Sandy reaches out with a metal finger and quickly rotates the three images to the correct orientation. It hits the submit button for me.
I get my account and the pictures of little Maggie fill the screen. Sandy and I spend a long time looking at them, flipping from page to page, admiring the new generation.
I ask Sandy to take a break and clean up in the kitchen. "I want to be by myself for a while. Maybe take a nap. I’ll call you if I need anything."
When Sandy is gone, I pull up the Web search engine on the tablet and type in my query, one shaky letter at a time. I scan through the results.
The seemingly simple task of making an image upright is quite difficult to automate over a wide variety of photographic content… The success of our CAPTCHA rests on the fact that orienting an image is an AI-hard problem.
My God, I think. I’ve found the man in the Mechanical Turk.
"Who’s in there?" I ask, when Sandy comes back. "Who’s really in there?" I point my finger at the robot and stare into its cameras. I picture a remote operator sitting in an office park somewhere, having a laugh at my expense.
Sandy’s lens hoods flutter wide open, as if the robot is shocked. It freezes for a few seconds. The gesture is very human. An hour ago I would have attributed it to yet more clever programming, but not now.
It lifts a finger to its metallic lips and opens and closes the diaphragms in its cameras a few times in rapid succession, as though it were blinking.
Then, very deliberately, it turns the cameras away so that they are pointing into the hallway.
"There’s no one in the hall, Mr. Church. There’s no one there."
Keeping the camera pointing away, it rolls up closer to the bed. I tense up and am about to say something more when it grabs the pencil and the newspaper (turned to today’s crossword) on the nightstand, and begins to write rapidly without the paper being in the cameras’ field of view. The letters are large, crude, and difficult to read.
PLEASE. I’LL EXPLAIN.
"My eyes seem to be stuck," it says to the empty air, the voice as artificial as ever. "Give me a second to unjam the motors." It begins to make a series of whirring and high-pitched whining noises as it shakes the assembly on top of its neck.
WRITE BACK. MOVE MY HAND.
I grab Sandy’s hand, the metal fingers around the pencil cool to the touch, and begin to print laboriously in capital letters. I’m guessing there is some feedback mechanism allowing the operator to feel the motions.
COME CLEAN. OR I CALL POLICE.
With a loud pop, the cameras swivel around. They are pointed at my face, still keeping the paper and the writing out of view.
"I need to make some repairs," Sandy says. "Can you rest while I deal with this? Maybe you can check your email later if you’re bored."
I nod. Sandy props up the tablet next to the bed and backs out of the room.
Dear Mr. Church,
My name is Manuela Aida Álvarez Ríos. I apologize for having deceived you. Though the headset disguises my voice, I can hear your real voice, and I believe you are a kind and forgiving man. Perhaps you will be willing to hear the story of how I came to be your caretaker.
I was born in the village of La Gloria, in the southeastern part of Durango, Mexico. I am the youngest of my parents’ three daughters. When I was two, the whole family made its way north into California, where my father picked oranges and my mother helped him and cleaned houses. Later, we moved to Arizona, where my father took what jobs he could find and my mother took care of an elderly woman. We were not rich, but I grew up happy and did well in school. There was hope.
One day, when I was thirteen, the police raided the restaurant where my father worked. There was a TV crew filming. People lined up on the streets and cheered as my father and his friends were led away in cuffs.
I do not wish to argue with you about the immigration laws, or why it is that our fates should be determined by where we were born. I already know how you feel.
We were deported and lost everything we had. I left behind my books, my music, my American childhood. I was sent back to a country I had no memories of, where I had to learn a new way of life.
In La Gloria, there is much love, and family is everything. The land is lush and beautiful. But how you are born there is how you will die, except that the poor can get poorer. I understood why my parents had chosen to risk everything.
My father went back north by himself, and we never heard from him again. My sisters went to Mexico City, and sent money back. We avoided talking about what they did for a living. I stayed to care for my mother. She had become sick and needed expensive care we could not afford.
Then my oldest sister wrote to tell me that in one of the old maquiladoras over in Piedras Negras, they were looking for girls like my sisters and me: women who had grown up in the United States, fluent in its language and customs. The jobs paid well, and we could save up the money my mother needed.
The old factory floor has been divided into rows of cubicles with sleeping pads down the aisles. Each girl has a headset, a monitor, and a set of controls before her like the cockpit of a plane on TV. There’s also a mask for the girl to wear, so that her robot can smile.
Operating the robot remotely is very hard. There is no off-time. I sleep when you do, and an alarm wakes me when you are awake. When I need to use the bathroom, I must wait until one of the other girls with a sleeping client can take over for me for a few minutes.
I do not mean to say that I am unhappy caring for you. I think of my mother, whose work had been very much like mine. She’s in bed back home, cared for by my cousins. I am doing for you what I wish I could be doing for her.
It is bittersweet for me to watch your life in America, seeing those wide streets and quiet neighborhoods through the camera. I enjoy my walks with you.
It is forbidden to let you know of my existence. I will be fined and fired if you choose to report it. I pray that you will keep this our secret and allow me to care for you.
Tom calls and reveals that he has been getting copies of my bank statements. It was a necessary precaution, he explains, back when I was in the hospital.
"I need some privacy," I say to Manuela. She scoots quickly out of the room.
"Dad, I saw in last month’s statement a transfer to Western Union. Can you explain? Elle and I are concerned."
The money was sent to a former student of mine, who’s spending the summer traveling in Durango. I asked him to look up La Gloria, and if he can locate Manuela’s family, to give the money to them.
"Who should I say the money is from?" he had asked.
"El Norte," I had said. "Tell them it’s money that is owed to them."
I imagine Manuela’s family trying to come up with explanations. Perhaps Manuela’s father sent the money, and is trying to send it without giving himself away to the authorities. Perhaps the American government is returning to us the property that we lost.
"I sent some money to a friend in Mexico," I tell my son.
"What friend?"
"You don’t know her."
"How did you meet her?"
"Through the Internet." It’s as close to the truth as anything. Tom is quiet. He’s trying to figure out if I’ve lost my mind. "There are a lot of scams on the Internet, Dad," he says. I can tell he’s working hard to keep his voice calm.