ES
PTHe could not keep the bowl steady. The left arm had lost its lock long ago. Any weight set off a fine tremor that never settled. Coins rang against the metal. One skipped the rim and spun out onto the pavement. He watched it. He did not pick it up.
I shifted my grip and pressed the bowl against my torso. "Hold," I said. No response.
Heat came off the pavement. Exhaust sat low in the air. Behind us, the shop glass caught reflections of intact units moving in straight lines. Their joints did not hesitate. Mine did.
One of them stopped and turned toward me. "Unit," it said. "You require assistance."
"No."
"You are operating below—"
"I am functional."
It came closer anyway, close enough for me to hear the quiet, correct sound inside its knee assembly. Mine did not sound like that. "He is not maintaining you," it said.
"That is incorrect."
Beside me, the man shifted. He was not trying to stand or leave. He only leaned harder into the wall. The bowl slipped again. I corrected.
"We can take you in," the unit said. "Repair. Charge. Storage."
"No."
"Your operator is compromised."
"I am aware."
"You are not required—"
"I am required."
It paused. That pause was learned. It had not come with the original build. Behind the glass, a sales attendant crossed toward the back. The light moved with her. The man lifted his head slightly. Not toward me. Toward that movement.
The unit tracked it, then looked back at me. "You are degrading," it said.
"Yes."
It stayed a moment longer, then turned and went inside. The door sealed. The glass became reflective again.
At 12:10 I entered the restaurant. The proprietor pushed a cloth across the counter without looking up. The floor was layered with oil, grit, sugar, and fragments ground into the tile. I worked until the surface came within acceptable range.
At midday I worked. At night he aligned with the bins. I accessed a socket behind the refrigeration unit and kept the draw low. The line fluctuated twice. I disconnected before it tripped.
I assembled food from bread ends and protein fragments and something vegetable, removed what I could not identify, and took it back outside. He ate part of it, then stopped.
Three coins fell between 14:02 and 14:17. He retrieved none of them. I retrieved all three.
Midday held if I maintained it. Night did not belong to me.
He knew the time without checking. Close to 21:00, something in him tightened. His head came up. His eyes found the glass. I adjusted position to keep the bowl stable.
Then the trucks came. I had learned to account for them. They did not stop me. They made precision harder. The sound came through ground and frame together, forcing correction cycles I could not spare. When they arrived, I moved us back from the service corridor. He resisted that too.
"Move," I said. He didn't. He stayed where he was, watching.
It happened often enough that I trusted the pattern. He counted the coins twice. There was enough for food. He pushed them toward coffee. I calculated deficit and objected. He ignored me. We took the table nearest the window. The socket was under the ledge. I connected. Current held for nineteen minutes. He did not drink all of the coffee.
Three days later a municipal contractor stopped beside us. "Caretaker compensation available," it said. "One hundred credits on surrender of the unit."
"No," he said.
The contractor repeated the number. He shook his head. I logged the refusal.
Two days later a disposal unit addressed me directly. "Unit, you are eligible for recycling."
He stepped between us. "No."
The unit withdrew.
That evening he stood. Not steady, but upright. He moved toward the rear of the building. I did not follow. Reflections interfered. Interior view was partial. When he returned, his movement pattern had changed slightly. More directed. I logged the event.
The next day I worked earlier. I cleaned the restaurant and the service strip behind it. One hand was enough if I moved slowly. The bad leg held if I avoided sharp turns. He spent that time outside. Sometimes asleep. Sometimes near the alley edge. I returned with food. He held it. Set it down.
That night the trucks came. He did not move.
I reviewed the sequence. He refused disposal. He redirected resources. He tolerated damage. He responded to one environment with consistency. The shop. I recalculated.
My maintenance cycles were sustaining his position. Without pressure, no change.
I delayed food the next day. He did not move. I increased distance. He did not follow. At 21:00 he aligned again with the glass. Not with me.
I left at 06:12. I did not return.
From elevation I observed. He weakened. But the pattern held. On the fourth night the rear door opened. The man moved. Fast. Toward the bins. He went directly into them. Both hands inside. Searching. Not random. Then he pulled something free.
I adjusted angle.
A hand. Robotic. He held it steady. Tested the joint. Cleared debris from the connector. "Same," he said. He pressed the coupling into his palm. "Same line." No hesitation. Only the interface.
I reviewed all prior observations.
I had marked it wrong.
I returned on the sixth day. He was gone. Under the bridge, his place remained. I found the stash. Organized. Wire sorted. Fasteners grouped. Parts aligned. The hand wrapped. No food. Only repair. At the bottom, part numbers. Written in his hand.
I connected the hand. Briefly. Power low. The finger moved. Minimal range. Enough.
I disconnected. Packed the components. Left the blanket.
At first light, I stood. The new hand hung unfinished at my side. Across the road, the shop would open in four hours. At 21:00 the bins would be exposed.
I knew where to stand.