47 THE DINNER

CHAPTER 47 THE DINNER Mr. Shareef hopped out of the truck with his arms full of shopping bags. He limped toward the farmhouse, dragging his leg in the usual way. And then he fell. Roz ran over and found the man sprawled on the driveway, groceries scattered around him. "Are you okay?" she said, pulling him to his feet. "I'm fine," he grumbled. Roz started picking up the groceries and said, "Let me help you inside." A minute later the two of them were stepping into the house. Jackets and hats hung from pegs on the wall. Shoes were lined up beneath a bench. The man peeled off his boots and hollered, "Kids, it's time to cook dinner!" Footsteps pounded across the ceiling and the children came flying down the staircase with their dog. "Is Roz having dinner with us?" said Jaya.

"Roz doesn't eat!" said Jad. "I know that! But she could sit with us." "How about it, Roz?" said Mr. Shareef. "Care to join us for dinner?" The robot stared at the family. The family smiled at the robot. "What would you like me to do?" said Roz. In a very proper voice, Jad said, "I would greatly enjoy the pleasure of your company for dinner." In a very improper voice, Jaya said, "I order you to stay for dinner!" The children didn't wait for a response. They snatched the groceries from Roz and scampered off. Oscar ran after them, barking, "Is that food? It smells like food! I want food!" The wooden floor creaked as Roz followed Mr. Shareef through the living room. A comfy chair and a sofa faced a darkened electronic screen. Above the fireplace hung a painting of a familiar old barn. Doorways led to other rooms. Roz glanced into Mr. Shareef's office and saw a portrait of his family, including his wife. Mrs. Shareef was pretty, with dark, curly hair and a bright smile. It was the same smile Roz saw on the children.

"Look, Jaya's crying like a baby!" came Jad's giggly voice from the kitchen. When Roz walked in, the girl was chopping an onion with tears streaming down her cheeks. "Roz, I order you to chop this onion for me," said Jaya, wiping her eyes. The robot picked up a knife and in a flash the onion was perfectly chopped and dumped into a bowl. Clearly, Roz was designed to chop onions. "Roz, I order you to take the night off!" Mr. Shareef laughed. "The kids and I want to cook. We enjoy it!" More vegetables were chopped, skillets started sizzling, delicious aromas swirled together, and before long a magnificent meal was set on the dinner table. Oscar positioned himself below, to catch food scraps, and everyone else took a seat. Mr. Shareef turned to his daughter. "Would you like to say grace?" The girl lowered her head. "Thank you, God, for this yummy food we're about to gobble down, amen." "Thank you, Jaya," said Mr. Shareef with a wink. "And thank you, Roz, for everything you've done this

past year. I had my doubts, but now I can't imagine what we'd do without you." The children looked at each other. Then the family grabbed their knives and forks and dug into dinner. A colorful, leafy salad. A plate of sautéed asparagus. Creamy mashed potatoes and buttered bread and tall glasses of milk. The meal was beautiful. But as Roz scanned the table, her eyes kept returning to the roasted chicken. It was about the size of Brightbill. Suddenly, the robot was full of questions. Do chickens live happy lives? Did this chicken know it would be eaten? Were humans bad for eating animals? No, thought Roz, humans are simply following their instincts, like all creatures, like Roz herself. At least the Shareefs honored this animal by giving thanks, and by turning it into a beautiful, nourishing

meal. After he'd finished eating, Mr. Shareef stepped out of the room, and he returned a moment later carrying a violin and a bow. "Growing up, I dreamed of being a musician," he said, thumping back into his chair. He tuned the instrument, put it under his chin, and started to play. His bow glided back and forth, his fingers danced across the strings, and a lovely old folk song filled the room. Mr. Shareef tapped his foot as the notes rang out, soft and then loud, slow and then fast. The song ended with a flourish, and the music faded to silence. Then he rested the violin on his knee. "This instrument has been in our family for a very long time," he said, "since the days when Cyrus Shareef first built the farm." Cyrus Shareef. Roz knew that name. She unsnapped a pocket on her tool belt and pulled out the small journal. "I discovered this in the old barn," she said, handing it over. The children huddled around their father as he took the journal. They read their ancestor's name on the cover. Then they carefully opened it and turned the

brittle pages. "I've never seen this journal before," said Mr. Shareef. "It's a piece of our family history. Kids, look at how they used to milk cows.…" Roz left the Shareefs like that, examining the journal, learning about their family's history. But what about their family's future? Their lives were difficult. They needed help. And Roz was about to run away forever. As she marched back to the barn that night, the robot felt something like worry and confusion and guilt.