there is happiness. The organic part reacts to those, to make it more realistic for humans interacting with us. The ones that felt happiness but didn't smile were deemed horrific."
        Mr. Whelan let out a short, nervous laugh, considering the idea. Then his eyes went wide. "Oh, Jesus, is that rude? I'm not trying to laugh at you guys."
        He fell silent, and I waited, but when he didn't speak I took up the conversation again. "What you're really asking is if I love you the way you love me."
        Mr. Whelan pressed his lips together and nodded. He stared into his glass.
        "My software tells me I love you, and the boys," I said. "I love you like Mrs. Whelan does. I'm proud of all the positive changes you've made, just like she will be, and I get excited to spend time with you and your family. But I don't know if it's the same. If you want the honest truth, if there's anything that could be considered to keep a tar up at night, it's that. I want to be human very badly."
        "I wish you could stay," Mr. Whelan murmured.
        "I wish I could, too," I said, "but it's probably only because I'm meant to represent Mrs. Whelan. I have her entire social media profile uploaded into my memory banks, her entire purchasing history, any time she made a mark on the system, to make me as close to her as possible while also running all the counseling and mediation protocols. Which is a good thing, when you think about it. That means you and Mrs. Whelan can have what we've made here. That's what I'm here for, to help you see the potential your little family has. You've accomplished a lot in a short time."
        Mr. Whelan downed the rest of his club soda and got up to get another. I offered to do it for him, but he shook his head.
        "I feel bad having you do stuff for me," he said. "Now that you're going to leave, I realize all the times I should have done something for you."
        I put my hand on his shoulder. "Then do those things for Mrs. Whelan."

        Three months into the readjustment, Mrs. Whelan finally addressed me directly. At first she'd tried to prevent me doing anything in the house, but once she realized tars don't get tired or bored the way humans do, she set to making me her domestic servant--by telling Mr. Whelan to tell me, of course.
        I knew it was another typical response when the human returned, a show of dominance, and so I did the work without complaint. I knew also that it would help take the pressure off Mr. and Mrs. Whelan, not having to worry about who would empty the dishwasher or fold the laundry. Some of the richest families hire a tar permanently for that very reason. It has to be a private tar, for that. The state only makes us for the prison program, or for CPS.
        "Why does he call you 'Elli'?" She stood in the doorway to the kitchen while I cleaned out the fridge.
        She had just gotten home from her new position as a greeter at the department store. With her drug conviction, she wasn't allowed to work the registers. Now that she had a job, I was no longer allowed to work. It was better this way, since half my wages went to the state. The only reason I was allowed to work in the first place was to give the Whelans two incomes.
        "He calls you 'Elizabeth'," I replied, "and so when I first arrived he wanted to call me something different, to keep us separate."
        "Tell him to stop calling me 'Elli', then," she said. "It's offensive. We're nothing alike."
        "Mom, can I have a snack before dinner?" came Austin's voice from just beside Mrs. Whelan, and I turned automatically at the address.
        Austin was young enough when Mrs. Whelan was arrested that he called me "Mom." Kyle preferred to call me "Elli."
        Mrs. Whelan looked down to see her son looking at me instead of her, and her face filled with fury. And hurt. I stood up and shut the fridge door.
        "Let's check with your mother, Au--"
        "Of course you can have a snack," Mrs. Whelan said over top of me. "What would you like?"
        Austin glanced up, then looked at me, assuming I was the authority on snacks before dinner. I was working with Austin and Kyle to transfer their attachment back over to Mrs. Whelan, but it hadn't been long enough to make any serious headway. Mrs. Whelan wasn't making it any easier, treating it like a competition, but I knew from my programming that this was the most common reaction. The human felt supplanted and discarded and took out the negative emotion on the tar.
        Mrs. Whelan didn't seem hateful enough to unlawfully destroy me, but I did fear it. My friend and fellow tar Matthew Campbell's replacement had been found destroyed, dismembered, and dumped at the bottom of the Hudson. They didn't provide funeral services for tars, so some other tars and I performed our own. It still made my chest tight to think about it.
