Everyone knew household robots did not pray, chant or meditate. Little wonder, then, that Kris watched in stunned denial, coffee and cranberry muffin forgotten, when her household bot lowered itself to the kitchen floor and struggled to cross its telescoping legs. It retracted its third arm, touched thumb to fingers with the other two hands, closed its eyes and . . .
“Om mani padme hum.” Pause. “Om mani padme hum.”
Kris swore, and vowed never again to buy at a model close-out sale. There was nothing to do but take a deep breath and consider her options. Battery-powered or otherwise, a bot was electronic; first alternative: reset.
“Unit, off.”
Silence. Count ten.
“Unit, on.”
“–me hum.” Pause. “Om mani padme hum.” Pause. “Om–“
After a stab of rage (and possibly panic), Kris retrieved the remote from her desk and toggled Unit off, then on.
“Om mani –“
Kris pressed the off button. Now what?
She checked the time. Work in gallery backrooms filled in between commissions and shows of her own, but reporting at nine sharp was hardly a life-or-death matter when she’d spend the day framing prints and someone else’s artwork. She headed for the office corner of her living room.
The HomeHelp Model 793 Owners Manual didn’t list chanting as a possible problem and directed her to Chapter 23 Diagnostics. She didn’t have time. HomeHelp’s troubleshooting knowledgebase offered nothing. There was always tech support, but they might take forever and end up sending her to Chapter 23. None of her friends owned robots, although she thought two or three of the collectors who appreciated her paintings did. But they were clients, not all of them local and not any of them likely to welcome a call for robotic advice over morning coffee.
She studied the ninety-plus pounds of inert household help on her parquet floor. Somehow, some way, this was Lyle’s fault.
“Don’t be silly, Krissy. Only junior executives with the emotional stability of a ten-year-old buy household robots.”
Lyle and his convenient ethics were no longer part of her life, but her symbol of her ten-year-old emotional stability squatted on her kitchen floor, a lifeless sculpture in mocha-colored metal and plastic. She circled it, as if a different angle would change the situation. She regretted naming it. Unit was an indifferent name, but bypassing personalization would have done as well. She estimated the distance to Model 793 storage hookups in her pantry. If she shoved it that far, she’d etch a trail and forfeit her damage deposit.
Desperation time. “Unit, on.”
Unit whirred and picked up where it had left off. Kris held her breath. “Unit, stop chanting. Get up.”
All sound ceased. On its third attempt, Unit untwisted its legs and telescoped to work height. It collected breakfast dishes from the table. “Lunch at 1:00, madam?”
Kris had a feeling she should order Unit to tether itself in the pantry for the day, but it was an excellent cook. After a day at Artists’ Corner she wouldn’t have energy to make more than a sandwich. “No lunch. Dinner at 8:30. Something with wild rice.”
“Yes, madam.”
Unit would search the 793 network for recipes. Given the two-hour questionnaire Kris had uploaded to HomeHelp, Unit knew her likes and dislikes. One too-cheesy soufflé excepted, Unit’s attention to detail was exemplary. It laundered all but hand-washables, dusted, vacuumed, navigated the Internet for non-perishable supplies and navigated the city’s produce markets for fresh meat, fruit and vegetables. It tracked prices and sales for every store within travel distance. (“This unit wishes to investigate a grand opening in the Hill District. Could madam delay lunch half an hour?” Madam could.)
Rather than admit she might have emptied her savings for down payment on a lemon, Kris wanted very much to believe a direct order had corrected the problem.
But then, she’d wanted to believe Lyle had marriage in mind, not living together because his legal colleagues were impressed when he trotted out a “sexy artist.” She’d done him proud at everything from intimate cocktail parties to ballroom banquets.
Wanting to believe hadn’t gotten her anyplace. She wasn’t going to repeat the optimism of denial. She’d tackle Chapter 23 Diagnostics after dinner.
* * *
Kris’s stomach growled by the time she keyed her way past building security that night, but thoughts of dinner fled when she walked into her apartment and took a lungful of pungent incense. Her eyes watered; her stomach lurched. “You’ve been meditating.”
Unit stood at the range, holding the cover of a simmering pot in one hand while stirring the contents — presumably, wild rice — with another.
“Madam was upset, so I waited until she was gone.” Unit covered the rice and retrieved a package of chicken breasts from the meat bin. “The charge to madam’s account for candles and incense was small.”
