The Ashers sat at their kitchen table sipping coffee and listening to the soft tick of a mid-century starburst clock. Cora adored antiques and Matthew indulged her.

The sound of the front door swinging open froze them, mid-sip. The thump of a carelessly discarded backpack hitting the floor followed. A shiver of anticipation ran up Matthew's back like a zipper.

“Mama, Papa, I'm home!” came a shout from the front hall. Matthew looked at his wife. Over the rim of her cup, she smiled.

“He's here,” said Cora.

“Of course he is,” replied Matthew.

The Ashers got up slowly. Matthew took his wife's arm and guided her into the living room.

A blue baseball cap peeked above the sofa.

The Ashers haltingly circumnavigated a glass end table. An adolescent boy sat slumped on the sofa, kicking his athletic shoes in the air. He looked up at his parents and grinned. Those big front teeth, that turned-up nose, the wisps of tawny hair poking under the rim of the cap: The Ashers took in every inch of their son with growing joy. Daniel was his name. And he was home.

“Hello,” said Cora softly.

“How… uh, how was school today, son?” asked Matthew.

“Fine,” sighed the boy. “It rained during recess, so we played crab soccer in the gym. After that we did book reports.”

“What was yours?” asked Cora.

“The Mouse and the Motorcycle.”

“That's an old one.”

“I guess. But I like it.”

The Ashers stood hypnotized by the fresh sound of their son's voice.

“What's for dinner?” asked Daniel, oblivious to the attention.

“It's your birthday today,” said his mother.

“You're ten years old,” said his father. “A big day for you.”

“I know,” said Daniel.

“We're going to have all your favorites tonight: Hot dogs and ice cream and a big cake with blue frosting,” said Cora excitedly. “We're having a party.”

“But just the three of us,” added Matthew.

“Sounds perfect,” said Daniel.

* * *

Matthew took Daniel into the backyard and the two played cornhole while Cora watched contentedly from a patio chair. Matthew got winded after a few rounds, and they went back inside.

Cora broke out an old photo album she'd had printed years ago and flipped though family pictures. At the time, Matthew scoffed at her love for archaic media and how it crowded their small house. Now, looking over her shoulder, he was grateful.

“Here are some of your old birthday parties,” said Cora pointing out images of the boy with countless toys and long-forgotten friends. “And here you are the year we went camping at the lake.”

“I don't remember,” said Daniel, blank-faced.

“That was his eleventh birthday,” said Matthew.

“Oh,” said Cora.

“I like the outdoors,” said Daniel, animated again. “Remember when we went to California and saw the redwoods?”

“They were so big, and you were so small,” said Cora with a faraway look. Matthew slipped the photo album from her lap and put it back on the shelf.

* * *

After dinner, punctuated by plenty of dad jokes and too many balloons, the family sat around the table enjoying one another's company.

“You haven't touched your cake,” prodded Cora.

“I'm full,” said Daniel. “But I'm sure it's delicious. You make such good cakes, Mama. You baked that crazy gumball cake once for Fourth of July.”

Matthew scooped up the paper plate and dumped it into the trash next to the untouched hot dog.

“The Pastians' wolfhound scarfed the leftovers.”

“And threw up in their bedroom,” giggled Daniel.

The laughter trailed off and the starburst clock ticked.

“Well, it's getting late. Maybe it's time for bed,” suggested Matthew.

“I laid out your pajamas,” said Cora cheerfully.

“Why don't you get washed up, and we'll come tuck you in.”

Daniel stood up from the table. “Promise?”

“Wouldn't miss it for the world, son.”

* * *

Matthew woke up to the muffled closing clack of what he knew to be the front door. His wife was asleep in her son's bed, curled around the empty hollow of a folded-back comforter.

Matthew rose quietly from the chair and padded his way to the front hall.

He opened the door and saw a man in a clean, white smock standing before an aluminum packing crate lined with grey styrofoam.

Daniel tipped gingerly back into the foam and closed his eyes.

The man in the white smock turned.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” he said.

“Twelve hours already?” said Matthew, staring at the box. It didn't look much like a coffin. Not really.

“Was everything… acceptable?” asked the man.

Matthew looked down at his smock. No nametag. Just a logo for “All-American Android.”

“A wonderful day. Thank you.” Matthew paused as the man looked around uncomfortably. “This was really more for my wife,” he added as the man turned away. “Daniel, our real son, died of medulloblastoma when he was twelve.”

“I'm sorry,” said the man, hastily closing the crate.

“So, how much do those things cost, anyway? Not to rent, but to buy.”

“Technicians aren't really encouraged to interact with customers,” said the man.

“I understand. I just thought...”

“This model is $200,000.”

“Oh.”

“But it's not recommended. Long-term use, I mean. The AI memory implants—photos, home movies, writings, whatever—don't really hold up for more than a couple days. It's just... you know, an illusion.”

“Yeah.”

* * *

Matthew wandered back into his son's old bedroom. He suddenly felt very tired. He looked down at his wife and her eyes fluttered open. She noticed the empty space next to her.

“He's gone,” Mrs. Asher observed matter-of-factly.

“It's OK. He can come back next year,” said Mr. Asher and led his wife to their bedroom.