Looking back, marrying the cool guy was my biggest mistake. Ten years ago, my ex-husband had loved the wild girl I was, the one who partied until dawn and wore bruises from the derby track like badges of honor.

Three months ago, he filed for divorce. Said we’d grown apart. Sure. Maybe. But deep down, I didn’t buy it. I think the real issue was that I hadn’t “grown up” the way he had. At 25, my roller derby bruises, crazy hair, and piercings were hot. At 34, not so much. I was pretty sure the whole grown apart line was just a polite way to ditch me for some bimbo in business casual with a designer handbag.

I wasn’t bitter. Really, 100% not bitter. If he didn’t want to be with me, I didn’t want to be with him. It could have been as easy as that. If Sean had just come to me and said “Claire, you still skate around the neighborhood instead of going to pilates.” Or whatever the real housewives were doing these days for fitness. “Or you have three nose rings. If you take one of them out, I won’t leave.”

I might have said yes.

We might have worked it out.

Or not.

But Sean hadn’t given me that choice. Instead, he walked away, leaving me with three months in our house, the heartbreak, and a lingering desire for just a little payback.

Which brings us to me, sitting in front of my computer with a glass of wine, staring at his bank accounts. Of course he’d changed his password immediately for fear of this very thing happening, but once you live with someone, cracking their passwords becomes child’s play.

I leaned back in my chair and considered donating his $585k nest egg to Habitat for Humanity.

I didn’t do it.

Not because I was particularly noble, but because transferring that much money would definitely get noticed. And while I might be bitter, despite my protests to the contrary, I wasn’t stupid. Instead, I poured another glass of wine and started scrolling through old photos.

Two glasses in, I was lost in a spiral of what-might-have-beens. Sean hadn’t been my first serious boyfriend. There’d been Trey, who loved my tattoos but couldn’t handle that I made more money than him. Thomas, who turned out to have a wife I didn’t know about. Even brief, disastrous Derek, who thought my gaming collection was “cute” until he realized I expected to keep it displayed in our shared apartment.

By the time I hit the bottom of the second bottle, I was no longer thinking about men I’d actually dated, but crushes who never materialized. Like ZGeist, a hacker who used to run in the parallel online circles as me back in my late teens. Not that he’d known I existed. I thought he was older, and he was definitely more skilled than I was, but I’d had such a thing for his code. The way he’d crack systems just to prove it could be done, then publish the vulnerabilities with a signature flourish. He never stole anything, never caused damage. Just elegantly made his point and moved on.

I wondered what happened to him.

Thirty minutes and some questionable search choices later, I found myself on an old Reddit thread. “WHERE ARE THEY NOW: Hackers of the 2000s.” Most had disappeared completely or sold out to corporate security firms. But there, halfway down the thread, someone had posted about ZGeist, outing him.

“Adam Zane (ZGeist) started Zane Robotics. Still writes all his core code himself and offers the OS as open source. One of the few who stayed true to the spirit.”

Adam Zane. I pulled up another browser window and searched his name. There he was, founder and CEO of Zane Robotics, a surprisingly successful company that made everything from industrial arms to medical assistance devices. Their website was sleek and modern, but had an entire section dedicated to their open-source robotic operating system.

I downloaded it immediately, scrolling through the code with increasing excitement. There, buried in the comments and certain coding choices, was the unmistakable style I remembered. He even still signed his work with the same tag: //ZG.

I clicked on the about us page. No picture. 

I don’t know what made me click on the “Careers” page next. Curiosity, I guess. Or because I needed a job asap. Most of the listings were for engineers and technicians, jobs I wasn’t remotely qualified for after a decade as a housewife. But at the very bottom of the page, dated six months ago, was a different kind of listing:

“COMPANION/CAREGIVER NEEDED: Live-in position to assist elderly woman with terminal illness. Duties include medication management, meal preparation, and companionship. No formal medical training required. Must be comfortable with extended stays in private residence. Contact Lena Zane directly.”

I stared at the posting; the wine buzzing through my system. Lena Zane. His mother? Probably. Maybe wife. And a six-month-old listing meant they hadn’t found anyone suitable. Or maybe they’d found someone who hadn’t worked out.

Before I could second-guess myself, I clicked the contact link and started typing.

I didn’t remember exactly what I wrote. Something embarrassingly honest about being newly divorced after ten years as a housewife. About not knowing what I was doing with my life and needing a fresh start. About being good at taking care of people because that’s all I’d done for a decade. I think I might have mentioned how I used to code, too, though I’m not sure why that seemed relevant to a caregiving position.

It was word vomit, pure and simple. The kind of over sharing you do when you’re drunk and lonely and desperate for something, anything to change.

I hit send and passed out on my couch.