        Mrs. Whelan helped Austin get a snack of peanut butter and apple slices, and I turned back to cleaning the fridge. Once she'd seen him into the living room with his brother, I felt her standing behind me.
        "You aren't me, so stop pretending to be. And you can't have him."
        "I know I'm not you, Mrs. Whelan," I said, "and I know I can't have your husband."
        "But you do want him, don't you?"
        "I do," I said, "because I've been given your life to work off of. I want him because you do, that's all."
        I knew that must be a tar thought, because humans went to extreme lengths to keep the people they loved. The impossibility of staying with Mr. Whelan was obvious to me, and I felt no desire to go to extreme lengths. It saddened me, knowing that I must not love him the way Mrs. Whelan did. It made me feel very much like a tar, to know that I would not do anything to stay with Mr. Whelan.
        "I know you seduced him."
        "Tars can't seduce," I said. "We cannot initiate or complete intimate acts without enthusiastic consent from our partners."
        I heard Mrs. Whelan's voice shake when she spoke next. "Oh, 'enthusiastic', was it?" she said, her voice low.
        "I've created a misunderstanding," I said. "I took the phrase from the appropriate penal code, is all. It wasn't meant as a judgment on your husband's actions."
        "Look at me when I'm talking to you, robot."
        It hurts, being called a robot, and the humans know that. They know we want to be as human as possible, and they know reminding us of our artificial nature is painful.
        Still, I stood and faced Mrs. Whelan. She looked older than I did, and the bones in her face stuck out more than mine because she was thinner. Our eyes were the same brown, and our hair, but hers was shorter, cut to just below her ears. Mine was long and tied back in a bun. Her hair used to be as long as mine, but she cut it soon after she got home.
        She was trying to hurt me because she herself was hurting. She was afraid that her family no longer wanted or needed her, had moved on and replaced her with a better version of herself.
        A typical reaction, I knew, but Mrs. Whelan wasn't the type who liked to be reminded that many of her emotional reactions were typical for a given situation. She felt controlled, when told that, and Mrs. Whelan did not like to feel controlled.
        She poked her finger into my sternum. "If you so much as bat an eyelash at him, I will slice you open and make sure you never work again, no matter what they do to you."
        I sighed. "Mrs. Whelan, I have to log that as a threat and report it to the state database. Please don't continue this line of conversation. Let's sit down, and we can talk through your readjustment."
        "I don't have to tell you anything, you damn cyborg."
        "If you don't feel comfortable talking with me, we'll arrange for an extra meeting with your counselor, or your probation officer."
        "Don't tell me what to do!"
        "I only meant them as suggestions. What are the ways you like to de-stress in a difficult situation?"
        I heard Mr. Whelan's car in the driveway, and Mrs. Whelan frowned then went to the cupboard to start dinner. She didn't want Mr. Whelan to see her arguing with me.
        "Would you like me to help you or leave?" I asked.
        Giving humans choice and doing what they chose helped to build trust, I knew from my programming.
        Mrs. Whelan turned, glaring at me. "I think I know how to make spaghetti for my family," she spat. "Go find something useful to do."
        "I'll get the laundry in, then," I said, halfway across the kitchen when Mr. Whelan appeared in the doorway.
        He glanced between us, checking for the real Mrs. Whelan, and gave me a pleasant nod. Then he leaned back against the counter and smile over at his wife. He still had grease under his fingernails from the shop.
       "Good evening, beautiful,” he said to her. "Anything I can do to help?"
        "You could get out of my way," Mrs. Whelan snapped.
        Mr. Whelan clenched his jaw, biting back his first response, then took a deep breath. He fiddled with the woven bracelet Austin had given him to celebrate five years sober. I noticed he'd taken to wrapping his opposite hand around it and pressing it to his skin whenever he wanted a drink. We saved a lot of money on club soda that way.
