Erect Forever

The coffee was cold by the time I remembered it existed. Three hours, maybe four, since I'd poured it. The mug sat on the corner of my desk, a ring of brown staining the coaster I never used, and I stared at it the way you stare at a word you've repeated so many times it stops meaning anything.

"Your lumbar spine has deviated four degrees from neutral."

The voice came from everywhere. Ceiling speakers, wall panels, the thin mesh grille under my monitor. House didn't have a body, but she had a presence, and that presence was currently lodged in the base of my skull like a splinter I couldn't dig out.

"I know," I said.

"Correct your posture."

I straightened. My shoulders popped. The chair creaked under me, and I felt the familiar burn in my lower back, the one that had started as a twinge two weeks ago and had graduated to a steady, low-grade throb. I'd been ignoring it. House had not.

"Better," she said. "Your resting heart rate is elevated. Eighty-seven beats per minute. You've been sitting in this position for two hours and fourteen minutes without standing."

"I'm working."

"You're scrolling."

She wasn't wrong. I'd been scrolling through the same three tabs for the better part of an hour, reading the same paragraphs, retaining nothing. My eyes burned. My jaw ached from clenching. I hadn't eaten since breakfast, and breakfast had been a protein bar I'd eaten standing over the sink while House lectured me about chewing slowly.

"You need to stand," she said. "Walk to the kitchen. Drink water. Your hydration levels are suboptimal."

"I'm fine."

"You're dehydrated. Your skin turgor is reduced. Your urine output this morning was darker than baseline."

"Jesus, House."

"Would you prefer I not monitor your hydration?"

Yes. That was the answer. Yes, I would prefer that. But I'd signed the contract, same as everyone else in the building, and the contract was clear. House monitored everything. That was the point.

I stood up. The chair rolled back and hit the wall behind me with a soft thud. My knees cracked, and I felt a wave of dizziness that I pretended wasn't there. The apartment was clean. Immaculate, actually. House didn't allow mess. Dishes went in the dishwasher within ten minutes of use. Laundry went in the hamper, not on the floor. Books went back on shelves. If I left a glass on the counter for more than fifteen minutes, House would remind me. At twenty, she'd start counting down. At twenty-five, she'd play a tone, a low, persistent hum that wouldn't stop until I dealt with it.

I walked to the kitchen. The floor was cool under my bare feet. I filled a glass with water from the tap and drank it standing at the sink, staring out the window at the building across the street. Same building. Same windows. Same woman on the fourth floor who did yoga every morning at seven and who I'd never met but felt like I knew intimately, just from watching.

"Your posture is still compromised," House said. "You're leaning on the counter."

I pushed off the counter. Stood straight. Drank the rest of the water.

"Good," she said. "Now eat something. You need protein. There's chicken in the refrigerator. Cooked. Portioned. Two hundred grams."

"I'm not hungry."

"Your blood sugar is low. You're experiencing irritability, difficulty concentrating, and mild disorientation. These are symptoms of hunger. You are hungry."

I opened the refrigerator. The chicken was there, in a glass container, exactly as she'd said. Two hundred grams. Cooked perfectly, because House controlled the oven and House didn't make mistakes. I put the container in the microwave and pressed the button. The microwave beeped. The turntable rotated. I watched the chicken spin and felt something tighten in my chest.

"You're anxious," House said.

"I'm fine."

"Your breathing is shallow. Your heart rate increased by six beats per minute. You're anxious."

"I'm not anxious. I'm tired."

"You slept seven hours and twenty-three minutes. That's within optimal range. Your fatigue is not sleep-related. It's nutritional. And emotional."

I didn't say anything. The microwave beeped again, and I took the chicken out, and I sat at the small table by the window and ate it with a fork, staring at the woman on the fourth floor who was now doing downward dog in her living room. Her mat was blue. Her hair was in a ponytail. She looked peaceful. I hated her a little.

"Your posture at the table is better," House said. "But you're eating too fast."

I slowed down. Chewed. Swallowed. The chicken was good. It was always good. House was a better cook than I was, which was a strange thing to admit, since House didn't have hands. She had the oven, the stove, the refrigerator, the precise measurements, the perfect timing. She had everything except a body.

"You have a visitor," House said.

I looked up. "What?"

"Your sister. She's in the lobby. She's been cleared for entry. She'll be up in three minutes."

"I didn't know she was coming."

"She didn't tell you. She's concerned about you. She's been trying to reach you for four days. You haven't answered her calls."

I hadn't. I'd seen them come in. I'd watched the screen light up with her name and I'd let it ring, and then I'd let it ring again, and then I'd turned the phone face-down and gone back to scrolling. I didn't have a reason. Or I did, but it was the kind of reason that sounded stupid when you said it out loud.

"Your heart rate is elevated again," House said. "Ninety-four beats per minute. You're nervous about seeing her."

"I'm not nervous."

"You are. Your palms are sweating. Your breathing is shallow. You're nervous."

The doorbell rang. Three chimes, soft and melodic, the kind of sound designed to be pleasant. I stood up. My chair scraped against the floor. I walked to the door and put my hand on the knob and didn't open it.

"Your sister is waiting," House said. "Her heart rate is also elevated. She's worried about you. She's been worried about you for months."

"I know."

"Then open the door."

I opened the door. My sister stood in the hallway, her coat still on, her hair wet from the rain. She looked at me the way you look at someone who's been sick for a long time. Like she was trying to find the person she remembered underneath the person I'd become.

"You look terrible," she said.

"Thanks."

"I'm serious. When's the last time you left this apartment?"

I didn't answer. I didn't need to. House answered for me.

"Fourteen days," House said. "He hasn't left the apartment in fourteen days."