My alarm no longer functioned as intended and neither did I. The sounds and smells of the customized downpour flooded my senses, but I’d been awake for hours, lost in a haze of disjointed thoughts. A blinking message appeared on my retinal feed labeled “To-do list.” I focused on the pop-up and pressed my eyes shut, opening the file.

 

As I scrolled down the relatively mundane list, neurons flared, slowly clearing my mind of cobwebs. One bullet point gave me pause: “test out <v1x3y v3.0>."

I anxiously kicked a hole in the covers and scrambled out of my unwashed bedding, a cautious optimism taking root. My heart rate rose, accompanied by a flashing caduceus icon on my feed. Please let this time be different. Please let the code function as intended.

 

I plodded into the bathroom and brushed my teeth in the dark, head down. A month after the malware had corrupted my neural implant, I was still unable to confront the mirror’s missing puzzle pieces.

 

The pandemic hit overnight, disabling millions. My implant’s auto-doc said that while the damage wasn’t permanent, I’d eventually need in-person treatment to flush the bug, or risk irreversible memory loss. I self-quarantined until the corporations rolled out their security patches weeks later. By then, I’d already retreated inward, convinced I no longer needed anyone else.

 

A leaning tower of dirty dishes lay stacked in my kitchen sink, crusted and sessile. Selecting the least dirty bowl, I poured myself a breakfast of ginger-flavored Soy-O’s and continued connecting mental dots.

 

Minimizing a slew of vaguely familiar emails and IMs from my feed, I visually traced the outline of a cloud-shaped icon, activating my virtual canvas. Moons, stars, and nebulae pulsed dimly to life, orbiting my pre-dawn apartment. With a few more eye movements, I uploaded the file to my canvas.

 

The hardware in my head instantly registered soft fur grazing my calf.

 

Startled by the unexpected sensation, I almost stumbled to the floor. A pixelated, foxlike avatar darted past me, its bushy tail swaying from side to side. Had I updated the A.I.’s programming to include full haptic recognition?

 

“Never a dull day with you, is there, Vixey?” I said to the avatar. “Now let’s see if you can pull it off this time. Chop, chop.” I took a bite of cereal, waiting impatiently to see if the malware damage — and my ensuing dementia — could be reversed. Or at least arrested.

 

The avatar’s plodding steps became a full-fledged sprint. With each lap, its form flickered in and out of focus, soon dissipating along with the celestial bodies. The canvas’s overlay began sloshing erratically, a colorless soup of wasted time. I sighed and plopped onto a kitchen stool, fighting away tears of frustration and cursing my ineptitude.

 

A pin-prick of light suddenly appeared in the chaotic overlay. Soon the dim interior of my apartment was laid bare by the lapping flames of a campfire. Pine trees, green undergrowth, and shimmering moonlight materialized across my line of sight, 3D rendered with texture and shade. The code update I’d installed at some point was having the intended effect; no program crashes in 10 seconds and counting.

 

A group of boys dressed in Cub Scout attire took shape, sitting around the fire on chopped logs. The browns, blues, and greens of their eyes stood out, as did the fire’s glow across their varied skin tones. I allowed a grin to creep across my face, not only because the A.I.'s color palettes and digital brushes were functioning as intended, but also because of what I was seeing and remembering.

 

A familiar face I had no name for appeared, holding a guitar. My A.I.’s pattern- and motion-generating algorithms and acoustic simulators sprang into action as the scoutmaster's fingers moved deftly across the strings. The scouts began singing along to a song I never knew I’d forgotten. A boy briefly glanced in my direction, the firelight exposing familiar baby blues and a shock of wavy hair. I gasped. You handsome devil, you.

 

Draped on a log next to a classmate (or friend?) were embroidered badges. And then I knew. My Webelos induction ceremony, Caribou National Forest. ‘92…or maybe ’93?

 

Reality buffers filtered out the distractions of my apartment, pulling me further into the memory, further into life as a child.

 

One by one, the scouts dropped cloth pouches into the flames. Pop-pop-pop, came the A.I. 's synthesized sound effects. Tracers zipped into the sky, their paths varied and unpredictable. Some rocketed straight up, pushing past nearby pines, casting a soft glow over the gathered scouts. Others sputtered sideways and quickly fizzled out.

 

Goosebumps covered my arms, and the canvas’s geometries began softening.

 

My fox appeared in dark foliage behind the scouts, who slowly faded away. As Vixey approached, firelight illuminated its doe eyes and bushy tail. It pulled a half-burning tree branch from the embers with its jaws and traced calligraphic letters in mid-air.

 

“Like what you saw?”

 

The characters held their shape momentarily before petering out of existence.

 

“I'd forgotten what it's like…” I muttered aloud, choking up. “Is there more?”

 

The avatar continued its deft motions.

 

“Limitations don’t define us. See you tomorrow morning.”

 

The fox, an homage to one of my favorite childhood characters, bounded into a nearby blackberry thicket. As if on cue, a meteor shower streaked across the cloudless night sky, and the virtual canvas deactivated.

 

I found myself whistling the campfire song from earlier, knowing I had unattended business. I shuffled apprehensively at first, but the childhood memory and its melody were my assurance. Early morning sunlight flooded in through the bathroom’s window, and I confronted the mirror. In it was the boy from the campfire, and a bushy tail poking out from behind his head.

 

I grabbed my keys and opened the door of my apartment. For the first time in weeks, I knew where I was going.