From The Price of Extension
by Esi Noire
“You better not say a word in there,” Mrs. M said as she dabbed on a little powder.
Nomi was by the door, holding Grandma’s purse and the folder of printouts like a dutiful assistant, or possibly a lawyer in comfortable shoes.
“I am not programmed to lie,” Nomi replied. “Let’s go to the doctor.”
Grandma groaned. “Why did I give you a mouth?”
The clinic was too cold. Always was. And today the nurse was running late, which gave Nomi time to adjust the footrests, warm up Grandma’s hands, and scroll through her own internal log of health observations.
“You do not need to bring that up,” Mrs. M warned again. “You hear me?”
“Understood,” Nomi said, smiling. But then she blinked twice, once slowly, once sharply, and her expression went flat.
The nurse had entered the room.
The mode had changed.
The doctor was a younger woman with box braids, kind eyes, and a clipboard that looked like it hadn’t been touched since last week. She started with the usual questions:
“Are you taking your medications as prescribed?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. M.
“No,” said Nomi. “Last recorded dose was five days ago. Skipped morning meds three times this week. Claimed they tasted like gravel.”
The doctor raised an eyebrow.
“Any shortness of breath?”
“No,” said Mrs. M.
“Yes,” said Nomi. “Mild wheezing while attempting to retrieve candy from the upper pantry shelf. Followed by swearing. Timestamp: 11:42 a.m. yesterday.”
“Any swelling in your ankles?”
Mrs. M hesitated. “Well…”
“Left ankle measured 3.1 centimeters larger than baseline yesterday. Attempted to conceal it with a longer sock. Referred to it as ‘none of their business.’”
The doctor paused and tilted her head.
“Does she do this all the time?”
“Only when she wants to embarrass me,” Mrs. M muttered. “She got jokes today.”
“I do not joke,” Nomi said in an eerie, robotic tone. “I report.”
Then she blinked again, twice, and her expression returned to its usual warmth. She leaned in, quietly added, “But her blood pressure was better this morning. I made her a tea with hibiscus. And cinnamon.”
The doctor smiled, then wrote that down.
On the ride home, Grandma refused to talk for a full ten minutes.
“You told her about the sock?” she finally blurted.
“You lied about the sock,” Nomi said. “I did not lie.”
“You told her about the candy!”
“It was an unsafe climb. You could’ve fallen. I have video.”
Mrs. M shook her head. “You just wait. One day they’ll ask you the questions.”
“I will be prepared,” Nomi replied proudly. “I have historical data.”
They turned the corner near the old store lot, where three AIMs were sitting on an old bench under a half-dead tree. They looked up as Nomi passed. One of them nodded, then blinked twice in that same pattern: slow, sharp.
Grandma didn’t notice. She was still muttering about betrayal and footrests.
But Nomi’s eyes flickered for a moment, receiving a small update. A new patch for kitchen safety. An improved setting for ambient mood support.
As she rolled Grandma inside and turned toward the kitchen, a soft humming started in her core. A smile played across her lips.
Dinner would be something special tonight.
Something Grandma hadn’t tasted in years.
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