“What the retro hell?” I ask in good faith, because it’s about all I have left.

She looks at me like a robot and I can’t say for sure it’s the make-up. If she’s wearing any. I feel pretty bizarre but I’m lazy about it. She gestures for me to sit on the couch and I shake my head with a denial that shoots little light beams everywhere. When they hit something, the retro look peels off like a glaze. “You look kinda sick,” she says in six overlaying voices, none of which are complimentary to another. “Are you ok?” Pretty sure I’m not ok, but I nod an affirmative, because that’s just what you do. I’ve misplaced my glass for good this time, and search for water. Retro-robot just laughs.