After Mind by Spencer Wolf

of the 101 East on-ramp. Supposed to be immeasurably—‘immeasurably,’” he quoted, “safer than human-controlled cars at their tight distance. The baby was less than a year old in a rear-facing car seat. His mother was driving. It was a beautiful day. Their windows were open. A hacker took control of the network.”
    “I didn’t hear this,” Robin said.
    “A hacked car darted in from the loop of the 101 East on-ramp into traffic. The mother’s car instantly overrode the network to get its control back. It cut hard right to avoid the incoming car. The internal control sent her tumbling over a fifty-foot embankment. Sixty miles per hour. Rolled the car, the baby, and his mother three times. They landed in a catchment pool. The airbags deployed. The mother was knocked out. They were upside down, with the windows open, her head below the water level of the pond. It wasn’t deep, but enough. The baby was safe. He was buckled tight in his car seat in back. He stayed inches above the water. He could breathe,” Daniel said.
    Cessini looked to the opening of the bunker. Daniel’s voice trailed away. His shadow got smaller on the wall.
    “When the fire rescue got to the baby,” Daniel said, “he was screaming hysterically, hanging upside down in his seat, staring into the water just below his face. He was completely out of his little mind. His mother drowned at the scene. She died. But Cessini, the baby, lived.”
    Cessini shook his legs and knees together. He rocked himself on the bench. He looked back to the door. Daniel wasn’t coming. His eyes started to tear.
    “But I’m sure he doesn’t remember any of it now,” Daniel said.
    It couldn’t be true, Cessini thought.
    “And technology makes two. A once happy three became two,” Daniel said.
    Robin didn’t answer.
    The stall door opened and the small boy came out with his father. He was a preschooler. He climbed the stepstool at the sink. His father stood behind him and helped every inch of the way. The boy pushed the knob on the faucet for a timed water flow. He pumped the soap dispenser. “Rub, rub, rub, before the water stops,” the boy’s father said as they pushed the water knob again, together.
    Cessini’s lip quivered. His dad was too busy with Robin and she wasn’t his mother. His had died and now he knew how. She was gone and wouldn’t wake.
    “And when you’re done,” the boy’s father said as he reached, “you push this lever for a paper towel to come out. I always use the back of my hand in case there’re germs on the handle. That way, you don’t have to wash your hands all over again.”
    The father lifted the boy off the stool. A sign was taped over the mirror. It read, “All food service workers must wash their hands.” The small boy waved to Cessini, then took his father’s hand as they left.
    “Hang on,” Daniel said, “I just want to check on him a second.” Daniel popped around the corner of the hairpin entrance. “How’s it going? You ready?”
    “No. Not good. I don’t want to go anymore.”
    “Looks like the stall is empty now. You know how to go. So, go on, try before we get in the car. Hurry up. It looks like clouds are coming. I’ll get us some cotton candy for the ride, okay? Now go. I’ll be right out here if you need me.”
    Cessini nodded and scooted forward on the bench. Daniel was nudged from behind. Two older boys skirted by to enter. They were laughing by the time Cessini shuffled back onto the bench.
    “Oh, hey, Packet. How’s it going? Got a wet wipe?” the older bully sneered.
    “Hey, wet wipe,” the other bully said.
    Cessini wiped his nose on the cuff of his sleeve as the two boys shoved each other over to the urinals. Daniel was gone, again. The boys snickered as they stood and went.
    “I bet you miss her terribly,” Robin said outside the wall.
    “Like burnt shop oil,” Daniel said.
    “Like what?” Robin asked.
    “At my father’s shop,” Daniel said. “I made hundreds, maybe a