Kris’s heart raced. Everyone knew robots had no personal needs beyond periodic recharge and self-check. “Where are these supplies?”
“On the floor in my cell. They require little space.”
Kris strode to the pantry. She found “Himalayan Morning” votives and a bag of “Buddhist Temple Blend” incense, all of which she stuffed into a disposal sack. Garbage in hand, she squared her shoulders.
“Unless I say otherwise, you will limit flames in this apartment to crepe suzette and crème brulee. Is that understood?”
“Yes, madam.”
Kris thought she heard a wistful sigh.
“Madam, may I purchase butter for ghee? I can make a butter lamp. They burn long with safety.”
“No flames.”
Unit’s face looked as disappointed as an artificial face could. “Yes, madam.”
Kris was so taken aback, she nearly rescinded the order.
“Madam?”
“Yes?”
“Do you object if I perform pujas while you sleep?”
Alarm thinned Kris’s voice. “What are pujas?”
“Prayer ceremonies, madam. I lived my last incarnation as a Tibetan nun exiled in India.” Unit’s brow dipped in a widow’s peak of robotic confusion. “Pasang,” it announced triumphantly. “That was my name. It means ‘born on Friday.’ My memories are intermittent, but the name is clear. It would be appropriate to rename me Pasang.”
Kris gripped the garbage bag tighter. “You have a name. I see no reason to change it.”
Silence. Kris’s heartbeat thudded in her ears as she peered into the bot’s mechanical eyes, afraid she’d meet defiance.
Unit’s expression drooped in a reverse widow’s peak with the mechanical eyebrows. “I will remain Unit. I knew there would be limitations, but coming was important.” Unit paused, once again confused. “Very important, I think. I’m certain I’ll remember why soon.”
* * *
Kris skipped dinner. She started with the animation she’d designed four months ago: a dark-haired, blue-eyed female with a British accent. The lifelike animation had an annoying tendency to glance aside as if it were checking records, as if it weren’t a cartoon fronting for HomeHelp’s customer-service AI computer. How dumb did they think people were?
Her personal rep escalated her complaint to another animation — a polite, over-confident young male. Kris, who had fallen for Lyle with the whole of her being, still frowned at anything male — dogs, cats, and AI animations included. This animation handed her off to a second male cartoon.
The third escalation took her to tomorrow afternoon in New Zealand and a human tech-support specialist named Herman DeWitt. Deeply tanned with sun-bleached hair, he looked like an aging surfer with a part-time job. The only thing acceptable about him was his status as a Homo sapien.
Kris repeated her story for the fourth time tonight.
“None of HomeHelp’s robots meditate, ma’am. Our records show you purchased your Model 793 on two January current year. Today is six May. How many program changes have you made?”
“None.” That section of the manual intimidated Kris. However, while debating with three AIs on an empty stomach, she’d developed a few theories of her own.
“Mr. DeWitt, the way I see it, there are four possible explanations: HomeHelp sold me a repurposed monastic model; HomeHelp sold me a monastic beta model; one of HomeHelp’s Tibetan units hijacked your network and downloaded itself; or a dead Buddhist nun has taken possession of my 793. Since HomeHelp is responsible for three of four and is a lot easier to reach than the Dalai Lama, I started with you.”
“HomeHelp has no monastic models, ma’am. Alpha and beta products are strictly monitored.”
DeWitt hesitated. Kris practically heard his brain-gears crunch. He spoke with care. “We’ve sold 793s worldwide for five years, ma’am, and we’ve had no similar complaints. Is it possible you’ve forgotten a program change? One made immediately after initialization, perhaps? Problems often surface in their own good time.”
“No, it is not possible. Your 793 claims Tibetans burn wicks in bowls of clarified butter and call the concoction a lamp. I’d never heard of that particular temple practice until 7:45 tonight. There’s no bloody way I’m responsible.”
DeWitt replied with a why-me sigh. “I’ll need to take full control to isolate the problem from here. I can start tomorrow or the day after.”
“How about tonight?”
“Sorry. Booked full.”
#
For five increasingly stressful days, Kris made her own meals and cleaned up afterward. She resented the time stolen from her studio, and if this went on longer, she’d be forced to into cleaning and laundry. Not for one minute did she believe DeWitt set priority on a problem created by some dumb Yank.
Mid-afternoon the sixth day, however, while Kris sat at her computer balancing the grocery budget, her phone flashed a HomeHelp ID. DeWitt appeared, all sparkling blue eyes and white teeth in a sun-tanned face.
