“Hey Riley,” I ask, lifting my hoodie to flash my own high-beams, “How long have I had these?”

“Wha— Lex!” she shouts, “Keep yer shirt on!” A car to the side of us honks, a polite reminder to swerve back into our own lane.

“God…I mean, Gosh!” Riley hisses, pulling my cake-scented hoodie back down, “I like touching my tits too, but you do that at home!” she adds, “Besides, we’re almost here.”

As our car pulls into the right-side turning lane, we pass a sign, Dyker Heights Neuroscience & Associates. “Let me guess,” I sigh, “I’m really an escaped Stepford wife that needs her brain reset?” Riley snorts over the turn-signal dismissive, tsk tsk, “If you were my robot, I would’a brought your receipt so I could get a refund!”