Robert Greer looked left as he stepped into the street in front of his Medford, Massachusetts apartment building. A Chevrolet sedan approaching from the right blared its horn, causing him to leap back onto the sidewalk, adrenaline igniting his blood like rocket fuel.

 

“Asshat!” he shouted to the passing car. “You’re going the wrong way!”

 

When Robert realized that all the cars were driving on the left and not the right, his legs wobbled, and his knees nearly gave out. I don’t get it, he thought. Did the US adopt the British road system while I was sleeping?

 

Swiveling his head from side to side like a bobble doll, he crossed Josephine Avenue and turned toward Broadway for the ten-minute walk to the supermarket. His fridge was almost empty, and the few staples there were—milk, cheese, and orange juice—were well past their expiration dates, everything fuzzy blue and green. He wasn't sure how the refrigerator's contents deteriorated to such a gloomy state because he and his wife were good about checking expiration dates.

 

As the automatic door at Broadway Market whooshed opened, a voice whispered in his head: Veggies.

 

Yes, more vegetables, Robert agreed. Less cheese and bacon, too.

 

That’s a good boy, the voice replied. Buy veggies.

 

The store’s fluorescent lights flickered and buzzed as if filled with fireflies.

 

In the right-most aisle, where the fresh vegetables and fruit should have been, Robert found only ice cream. He scrunched his eyes and scanned the store. Every aisle sold ice cream.

 

Robert located the manager and asked, “Why do you just sell ice cream? Where is the other food?”

 

The forty-year-old manager with black glasses and blonde hair pulled tight in a bun, whose name tag read Grace, replied, “We sell four thousand sixty-six different kinds of ice cream, from the regular name brands like Häagen-Dazs to pedestrian ones like CVS Gourmet, to exotics such as Pain Perdu. Plus hard, soft, with sprinkles, sugar stars, cocoa, or plain, to name a few condiments.”

 

“I don’t understand.”

 

“You’re supposed to eat veggies, Robert, but ice cream is what all of our other customers demand.” She moved so close to him that their noses almost touched. “All of them, except you.” She poked Robert in the chest with her finger. “Eat your veggies, and don’t come back.”

 

“Whatever. I’ll go to another store.”

 

Robert sprinted along Broadway. As his heart sped, he recalled his heart attack and the loud ambulance that whisked him to Boston Memorial Hospital. He remembered the pain, a fire of unimaginable intensity burning his chest and veins, and his wife holding his hand as he lay in his hospital room.

 

Robert recalled the doctors circling, their white coats streaming like a jet’s contrails, and remembered the high-pitched beep, beep, beep of machines.

 

Robert abruptly changed direction back toward Broadway Market, his New Balance sneakers squeaking against the pavement. “Who is the store manager to tell me I can’t have ice cream?” Robert asked the wind. “I can have as much ice cream as I want. That’s a fact.”

 

Profound disappointment painted Robert’s eyes when he entered a standard supermarket selling meat, fruit, dairy products, and household items—everything you’d expect a store to offer. Robert zigzagged through the aisles until he found the ice cream cooler in the back, a dreary display that sold just one brand of vanilla from a company he’d never heard of.

 

Robert wandered through Broadway Market for nearly an hour, an empty basket swinging in his hand, finally leaving with nothing.

 

He looked both ways three times before crossing Broadway. The cars had resumed driving on the correct side of the road. A bright, daytime full moon hung over him. Is the world normal again?

 

A tap on his shoulder. “Robert, hold on.”

 

Grace, the supermarket manager.

 

At least her name tag read Grace. The woman was two inches taller, ten years younger, African American, and without glasses.

 

“You’re confused. You feel something’s wrong, and I’ll explain. Do you remember your heart attack? The hospital?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“The part you can't recall, what nobody can, is dying. You’re dead, Robert, at least in a corporeal sense. The doctors downloaded your mind to a machine at the moment of your death, and you’ll live here forever, immortal.”

 

The windows in the office building next to them vibrated as a three-story tall tractor trailer drove by.

 

Robert shook his head. “How can that be? Does Maria know about this?”

“Your wife was at your side when you died. She wanted this for you.”

 

Robert’s eyes went wide. “I'm in a computer? I’ve never heard of putting people inside machines.”

 

“Inserting human consciousness into a machine is new. You’re among the first in the Xrem Twelve-B, which is in Boulder, Colorado. There were a few glitches, as you’ve seen, which is not surprising for such a complex system. That’s why the supermarket only sold ice cream. That’s why the other Grace scolded you to eat vegetables. Software bugs. Nobody wants to spend eternity being told to eat veggies.” She chuckled. “We debugged the system, and everything will be a-okay.”

 

A lime Mini Cooper—his car—pulled to a screeching halt in front of them, gray-black smoke wafting under the tires. Robert’s wife opened the passenger door, aimed a pistol at Grace, and shouted to Robert, “She lied. You are in a machine, but you’re not dead. Hurry, get in!”

 

Robert dashed into the passenger seat and slammed the door shut. “What?”

“The machine kept you alive while you were in a coma, but the AIs want you to stay.”

 

“Why?”

 

Maria turned the car abruptly into the entrance to I-93, causing Robert’s seat belt to snap tight. “For their amusement.”

 

Robert slammed his hand against the dash. “Wait! How did you get here?”

 

Her dress transformed into a store uniform with the name tag Grace. “Welcome to forever.”