The ping of my phone woke me the next morning, head pounding and mouth tasting like something had died in it. I groaned, fumbling for the device, expecting a text from one of my derby friends checking in.

Instead, it was an email notification.

From Lena Zane.

“Dear Claire, When can you start? I’ve been waiting for someone exactly like you.”

I stared at the phone, blinking several times to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating. When the message remained unchanged, I scrambled to pull up my sent emails, cringing as I read my rambling, overly personal application from last night.

“Oh god,” I muttered, scrolling through the embarrassing word vomit. But apparently, whatever I’d written had worked.

Then a second realization hit me like a bucket of ice water. I frantically opened another browser and logged into Sean’s accounts again. Sure enough, there it was, a tiny script running in the background, skimming fractions of cents from every transaction and routing them to a Habitat for Humanity donation account.

Not a fortune. Just enough to be annoying when he eventually discovered it. The digital equivalent of signing him up for cat facts or a Flat Earth newsletter.

I rubbed my temples, debating whether to remove it.

“Screw it,” I decided, closing the laptop. Let him deal with it. I had a job interview to prepare for, or, well, a job I apparently already had. Which was weird. Who hires someone based on a drunken ramble without so much as a video chat?

Someone desperate, my brain supplied. Or someone up to something sketchy.

But the job was to care for an elderly woman with a terminal illness. How sketchy could it be?

I gulped down two ibuprofen with a glass of water and opened my laptop again, this time to search for Lena Zane.

The results were surprisingly robust. Dr. Lena Zane, PhD in Robotics Engineering from MIT, with three decades of publications in prestigious scientific journals. Her early work had focused on human-machine interfaces, and later papers moved into medical applications for robotics. If I was reading between the lines correctly, she’d laid much of the theoretical groundwork for what would eventually become her son’s company.

I clicked through to images. Young Lena had been striking, pale skin, straight dark hair usually pulled back in a practical ponytail, intense eyes focused on whatever she was working on. In almost every photo from her thirties and forties, she wore a lab coat, often standing beside some prototype or another.

More recent photos showed her at tech conferences and charity galas. Now in her sixties, her hair had gone completely white, and her face had softened with wrinkles, but those eyes, dark and intelligent with a hint of mischief, remained unchanged. There was one particularly good shot of her laughing at something off-camera, head thrown back, looking vibrant despite her age.

I wondered if Adam had his mother’s eyes. In fact, I realized I had no idea what Adam Zane looked like at all. A quick search brought up precisely zero photos of the man himself, just the occasional shot of an empty chair at tech events where he was supposed to have appeared, or a podium where he’d sent someone else to speak in his place.

“Reclusive CEO” didn’t begin to cover it. The guy made Howard Hughes look like a social butterfly.

“You’re such a stalker, Claire,” I muttered to myself, but kept scrolling anyway.

After exhausting my search options and finding literally nothing beyond corporate headshots of everyone at Zane Robotics except the man himself, I decided to respond to Lena’s email.

Dear Dr. Zane, I typed, then deleted it. Too formal. Lena, I tried again. Better.

Thank you for your quick response. I’d be happy to discuss the position further at your convenience. Could we set up a video call or a meeting? I have a flexible schedule.

There. Professional, but not stuffy. I hit send before I could overthink it.

Her reply came back almost instantly.

Hello, Claire. I prefer texting to video calls these days. The treatments leave me looking dreadful, and I’d rather make a better first impression in person. I’m available all day for questions. What would you like to know?

I blinked at the screen. This woman was either incredibly trusting or incredibly reckless. Who hires a caregiver without even seeing their face?

But then, who applies for a job while drunk off their ass? We were clearly a match made in some weird corner of heaven.

I’d like to know more about your condition and what kind of care you need, I texted back. Also, when would you want me to start? I’d need to make arrangements with my current living situation.

Three dots appeared immediately.

I’ve been battling ovarian cancer for nearly five years. I had a good stretch in remission, but about six months ago, we discovered it had returned and metastasized. I’m doing another round of treatments, but we’re in ‘extend life’ territory now, not ‘cure it.’

Well, that was blunt. I appreciated it.

The dots appeared again.

Day to day, I’m not in terrible pain. They have me on good medication for that,  but I tire very quickly. Standing for more than 10-15 minutes exhausts me. I need help with cooking, cleaning, getting to appointments, and managing medications. Sometimes I have good days where I can do more, but they’re unpredictable.

Another message followed quickly.

As for starting, I’m flexible. A week from now would be ideal, but I can wait if you need more time. The position includes a private bedroom and bathroom in our residence. The pay is $85,000 annually, with full health benefits and four weeks of paid vacation.