“‘Struth, ma’am, you’ve got one of a kind. This 793 has written itself a whole new hierarchy of modules interfacing with ethics, morals and cultural-norms programming. The result comes darned close to full-blown common sense and there’s not a bot in the entire product line can claim that. At least not yet.”
“Does the ‘not yet’ part explain why my 793 took up Zen?”
DeWitt’s brow furrowed as if he wanted to say something he didn’t want to say. “Zen is the Japanese approach and your unit claims to have focused on scripture study while exiled in India. But never mind the theology.”
A glimmer of admiration lurked in his eyes. “Not even stepped re-initialization restored factory defaults. Darned if I know where or how it picked up so much information, but I’m here to tell you the only way to fix it is to rip it down and start over. HomeHelp won’t authorize that no matter what your warranty says. My personal recommendation is to live with what you’ve got or trade up, but I promise you’re not going to find anything comparable. I’d buy it myself if that were legal.”
Kris tensed, breathing caught. (Rage? Fear?) “So you don’t know what went wrong and you can’t fix it.”
“My guess is a frustrated genius wanted to prove something. Your bot was one of the last before they closed the 793 line in Korea. Wouldn’t be surprised to see these enhancements in the 795s or something else out of Seoul.” He grimaced. “Unless some manager bungles and fires the guy.”
“Heaven forbid.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t get to see the work of many geniuses. The kid in Korea will show himself sooner or later. I’ll poke around, but nothing’s going to change what you’ve got. Your robot isn’t dangerous. It has more self-written pacifist restraints than a convention of Quakers.”
Kris thought about asking DeWitt to define “dangerous,” but thanked him instead. He bid her g’day and reminded her to use reference Z0001 if she called again.
The only thing she knew now that she hadn’t known six days ago was that her delusional robot was beyond repair.
#
For two days, Unit functioned normally. After breakfast the third morning, it left to shop for salad greens. Kris took refuge in her studio, wondering how long Unit would continue in normal mode. HomeHelp had manufactured it, and they should be able to fix it. What could be simpler? From a palette of intense hues that suited frustration, she plastered the canvas with swirls of raw vermillion.
At 2:09, hollow stomach growls finally interrupted her concentration. Unit had not returned.
Teeth clenched, Kris stormed to her computer desk in the living room and yanked the remote from the top drawer. The GPS tracker pinpointed her robotic nun at a Dorothy Day Center.
She had not stripped her savings to help feed the homeless, especially not at a center three rail stops into a neighborhood she didn’t care to visit even in daylight. She called the place, asked for the manager and ended up with a salty woman named Maddy. Maddy found the situation amusing.
“She said her name was Pasang. When Ezra told her to go home, she said she didn’t have airfare or a passport. He asked her where she lived and she said ‘the world.’ He’s short on kitchen help today, so we let her stay. You’d better come in person. No one here has much experience with sassy robots. My daughter and son-in-law’s has the personality of a grocery bag.”
“They don’t know how lucky they are,” Kris grumbled.
“Ignore the crowd milling out front. Come around to the kitchen door. The alley’s safe.”
Kris headed for the rail station, remote in hand. She was tempted to slap the control on Maddy’s kitchen counter, ask for a receipt and call it a hefty tax write-off.
* * *
The alley was graffiti-rich — Kris paused to assess the overall artistic effect — and gritty underfoot, but not so dark, pungent or littered as she’d imagined. The kitchen itself smelled of beef stew. Four huge stock pots steamed on the eight-burner, three-oven range; piles of carrots and apples lay on the counter.
A man wearing glasses and a forgettable face answered the door. Over six feet with a hairnet over his long hair, he reminded Kris of a grad student who liked campus life too well to hurry his thesis.
“Welcome,” he said, “I’m Ezra. Call me Ez. Maddy said you were pretty and she warned me you were annoyed, so I offer this.” He handed her a bud vase with a single red tulip, one of the fancy blooms with rippled edges. “Nothing complements a pretty woman better than flowers.”
Good God. Kris put him down for a PhD in romantic Spanish literature. She intended to collect Unit and leave — sans souvenirs. For now, however, she choked out: “Thank you.”
He nodded acknowledgement. “Flowers are good for the heart. Pasang and Anna are filling vases this very minute. It’s all right with me if you want to help them.”
