Johannes Grün and Rev. Peter Gilman stepped out of the sleek, autonomous Waymo cab onto the curb outside Sloan Kettering. The predawn sky was a bruised gray, as if reluctant to reveal the day ahead. Johannes tugged his coat tighter against the chill and glanced at the reverend.

“Thanks for coming, Peter. I wasn’t sure how else to handle this.” He gestured toward the imposing hospital entrance. “My mother’s always been so clear about what she wanted, but now…” His voice trailed off, heavy with uncertainty.

Rev. Gilman, tall and calm with a steady gaze that often soothed his congregation, placed a hand on Johannes’s shoulder. “You’re doing the right thing, Johannes. Gerta’s been a pillar of our church for years. Whatever happens, we’ll make sure her wishes are honored. And remember, you don’t have to do this alone.”

They entered the lobby, where an automated reception kiosk chirped a sterile greeting. “Visiting hours have not yet begun. You may wait in the lounge or request human assistance.”

Johannes selected the latter, impatience flickering across his face. When the nurse arrived, she looked up from her tablet with a skeptical expression as Johannes announced himself.

“I’m here to see Mrs. Gerta Grün. She’s my mother,” he said firmly.

The nurse raised an eyebrow but didn’t press. “Room 214, Palliative Care Unit,” she said, pointing toward the elevator. “But you should know she’s been… confused. Dr. Ramirez will meet you in the consultation room first. He’ll explain everything.”

The elevator ride was silent, save for the faint hum of the machinery. Johannes fidgeted with his gloves, his jaw clenched. “She doesn’t even recognize me anymore, Peter,” he muttered.

Rev. Gilman regarded him with a thoughtful expression. “That’s not uncommon, Johannes. Memory can be fragile, especially in these circumstances. Let’s hear what the doctor has to say.”

In the consultation room, Dr. Ramirez entered with a tablet in hand, his face etched with fatigue and compassion. “Thank you for coming so quickly,” he began. “As you know, your mother’s condition has deteriorated rapidly. Her organs are failing. We’re at a crossroads: continue aggressive treatment to extend her life, or transition to palliative care. Given her mental state, we’ll need your input—and your authorization—for any decisions.”

Johannes swallowed hard. “What would palliative care entail?”

Dr. Ramirez’s tone softened. “We’d focus on her comfort: managing pain, minimizing distress, and allowing her to pass peacefully. Continuing treatment could extend her life by a few months, but it would come at a significant cost to her quality of life. She may regain some awareness, but it’s unlikely she’d ever be herself again.”

Johannes leaned back in his chair, his head spinning. “What would she want?”

“That’s the moral question, not the medical one,” Dr. Ramirez replied. “From what I understand, she’s always been clear about not wanting to prolong suffering. But her state of mind makes it difficult to confirm.”

Rev. Gilman broke the heavy silence. “What about her legal directives? Do we have anything in writing?”

Dr. Ramirez nodded. “A lawyer will be joining us shortly to clarify her will and any health directives. In the meantime, I’ll leave you to discuss.” He handed Johannes a card with his contact number. “Call me when you’re ready to decide.”

When they arrived at the Palliative Care Unit, the warm yellow and orange walls did little to ease Johannes’s unease. The nurse gestured toward Mrs. Grün’s room. “She’s in here,” she said. “But be warned—she’s not herself today.”

Inside, Mrs. Grün lay beneath a pale blue blanket, her face gaunt and her eyes unfocused. When Johannes stepped forward, her expression twisted into fear.

“You’re not my son!” she cried, clutching the blanket. “You’re here to kill me!”

“Mom, it’s me,” Johannes said, his voice cracking. “It’s Hansel. You used to call me Hansel when I was a kid.”

“No!” she shouted, pointing to the corner. “Hansel’s already here. He’s always here!”

Johannes turned to see PCP-1 standing silently, its humanoid frame eerily still.

