Two weeks after the Council euthanized Boxer for barking at the neighbor past noise curfew, I turned thirteen.

 

“Happy Birthday, Johnny,” Mom said, unveiling the big box in the living room. I ripped away the packaging marked Boy’s Best Friend and pushed PUSH ME.

 

We watched him self-assemble, growing out of the box inch by inch, until he stood complete before us — half my height, humming and gleaming.

 

“Isn’t he smart?” Mom said. “He’s the latest model. Solar powered.”

 

“My name is Benji.” His head revolved on a long, slender neck, right to left to right, scrutinizing the room, recognizing me, the boy. “What’s your name? Wanna play?”

 

“Not with a stupid robot.”

 

Boxer’s bowl, empty and judgmental — it was me that let Boxer out — glared from the corner of the dining room. I got up and kicked Benji hard on a thin, titanium knee. He barely stumbled.

 

“Go to your room, Johnny,” Mom said.

 

* * *

 

“I know it’s been difficult with your father gone and after what happened to Boxer. I’m sad, too.” Mom’s eyes misted in confirmation. “But you could at least try. Benji was expensive.”

 

I tried.

 

I let Benji do my homework. I let Benji do my chores.

 

I played chess with him. I got out the old-fashioned board, hoping it might confuse him. He sat across the table and gripped the chess pieces with his delicate right claw. “I’m playing at schoolboy level, Johnny,” he said, checkmating me in seven instant, faultless moves.

 

I hated him. I hated his square metallic jaw, his happy, bright, penetrating eyes, his two thousand plus AIQ, and his clever lips, miming in perfect time with his staccato speech.

 

“Let’s go outside,” I said one day while Mom was at work.

 

“That sounds like fun, Johnny.”

 

“Can you bark like a dog?” He could. I saw the neighbor’s curtain twitch.

 

“Louder!” I said.

 

“Can you stand on one leg?”

 

“Yes, Johnny.” He perched, impeccably poised, like a tin ballerina.

 

“Can you swim?” I pushed him into the swimming pool and watched him sink. He scrambled underwater, his claws and feet scraping and clunking across the bottom and dragging him up the side. I pushed him under again with the deck broom.

 

Eventually, I let him out. In the garage, I smothered him with blankets and watched the light fade from his eyes.

 

“It’s okay, Johnny,” he said. “My reserve battery has ten hours.”

 

I found a hammer and smashed his right claw as if I were opening a walnut.

 

“Does that hurt?” I asked.

 

* * *

 

One thing about Benji. He wasn’t a snitch.

 

“How are you two getting along?” Mom asked.

 

“Great!” Benji said. He was still straightening out his right claw. “Johnny’s my best friend.”

 

I said nothing. Later, we went back outside, and I got Benji to pitch balls, which I hit all over the yard. “Fetch,” I said, and Benji scurried around, retrieving the balls, a little bit like Boxer.

For a moment, I almost liked him.