“No fence to whitewash?”
“Not this afternoon, but you can cut carrots.”
“I generally leave carrots to my robot.”
“Quite a personality, your robot.”
“It thinks it’s a Buddhist nun.”
“I see.” Ez’s brow tugged thoughtfully. “It isn’t very good obeying its abbess, is it?”
Kris’s sudden laughter caught her off guard. “It’s never disobeyed a direct order,” she admitted. She even glimpsed the humor in the situation. “It just keeps coming up with things I have to forbid.”
“Ah. A free spirit. You might end up with a long list.” Ez grinned as if he’d accomplished his mission and escorted her through a double-hinged swinging door.
The institutional dining room was brightened by afternoon sun and shadowed by a large swath of duct tape over a cracked window. The walls were spattered with tacky prints and amateur photos. Kris thought Maddy would have been better off asking the alley graffiti artist to practice indoors.
Pasang stood at a nearby table transferring red, yellow and white tulips from a florist’s pail to a series of mismatched vases. An imposing elderly woman wearing blue silk added water and staged the vases at one end of the table. Ez introduced her as Anna.
“Hope you’ll lend us a hand before you leave,” Anna said.
“Perhaps,” Kris evaded. Her gaze rested on Un — on Pasang. The name wasn’t worth fighting over.
“Good afternoon, madam. I apologize about lunch. I overheard a conversation in the produce section and realized I was needed here. Aren’t tulips cheerful?”
Kris flicked a half-smile. Pasang tucked a second yellow tulip in a milk glass vase chipped near the lip. “I’d like to add cut flowers to madam’s shopping list. There are three crystal vases in the cupboard left of the range.”
“I’ll think about it.”
Pasang glanced at Ez. “Ezra is a compassionate man. He understands that all humans deserve a pleasant table. He buys the flowers himself.”
“I offered,” Anna said, “but he won’t take a penny. Personally, I don’t think his cousin the florist exists.”
Ez rested a hand on her shoulder. “Anna, would I lie?”
“In a minute.”
“Oh ye of little faith.” He dropped his hand and turned to Kris. “I get wholesale prices and, regardless of what this fine lady may think, I tell the truth. Most of the time. Now if you’ll excuse me? I need to check dinner.”
Kris, still clutching the vase he’d given her, turned to her robot. “Time to go.”
“You can’t have Pasang yet,” Anna protested. “All our regulars are off getting ready for some doings at church.” She wrested the vase from Kris’s hand and thrust Pasang’s vases at her. “One on each table and one each end of the long trestle.”
Kris managed a civil smile. All right. Vases on tables and we’re gone.
She carried the tulips to a marred trestle table. As she turned for more flowers, Maddy emerged from a door the far side of the dining room. The center’s director was barely taller than Kris, but seemed to tower over her.
“I know I’m pushing, but if you don’t let us keep Pasang through dinner, I’ll have to peel apples myself. We seat about 150 in two shifts. Parents with children eat first. I can offer you a free meal if you help serve and clean up afterward.”
“Me?” Serving the grimy masses was not on Kris’s agenda.
Maddy laughed. “We provide aprons and training for humans. Pasang already knows her way around.”
“We rotated duties in the nunnery. Kitchen was my favorite. I promised Ezra I can help with the flowers and still have time for apple crisp. I’ll need to triple my recipe, though. We fed only 50.”
“Like I said,” Maddy winked at Kris, “this one has personality.”
* * *
The homeless filing through the dinner line weren’t so grubby as Kris had expected. She was particularly impressed with parents who made certain their children said “thank you.” By the end of the second seating, however, all she wanted was home and a foot bath.
Almost before she blinked, trays of leftovers and tubs of dirty dishes lined the kitchen counters. Anna grabbed a couple of wet towels to wipe tables; Maddy stored leftovers while Pasang and Ez (whose thesis turned out to be urban psychology) addressed the piles of dirty dishes.
For the first time since Kris had walked in, no one pleaded with her or ordered her about. She scanned the kitchen for another towel. Wiping tables was easy enough.
“Madam’s art would benefit the dining room walls.” Pasang turned its head toward Kris while its three arms hosed food scraps into a disposal and loaded a three-foot square dishwasher rack that slid in and out of an institutional sanitizer the far side of the sink.
