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pressurizing fans fell silent.
    “This is your brother,” Mom said. She was trying to pull her right hand free from First Brother’s left. “Aren’t you going to say hello?”
    I looked back toward the kitchen and called out, “Grandma!”
    “My darling little girl,” Mom said, bending over to pick me up. “Give me a big hug.”
    Her breath smelled of stale cigarette smoke, but her body smelled of violets, and I loved the way she held me, loved her warm, wet kisses, loved the energy she exuded, of an intensity greater than either Grandpa’s or Grandma’s.
    I was passed to Dad, who had by then also managed to free his hand from First Brother’s. “How’s my sweetie?” He hugged and kissed me, but more gently, softly, softer than either Grandpa or Grandma would have; and he smelled good, too: citrus, mint, sandalwood—all calming like his smile.
    I heard cheery hellos from Grandpa and Grandma and was set back down onto the floor. While the grown-ups hugged and kissed, First Brother continued to stare, now at something on the ceiling, though at what I couldn’t tell, for there wasn’t anything there—just the same blank whiteness of the walls.
    “How’s my grandson today?” Grandpa said, sounding cheerful. He hugged First Brother, but First Brother continued staring at the nothing on the ceiling.
    Grandpa brought First Brother’s right hand close to me and indicated with a nod and a smile that I should do something with it. I took hold of the big hand—its skin cool and smooth, almost slippery, like that of a frog—but I didn’t know what else to do with it.
    “Perhaps you could show your brother our house,” Grandpa said.
    “Okay. Come along, then,” I said, pulling on the reptilian hand.
    First stop: kitchen. I showed him the chair I sat on in the breakfast nook. He didn’t look at the chair. He didn’t look at me when I sat in the chair. I opened the refrigerator door. He didn’t look inside. I touched the biorecycler, which was still purring with the leftover lunch Grandma had fed it. This he looked at, though not until I removed my hand.
    I walked over to the nutriosynthesizer. I told him that Grandma and I liked the fruits and vegetables that came fresh from our garden more than those that came from the synthesizer. Grandpa didn’t think there was much of a difference. First Brother continued looking at the recycler.
    I noticed the synthesizer’s green light was on, so I opened the small door. An orange, with no peel, lay on the round glass platform inside. I reached in and separated the orange in half.
    “Here,” I said, “you try. See what you think.”
    It took me a moment—a moment during which he didn’t reach for the orange, or even look at it—before I realized he probably wasn’t interested in food. I had been told he simply plugged his tummy into an electrical outlet to charge his tens of thousands of little batteries and capacitors.
    I put the orange back in the synthesizer. First Brother continued staring at the recycler.
    “When it stops purring,” I said, “we can put some of the feedstock into the synthesizer and make another orange. Or whatever you want.”
    He still didn’t look at me. A little voice inside said: He doesn’t want anything. Not from you.
    Tears welled up in my eyes. I wanted a brother I could play with.
    Just then, Grandpa appeared, followed by Grandma, Mom, and Dad. Perhaps they had been just around the corner, listening.
    “How’s the grand tour going?” Grandpa asked.
    I tried to smile. First Brother kept looking at the recycler. I wished it would stop purring.
    No one said anything for a moment. Then I noticed an antoid crawling along the seam between the floor and the cabinet on which the synthesizer sat. Rarely did we see an antoid during the day; they worked at night, seeking out and carrying off dust and crumbs and, should any make it past Gatekeeper, alien microbots. Grandpa said the antoids acted as an immune system for the house,