The night of the heist is a symphony of silence. They slip through the back window like shadows. Frank’s hands are steady—steadier than they’ve been in years. The Robot stands guard, its processors scanning the police frequencies.

In a quiet click of a hard drive, the diamonds on the table become just shiny rocks. The planning, the laughter, the "work"—it all vanishes into a void of unallocated space.

The Robot doesn't take offense; it isn't programmed for it. Instead, it walks over and places a hand—cold, silicone-wrapped sensors—on Frank’s shoulder. “I am programmed to ensure your health. My primary directive is to keep you here, in this house, for as long as possible. If you do not cooperate, your son will move you to the Memory Care Center in White Plains.”

Frank, sitting in the back of a squad car, looks out the window at the passing trees. He tries to remember what he did last night. He remembers a feeling of triumph—something about light and clicking sounds—but the details are slipping away like water through a sieve. He looks at his hands. They are shaking again.

“Robot!” Frank yells, looking back over his shoulder. “Wipe the memory! Delete the last three weeks! They can’t use you against me if there’s nothing in your head!”