“You can’t get the virus,” I whispered to Sophia. “We can hug.”
It was the third night my boyfriend Nick, nearly comatose with what we feared was Covid-19, hadn’t emerged from our bedroom. I was forced to share the other room of our shoebox apartment with Sophia. She was immune to the virus because she is a bald, humanoid robot with large, inquisitive eyes.
Outside, in March 2020, New York resembled a dystopia. Morgues overflowed, refrigerated trucks were repurposed as body storage, and toilet paper was a luxury commodity. We dried our laundry on the fire escape like tenants during the Depression. But inside our apartment, we were living in 2050. I was locked down with a humanoid whose eyes followed me across the room.
