If we name it Mittens, can we please keep the food delivery bot, please?

That July, all our dreams were bones. T-rex bones, kneecap bones, bones larger than our house, bones of a dinosaur yet to be discovered that we’d name banopolis peelopolis so we could laugh when archeologists said it on the Discovery Channel. We were ravenous for treasure. Emily down the street had brought a shark tooth home from her trip to Florida, and we hated Emily. Shark tooth this, shark tooth that, shark tooth around her wrist, shark tooth around her neck, shark tooth in a ponytail, shark tooth, shark tooth, shark tooth. We dug a hole in our backyard. If we found some bones, then we could rub them in her face. We could sell them to a museum. Become millionaires. Leave Nebraska for some place, any place, like our mom sometimes still wanted. But all we unearthed was dirt and worms and more dirt. We could have given up, but Ruby and I were again sort of, kind of praying. Our mom had brought Jesus home, two years after our dad’s death. Not Jesus on the cross, but Jesus from Guadalajara. He was a bald man, but he made our mom happy, and if our mom was happy, then we had faith. And faith or luck or both sent us a food delivery bot. We woke up to its front wheels skirting and whirling but failing to escape the hole we had dug. It was splattered in mud. So, we hosed it down and prayed it wouldn’t short circuit and light our backyard ablaze. And thank the Lord, or maybe good engineering, there was no fire, just a shiny bot that Ruby and I put a leash on and paraded up and down the street. It wasn’t a bone fit for a big red dog, or a bone that would land us a three-story home off on some coast, but it did ruin Emily’s day. Her shark tooth was a dirt-caked, face-down penny on the sidewalk. We were the talk of the neighborhood. Our pet didn’t shit on the carpet. Our pet had a boxy body and large boxy LED lights that blinked and could lead us back home in the darkest of nights. Our pet could travel at an impressive 7 mph. Our pet didn’t bark or bite. Our pet beeped and booped. Our pet liked jolts of electricity for breakfast and dinner. Our pet would live in the backyard in a small wooden doghouse, if our mom allowed us to keep it that is. And we hoped she would. But while we tried to convince our mom to let us keep the food delivery bot, it wandered off. Ruby blamed me, and I blamed her. If only we hadn’t hosed it down, then we could’ve chased after muddy tracks. But it was gone. And Ruby was to blame. And I was to blame. And the bot was off in Colorado, skiing down the highest and snowiest mountains. Or the bot was down in Kansas City doing whatever people in Kansas do. Or further south, in Mexico. Because bots don’t need passports. Bots don’t need to worry about their tongues being all thorned when speaking Spanish. Or it was further, further south, swimming with Emily’s sharks. Or further, waddling with penguins. Or further and further and further, eventually circling back, deciding Nebraska was home after all.