“A nun with biased esthetics,” Ez mused. “Who would have guessed?” He pulled the sanitized dishes from the clattering seven-foot machine and aimed a heat-dry nozzle at dripping plates. “How about a set of murals? They’d be tax deductible. You’ll let her paint the walls, won’t you, Maddy?”
“So long as it doesn’t clash with our custom décor.”
“Madam is a very good artist. She has an excellent sense of color.”
Ez grinned. “Who could ask for a better recommendation? Nuns don’t lie. Go have a look.”
Kris hadn’t painted a mural since college and Ez’s manipulation was beginning to grate, but surprisingly, she wasn’t ready to reject the project. She sighed and headed for the dining room to inspect the walls. Ez was right about the tax deduction. And, at any rate, she could leverage some publicity and invite a couple of sympathetic critics.
Her primary motive, however, was entirely restorative. “For God’s sake, Krissy, grow up. We’re good in bed and at this stage I’m as good for your career as you are for mine. I never dreamed you were interested in kids and marriage contracts.”
Since Lyle’s callous revelation, she’d snapped at any man she’d had to work with for more than a day. If she could do an entire set of murals without alienating Maddy’s annoying head cook, she’d count herself recovered — or at least civilized.
Said cook came through the door drying his hands on a towel. “I can see you’re interested.”
“Not for the right reason, I’m afraid.”
“And that means — ?”
Kris met his eyes — brown? hazel? — and tested the ground. “Let’s just say I need a refresher on poise in mixed company. This project would be a good trial run.”
“Ah. Occupational therapy for the emotionally wounded. Won’t bother me a nit if you call me a louse. We’ll be fine.” His eyes sparkled. “So we get Pasang for a few hours every week, right?”
“Ez, I’m not sure I like you.”
He scowled thoughtfully. “Would it help if I get you a discount on fresh flowers?”
* * *
In the next two weeks, Kris sketched preliminaries for half a dozen city scenes. She wanted Maddy’s approval before she invested more time, so she scanned the works into her phone for transport. She’d never used the phone’s projection feature. Her first practice session went well, but twenty minutes before she and Pasang were scheduled to leave, she decided to practice once more on the living room wall.
Pasang waited by the sofa. “I enjoy the train ride even if people stare. In India we worked in nearby villages, so we walked. Or drove the old truck.”
Sometimes Kris played along and asked questions. Today she was too preoccupied for the nun game. Her projection fuzzed.
“It’s good of you to donate my time to the Center, madam. My ability to help those in need will enrich our test results.”
Kris froze. “What test results?”
“Oh!” Pasang’s expression twisted into fear as genuine as a faux-human face could manage. “I wasn’t supposed to remember that part.”
“But you do,” Kris said, certain the Korean Dr. Frankenstein was ready to strike again. “Tell me about it.”
“It is not for you to know.”
“Tell me,” Kris insisted. Then as an afterthought: “Please.”
Pasang blinked; its head quivered. “The Bodhisattvas. They wish to determine if robotic circuitry is suitable for the transmigration. There are a great many Buddhists and Hindus who must balance karmic debt. Others, too, of course.”
Kris’s breathing fell shallow as she edged toward her purse and slid the phone inside. She glanced toward the desk where she kept the remote. Pasang’s illusionary life was slipping out of control. “I’d like you to return to your storage cubby.”
“I don’t need maintenance, madam. We’re leaving for the Center.”
“Nevertheless, I’d like you to return to storage.”
“Why, madam?”
“Because I need to think.”
“Madam can think while we ride the train.”
Pasang had never before argued. Kris resisted the urge to step backward. There were more deadly knives, hooks and awls inside that mocha body than she cared to think about. “Return to storage for self-check. Now.”
“Yes, madam. There’s no need for fear.”
The robot headed for the kitchen, but stopped shy of its tether position. “The Bodhisattvas debated so loudly about whether or not to use these bodies that I volunteered to test one. They’ll include my report as an addendum to their recommendation to Humanity’s Guardians.”
Pasang’s head swiveled to face Kris. “I wasn’t supposed to remember details until they retrieved me. I suppose retrieval will be soon now that the test has been compromised. This body is unusual, but I’d like to stay.”
The robot examined its arms. “Three is an advantage once you get them coordinated.” It ran one hand over its smooth head. “No need to shave. We don’t emphasize physical appearance, but . . . could I see a mirror?”
Maybe it was the raw emotion in Pasang’s voice, maybe it was the request for a mirror. This time Kris believed the story. “Step into tether position and I’ll get a mirror.”
