It's finally the day — or at least that's what your calendar tells you. It's somehow already November, a fact you would probably ignore if not for the pesky alert hovering at the top of your phone's lock screen. It's not dread, the feeling you have when you see it. Not quite. But it's not far off either.

You pull up directions to Vanguard Estates. It's further than you expected, a little bit more remote than you realized. You feel a bit sheepish that you never even learned where this place is. Your sister Imani did all of the research and reported back to you. State of the art. Clean, safe. Expensive, but not as expensive as it could have been. Imani got him in early, some kind of pilot program that's apparently saving you a fortune.

So you get in your car and drive, leaving the windows down and the radio off.

It's cool outside, and the sky is a flat, uninspiring blue. The road winds, and it's pleasant in that vaguely autumnal way. The kind of drive that people try to capture with scented candles. You wonder if they're allowed to have candles at Vanguard Estates. Your father hates candles. You wonder which version of your father you'll meet when you get there — the one who snarks about candles being a waste of wax that must make bees everywhere weep tiny tears, or the one who feels a little bit like a candle himself. Like someone poured a layer of wax over his mind, a man who flickers in and out of reality. They probably aren't allowed to have candles, you decide, as you pull up a long and winding driveway. Too much of a fire risk.

The facility is styled like an old east coast country club, with white wood shingles and a big, welcoming French door.

In the lobby, you meet your sister. She is already annoyed in the way she only ever seems to be with you.

"Nice of you to finally join us."

You're only five minutes late.

She's got her hand on your father's forearm — not quite steadying him, but not letting him go, either. He looks older than you remember, more tired. But his eyes are clear, and he seems more exasperated than anything else, which is a good sign. You'd rather argue with him than watch him waft through the day.

You greet him tentatively.

"Hi dad."

"Hello, how was the drive?"

"Pretty. Reminded me of a candle."

He scoffs. "I hope you didn't bring me a candle as a housewarming gift."

"I would never."

"Good."

Imani rolls her eyes. "Ready to go?"

She leads the way down a long hall toward your dad's unit. Every few steps you pass another resident's door. You can't help but look in when you pass the open ones. The units are spacious, with big windows. Inside, you see a variety of older people going about their days: reading, cooking, watching TV.

It's all very domestic. Like a living advent calendar of Rockwell paintings. And yet. You still feel like something is… weird.

Near the end of the hall you come to your dad's apartment. There's a sign on the door that says, “WELCOME MARCUS!” The font is clearly trying to hit some kind of balance between whimsical and futuristic. Inside, beyond the sign, there's a small living room filled with a mixture of your father's furniture and some other pieces that must have been supplied by the facility. Somehow it all seems to match perfectly -- the room has a kind of retired art professor vibe. Imani must have had a hand in it.

To the left there's a kitchen outfitted with a small stove, a dishwasher, and a surprisingly large fridge. Turns out the fridge is also a giant touch screen. Your sister is showing your dad how it works, like she's been here before. She probably has. You decide not to ask.

IMANI: Here's a calendar for your day, here's how you keep track of your medicine, here's a button you can press if you need someone to help you.

That's when it hits you. The thing that's weird. You haven't seen anybody actually working here. Nobody in polo shirts or wearing a name tag. No security, no nurses.

Then there's a chime at the door.

"Hello, Mr. Jones. Are you settling in all right?"

You turn and come face to face with a screen. A screen on a tall stick. On wheels.

A robot.

Through the open door, you see another screen on a stick roll down the hall.

You turn sharply to your sister. She did NOT tell you there'd be robots.

She scowls. "Did you read any of the information I sent you about this place?"

"Of course I did," you shoot back.

You're lying. You absolutely did not. But surely it can't all be robots.

Imani sighs and starts reciting the literature she knows you didn't read. "There's one human on call 24/7, but they live and work in a house down the road. Everything else is left to the bots. If you'd actually read the stuff I sent you, you'd know this. You'd also know that health outcomes for seniors here are superior to other facilities in this same price range that employ humans."

Now that you think about it, you do remember some odd language in the stuff you skimmed: big data, algorithmic care. But it was all kind of meaningless to you. You didn't realize it meant ROBOTS.

You turn to your dad; surely he didn't know either, right? He just shrugs.

"Imani and I already had this fight."

He looks resigned, and it stings that you didn't even know about this — that he didn't ever ask what you thought, or come to you for backup. Then again, you didn't read the information Imani sent. If you had, you would have… well, you're not sure what you would have done, really.

And yet, standing here, it feels like you should do something. Ask questions. Challenge the apparently already-made decision that your father would be placed in the care of a team of robots that were probably coded by undergrads. You worked at a tech startup once, you've seen how even the sleekest looking software is often held together with popsicle sticks and Red Bull. Besides, it's a cardinal rule of science fiction that robots cannot be trusted, and while you might not live in a movie, you're pretty sure that that lesson is still a good one. Wasn't there some story in the news recently about robots hurting someone? You try to remember the specifics, but it's fuzzy. And you know that if your only argument hinges on the plot of the movie Ex Machina, you will not win.

"Pardon the interruption," the robot cuts in, "but if you are all set here I will need final signatures to complete Mr. Jones's check in process."

Imani might be the organized one, but you're the older sibling, and for some reason, Dad made you the official legal person for these decisions. Power of attorney, they called it, you think. You should probably know. Either way, you know you could throw a fit and pull the plug on this whole thing right now. The robot and your sister are standing there, waiting.

So, what do you do?