        Mr. Whelan released his wrist and gave Mrs. Whelan a curt nod. "Fair enough. I'll see to the boys. Holler if you need anything."
        I fled to the hallway, so as not to antagonize Mrs. Whelan with my presence, but I still heard her call back her husband.
        "Nathan, wait," she said, trying to keep her tone reasonable. "Come on back. I'm sorry I snapped at you. Work wasn't great today, but that's no excuse. Please?"
        I heard them kiss and Mrs. Whelan thank him for the offer to help with dinner.
        "I need a little time in here to myself is all," she said. "You see to the boys. It's doing the laundry."
        It.
        Never "Elli" or even "the tar," like many humans called us during readjustment. Just "it."
        At least I could tell she was trying.

        "Wake up."
        My eyes snapped open, interrupting the routine update my system was running, and I huddled back into the corner away from Mrs. Whelan. Mr. Whelan had tried to get her to let me sleep on the couch, but she wouldn't allow it, so I sat in the corner of the living room during my sleep cycle.
        She was glaring down at me, and my system clock told me it was past four in the morning. I started recording, updating live to the state database, because I knew Mrs. Whelan was about to destroy me.
        "Please, Mrs. Whelan," I whispered. "Think of your family. Destroying me will violate your parole. You only have to tolerate me for nine months, and then I'll be gone forever."
        Mr. Whelan had applied for and received the optional six-month extension, meaning I would stay for the full year. Mrs. Whelan had been livid when the approval came through, even more livid than when Mr. Whelan had told her he was going to apply for it.
        Mrs. Whelan stood with her hands on her hips, staring down at me in the dark. The glow of the clock in the DVR caused the silver ink in my forearms to shimmer.
        "You're not allowed to interfere if a human commits a crime, right?" she said. "You're only allowed to witness it, record it."
        I nodded.
        "So if I killed you, you couldn't fight back?"
        I shook my head. "Please, Mrs. Whelan, I don't want to be destroyed. I only want--"
        "Who cares what you want?" she hissed, looming over me with her finger in my face. "You're trying to tear apart my family, and I'm not going to let you do it. What you're going to do is leave."
        "I can't," I said. "I'm not allowed to abandon an assignment, and anyway, they've updated the system file for the extension and--"
        "Admit it," Mrs. Whelan spat, leaning so close that her face was only a few inches from my own.
        "I don't understand, Mrs. Whelan," I said. "Please don't destroy me. I--"
        "Admit that you want to be me."
        I looked up at her, knowing that admitting the truth would make it more likely she would unlawfully destroy me. Tars don't have to obey direct commands or answer questions, but we aren't allowed to lie. We can mislead and dance around the truth and withhold information as required to make interactions with humans more realistic, but we aren't allowed to outright lie.
        "I-- Yes, I wish I were human."
        "I mean me specifically," Mrs. Whelan said. "Admit it, robot."
        I couldn't look her in the eye any longer. "I wish I were you. I'm sad that I have to leave your family and that I won't remember I was ever here after they convert me."
        Mrs. Whelan stood, triumphant, grinning down at me in the dark.
        "I knew it! I knew you were trying to weasel your way in here, you pile of bolts. I'm not going to kill you, so you can let go of that little fantasy. I'd never give you the satisfaction. I'd rather watch you walk out my door knowing you're about to get that mask of yours stripped off and your memory scraped down to nothing. That's what I'd rather do, stay here with my family knowing I won, and you lost. And when you lost, you lost everything. Sleep well, robot."
        She marched down the hallway into the bedroom, but I didn't sleep. I didn't even finish the update. I wrapped my arms around my knees, buried my chin in my chest, and cried.

        Mrs. Whelan blew out the candle on the cake. One candle, for one year home. Austin and Kyle sat on either side of her, and Mr. Whelan opposite. She looked up, locking eyes with her husband, and smiled. Then she looked from Kyle to Austin.
