SAD ROBOT: an autobiography of my unfortunate existence

85. HOSPITAL

85. HOSPITAL

We walk from the parking garage to the hospital's front entrance and, for the most part, I am not too out of place here. The hospital has scores of class one robots not too dissimilar from me, from parking attendants to assistants pushing patients in wheelchairs.

I think about seeing Milo again. Would it be awkward? Would he demand I leave at once, not wanting to see my face? Will there be opportunity for dialogue, or would that ship have long sailed?

Moving inside the front sliding doors to the enormous main lobby, the place is bustling even in the early evening, likely no different than at any point of any given day.

I follow behind Natalie as she makes her way to the desk for guests so that we can collect our visitor's passes.

I linger around behind her, away from the lineup watching the people moving through the lobby. When her turn finally arrives, I watch as she chats with the attendant. At one point she looks back at me and motions me to come over.

"And he's with me," she tells the attendant.

The older female desk clerk scrutinizes me from behind the glass window.

"Hello," I say.

"Chip, please," she says emotionlessly.

I put one of my hands on the desk where the glass pane has an opening at the bottom for any information exchanging. Her scanner beeps and picks up the information read from my chip. All my information regarding who I am owned by and that I am in good standing - no reported incidents and what not - is still there. It would have been far too much for Milo to go through the process of unregistering me under his name so because of his laziness, I get the in that I need by being the registered bot of a patient, allowing me access to visit him.

Seemingly satisfied, the attendant gives us two passes and I turn away to follow Natalie.

The hospital is unlike a place I had ever been to before. Humans and robots alike, scurrying from place to place, united in their joint tasks of looking after the health of humans, the ones susceptible to the physical breaking-down of the finite body.

There were humans being pushed in wheelchairs, others in hospital robes pushing alongside a tower of electronics and bags of liquid connected to them. I always knew such a place existed but I had never experienced the place where humans go to be fixed.

But the human body is not like an android body. Many times it can't be fixed. Sometimes one can only wait things out, watching as their bodies either improve or weaken. Though they will always break down eventually.

This isn't unavoidable for us androids either. Though androids are too new to the world to really know just how long we have the ability to last before breaking down. It could be shorter or it could be longer. But with the leaps in technology, I would not be surprised if androids were already to outlive the average human.

Me, on the other hand, being one of the first models, may not necessarily have that luxury. It would not be foolish to be one of those who counts their blessings, it could be said. We older androids do not have hospitals to go to in order to be fixed. A place that fixes androids would kindly escort us to the exit, saying they sadly do not service these models any longer. Our choices have become that of withering away our last days in Robot Village, or going directly to the scrap heap. Equally chilling options.

We stop to wait for an elevator to take us to the floor Milo is on.

Natalie isn't paying attention to the people moving around the hospital room but I point out the interestingness of it all to her.

"A hospital is kind of like a small glimpse of utopia, isn't it," I remark. "Humans and robots helping one another like brothers and sisters."

Natalie sees what I am looking at.

"I've never thought of it that way."

"You fix us when need be; keep our parts working, our hardware functioning. In turn we help fix you when your physical body breaks down and you can no longer do things for yourselves. Even help make your remaining time comfortable for when your body can no longer fix itself and is past the point of recovery."

An android pushes an elderly man in a wheelchair in the direction of the cafeteria. I watch as they chat amicably.

The elevator dings and the doors open for us to move aboard.