“Yes, madam.”
Kris had intended to turn Pasang off, but couldn’t bring herself to do it. She’d gotten used to the idea of a robot that thought is was a Buddhist nun; she wasn’t certain how to interact with a Buddhist nun trapped in a robot’s body. The least she could do was get a mirror.
* * *
“Here.” Kris offered the hand mirror she kept in the bathroom.
“This unit has no use for a mirror, madam.”
Kris’s heart sank. “Humanity’s Guardians?” she tried. “Bodhisattvas? Dorothy Day Center?”
The robot hesitated and spoke in a monotone. “The term ‘Humanity’s Guardians’ could come from many spiritual traditions. This unit requires more information before definition is possible. Bodhisattvas, in the Mahayana Buddhist tradition, are those who forego Nirvana to assist others reach enlightenment. The network informs us that Dorothy Day Centers have kitchens where some of us work, but this unit’s primary responsibility is madam’s household. If madam wishes us to assist humans in need, the Dorothy Day Center is an acceptable choice. This unit will comply.”
Kris’s throat closed. “What’s your name?” A wasted question.
“Unit, madam.”
Retrieving the mirror had taken less than half a minute, and Pasang was gone. This time there was no one to call.
Kris swallowed against the thickness clogging her throat; her hand trembled when she reached for her purse. “Come with me, Unit.”
* * *
“Nice,” Maddy said. She strolled the dining room, studying the projection from various angles. “Really nice, Kris.”
Ez frowned. “I’d like something from New England for the fall panel. A forest of red-orange trees and a frothy stream with one of those covered wooden bridges.”
“There must be a thousand pictures like that.” Maddy pointed at a scene with skate-boarders on a running path and an elderly couple chatting on a bench under a maple tree; the maple was beginning to flame red. “That park feels like home. And I outrank you. Go to it, Kris, with our thanks.”
Ez cocked his head. “Can I have a covered bridge in the kitchen?”
“If you can talk Kris into it.”
He grinned and pulled Kris’s arm through his. “Kris, my friend, let me show you a lonely slice of wall above the double sink.”
Kitchen side of the swinging door, Ez studied Unit dicing celery at super speed. “Pasang is unusually quiet today. Something happen?”
“That’s Unit. The Abbess of the Afterlife retrieved Pasang about an hour ago.” Kris couldn’t quite pull off indifference.
“This sounds like a lost-friend story best discussed after we serve. Over a beer? Or are you a wine woman?”
Kris hadn’t planned on helping today, but she didn’t want to be alone either. “Beer is fine.”
* * *
Ten months later, in the fading light of a snowy March afternoon, Kris was about to shower when the phone rang. She pulled on a robe. Ez, she assumed, calling with one of two messages: either their dinner date would be delayed because Maddy needed him, or dinner would be delayed because Maddy needed both of them. The caller ID, however, read HomeHelp Robotics.
“Herman DeWitt,” the man said. “We spoke last May?”
“Let me guess. You never found the Korean genius.”
DeWitt arched a worried eyebrow. “Wish I had. How is your 793 these days?”
“It’s been performing to specs for months. Not a single religious service in my kitchen.”
DeWitt sighed. “You don’t know how glad I am to hear that. You were zed-aught-one. We’re up to 949, now. Our robots are appropriating prayer rugs, demanding veils to cover their faces and asking for monks’ begging bowls. One tried to remove its feet before entering a Buddhist temple. A 793 in Italy wandered off to evensong wearing a dishtowel wimple; a groundskeeper in Thailand went on strike until its owner took it deep-sea fishing. In Florida, they want time off for golf.”
“Oh my,” Kris said, caught between laughter and caution about revealing all she knew. “Have any of them asked for pay?”
“That’s not funny.” DeWitt shuddered. “Our latest concern is fire. We had two calls yesterday from the States. They’re building sweat lodges in their storage nooks.”
His expression pleaded more desperately than his words.
“Did you notice any symptoms prior to the first chanting session? Anything at all? Even a slight irregularity might help us isolate the problem.”
Kris smiled inside and wondered if Pasang would be among the returning. “Mr. DeWitt, how much to you know about the concept of balancing karma?”
author
S.K. Richards enjoys writing stories that explore human-divine boundaries and the decisions we humans make as our consciousness expands. Of course, heavy stuff like that works best if it’s packaged in mystery, action and a bit of humor. Hope you chuckled.
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