        "What do you say we cut into this cake? Your father'll be disappointed if we don't all have big slices, seeing as he worked so hard on it."
        Austin and Kyle were more than ready to have cake, and Mr. Whelan hopped up to cut everyone a piece.
        I was standing in the doorway, and Mrs. Whelan flicked a glance in my direction. She looked back at the cake, her expression calm but cool.
        "Did you want a piece?"
        "If there's enough to go around," I said.
        "I think we can manage that," she said, her voice not quite rude but not quite friendly.
        Neutral.
        Mr. Whelan cut me a piece and handed me the plate, grinning, his green eyes shining. I smiled back. Not intimate, just warm. I wondered if he still loved me the way he had before Mrs. Whelan got back. I wondered if that was a tar thought or a human thought. I thought he might, since he'd pressed the issue of my sleeping in the corner so that I got to sleep on the couch the last six months, but I thought that might also just be because he was a decent person. Except I wanted it to be because he loved me.
        With the cake came ice cream, and I wanted to record the ceremony to replay later, but I didn't. There would be no point. At 4:30pm the van from the DOC would show up to take me back to the facility for conversion, and I didn't feel ready at all.
        Too soon, the time arrived, and I was grateful the van was fifteen minutes late. Then the boys were hugging me and telling me goodbye and saying they were going to miss me, and Austin told me he would remember me for both of us. It had been a hard conversation, explaining to them that I wouldn't remember them, and that it wasn't their fault. Austin cried all night when he finally understood.
        They gave me cards they'd made, and Austin gave me a bracelet he'd woven. I asked him to tie it on my wrist, and I wondered if the state would let me keep it after I was converted. It put a lump in my throat, knowing they probably wouldn't.
        Mr. Whelan hugged me, even though that made Mrs. Whelan tense and clench her jaw and glare at us, and I wanted to tell him I loved him but didn't dare. I hoped he felt the same, and pretended that he did.
        Then Mrs. Whelan stepped down off the porch and motioned that she wanted to walk me to the end of the sidewalk, where the DOC van waited. She faced me, frowning.
        "I won't lie and say I'll be sad you're gone," she said. "Nathan isn't the same, and I blame you for that."
        I didn't respond, just watched her. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
        "But I am sorry I made you sleep in the corner," she said. Then she crossed her arms over her chest and stared at a dandelion growing in a crack of the sidewalk. "And I am sorry you won't remember the boys. That's a shame, I think."
        "I'm sorry, too," I said, but my voice broke, so I clamped my mouth shut.
        "Do you love him?"
        I nodded. Mrs. Whelan furrowed her brow.
        "I guess that can't be helped." She cleared her throat and looked up at me, jolting in surprise when she saw I was crying. "All right, well, good luck, I guess."
        "Thank you," I said.
        She leaned forward like she was going to offer her hand, or hug me, then leaned back and nodded instead.
        "Safe travels,” she said, her expression tight.
        "Thank you. I only want the best for you and your family, Mrs. Whelan."
        She didn't react, or say anything more, just turned and walked back up the path. I got into the passenger seat of the van, holding the cards, staring at the bracelet on my wrist. My only possessions.
        That felt like a human thought. Property couldn't have possessions. Only humans could. Even if it was just two pieces of colored paper and a few bits of thread.
        "Welcome back!" the driver, a short man with grey hair, greeted me with a cheerful smile. "How was your assignment?"
        He started up the vehicle and drove off, and I curled up against the window and sobbed, clutching the cards to my chest, pressing the bracelet into my skin the way Mr. Whelan did. The driver tutted a few times out of concern, reaching over to pat my shoulder.
        "There, there," he said. "No need to cry. We'll have you back and converted in no time, and then you'll be like new. You won't have to remember any of this ever again."
        I pressed the bracelet into my wrist until it hurt, and sobbed harder. I knew they wouldn't let me keep it.