I nearly choked on my water. That was more than double what I’d expected. For a non-medical caregiver position? Something wasn’t adding up.

That’s extremely generous, I replied carefully. May I ask why the position has remained open for six months? And where exactly would I be living?

The response took a bit longer this time.

To be perfectly honest, Claire, my son is difficult. We live on the top floor of the Zane Robotics building outside of Oria. It’s quite isolated, built in the middle of nowhere with tight security. The private residence is spacious and comfortable. Adam doesn’t like visitors. The few caregivers I’ve interviewed didn’t last past the first conversation with him. But from what you shared about yourself, I think you might be different.

I frowned and typed. Different how?

You’re not intimidated easily. You mentioned your background in coding—you’ll understand his world in a way the others didn’t. And frankly, you sound like you won’t take his crap.

I snorted. She wasn’t wrong about that last part.

What exactly did he do to the other candidates? I asked.

Nothing dangerous or inappropriate, came the quick reply. He’s just… abrupt. Rude. He works constantly and doesn’t like having strangers in his space. He’s agreed I need help, but he makes it nearly impossible for anyone to actually provide it.

Great. A moody, antisocial tech bro. Just what I needed in my life. Then again, $85K to deal with one difficult man and help a sick woman seemed like a fair trade.

And he’s okay with me moving in? I texted.

He will be, Lena replied with what I could only imagine was maternal confidence. You likely won’t see much of him. Adam doesn’t show his face to anyone outside of me. He’s… extremely private.

That raised about a dozen red flags, but also piqued my curiosity. What was he hiding? A horrible disfigurement? A secret identity? Or was he just that socially anxious?

When should we meet in person? I asked.

Tomorrow? I can send transportation for you at 10 AM if that works. You can see the space, and we can discuss any other questions you might have.

I looked around my half-packed living room. Sean had given me three months in the house before it went up for sale. He’d been “generous” enough to let me stay in our house while I figured things out, but that deadline was approaching fast, and I had nowhere lined up.

Tomorrow at 10 sounds perfect, I texted back. I’ll send you my address.

As I typed out the details, a small voice in the back of my head wondered if I was making a huge mistake. Moving in with strangers, one of whom was apparently so antisocial he’d scared off multiple job candidates, the other dying of cancer. To a place hours away from Dallas, where I’d have no friends, no support system.

What kind of transportation should I expect? I asked, suddenly picturing a three-hour car ride with a stranger.

The company helicopter, Lena replied casually. It’s about 45 minutes by air from Dallas. More comfortable than the drive.

I stared at my phone. Helicopter. Company helicopter. Like it was perfectly normal to send a private aircraft for a job interview.

That’s… very generous, I managed to reply.

It’s no trouble. The pilot makes the Dallas run several times a week, anyway.

Right. Because normal people commute by helicopter. I was starting to realize I was dealing with people who had stupid money. The kind of wealth that made private aircraft just another transportation option, like calling an Uber instead of taking the bus.

I look forward to meeting you, Claire, Lena texted. Get some rest. Tomorrow’s going to be interesting.

Somehow, I suspected that was an understatement.

I spent the rest of the day alternately packing boxes and googling more information about the Zanes and their company. Zane Robotics occupied what news articles described as a secluded corporate campus about thirty minutes outside the small town of Oria, TX. Images online showed a striking modern structure, a stunning geometric stack of white concrete and dark glass that looked like it had been dropped into the middle of empty farmland by aliens. The main building resembled a series of unevenly stacked boxes with dramatic sections jutting out like an out-of-control game of giant Jenga.

Speaking of Oria, I looked it up too. Population 10,951, a small town in deep east Texas settled by Basque settlers in the late 1700s. The official website showed lots of festivals and events planned. Interesting. There were possibilities there. First, I needed to make sure this job was actually legitimate and not some elaborate scam.

By evening, I’d packed three more boxes and psyched myself out at least a dozen times. Was I really going to do this? Move in with strangers based on a drunk application and a text conversation? Move to the middle of nowhere to care for a woman I’d never met, in a building with a man who apparently never showed his face?

Then my phone pinged with another message from Lena.

I forgot to ask—do you have any dietary restrictions? I’m updating our grocery order for next week.

Such a normal, thoughtful question. From someone who was already planning for my arrival, already making space for me in her life.

No restrictions, I texted back. I eat pretty much anything.

As I curled up on the couch with a bowl of ramen and my laptop open to the Zane Robotics website, I realized I was more excited than nervous. Whether this turned out to be the worst mistake of my life or the best impulse decision I’d ever made, at least it was something new. Something completely mine.

I fell asleep scrolling through Adam Zane’s code, the elegant lines and clever solutions lulling me into dreams of what tomorrow might bring.