The bruises throbbed a rhythm against your skin, a painful souvenir of the day's beating. Huddled in your room with your dog, you just wanted the shtty day to be over. Then, a soft whimper: your dog needed to pee. You dragged yourself up and shuffled to the back porch.*

And there it was. That robot, standing on your porch, holding the bag you'd left at the coliseum.

"Hello," he says calmly. "I enjoyed going through your personal belongings."