“Mom, that’s not Hansel. That’s just a machine,” he said, frustration bubbling to the surface. “PCP-1, explain to her—”

“Mrs. Grün,” PCP-1 interrupted in its measured tone, stepping closer to her bedside. “I am here, as always. You are safe. No one will harm you.”

“See?” she whispered, clutching the machine’s hand. “Hansel is here.”

Johannes took a step back, his face a mixture of grief and frustration. “Peter, this is what I was afraid of. She’s completely fixated on it.”

Rev. Gilman approached the bedside slowly, his voice gentle. “Gerta, it’s Peter Gilman. Do you remember me? We’ve spoken many times at church.”

Her grip on the blanket loosened. “Reverend Gilman? Yes, I know you.”

Gilman nodded warmly. “You’ve always been a generous supporter of our congregation. But there’s something we need to clarify about your wishes. It’s about the bequest you made to the church.”

“My… my bequest?” she murmured, her gaze unfocused. “Hansel knows about that. He’ll take care of it.”

Johannes’s fists tightened. “Mom, Hansel isn’t real. He’s a robot. I’m your son, and I’m here to help you.”

“Enough!” she snapped, her voice stronger than before. “You’re not my son! Hansel is my son!”

Rev. Gilman placed a calming hand on Johannes’s arm. “Let’s not push her right now. We’ll sort this out together.”

As they stepped into the hallway, Johannes let out a heavy sigh. “I don’t know if I can do this, Peter. It’s as though she’s already gone.”

Gilman gave him a thoughtful look. “Johannes, sometimes faith isn’t about holding on to what we know. It’s about embracing the unknown with grace.” 

Grun and Gilman grabbed a quick bite at Padoca Bakery before going their separate ways. 

Johannes ran his finger across the glowing interface of the menu, scrolling through suggested options. “I still get unnerved by how well these things know me," selecting a classic Margherita pizza with truffle oil.

"Indeed, but it sure makes the world efficient," Rev. Pete chuckled as he tapped the spinach and ricotta calzone exactly as the menu knew he would. 

Within minutes, their meals arrived on a gleaming tray carried by a service drone, which hovered briefly before smoothly lowering their plates to the table. Johannes waited until the drone hummed away before speaking.

“You said earlier you wanted to talk to me about something. What’s on your mind, Peter?” he asked, breaking a piece of his pizza.

Gilman leaned forward, his expression serious. “I’m a candidate for the ThinkPal rollout." 

Johannes froze mid-bite. “Really."  

"Yep. They've decided to spotlight seven religious leaders as their first volunteers. They're going to promote it like the Mercury mission. It's wild."

"Why did they pick you?" 

"They like my blog." 

"Wow. And you've accepted? Jesus. Do you have any idea what you're getting into?" 

"I think I do," Gilman replied. "I'm with Van Buren on this. I think there's just a chance that ThinkPal is our destiny and it's leading us someplace better than the world we know today." 

Johannes leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “Or it could be the end of everything that makes us human. Peter, look, I get the appeal but putting an AI in your head? That’s not just augmenting you—that’s redefining you. That's transforming you into something entirely different. Non-human."

Gilman explains slowly. 

"As I see it, we're in totally uncharted territory. Our current trajectory isn't sustainable. We have to change in so many ways and I have faith based on all I've read that ThinkPal just may do this. At any rate, I have to see it for myself. I told Laura that and she said if I believe that strongly in it, I should go for it. And so I am." 

 “I think you’re wrong, Peter. We shouldn't be connecting our very selves to AI.  The connection should be between AI and robots. We shouldn't be turning people into machines and I'm surprised you want to become one."

Johannes Grun asks Rev. Pete to intervene with his mother, Gerta, a long-time member of his church, the Unitarian Universalist Congregation of the Southern Adirondacks.

“You’re not my son!” Gerta Grun shouts at Johanne. “You’re here to kill me!”

Rev. Pete tells Johanne he’s a candidate for the ThinkPal rollout. “We shouldn’t be turning people into machines,” Johanne tells him. “I’m surprised you want to be one.”