The bath bots don't even really look like robots to you. They're more like turning your bathroom into a carwash for people. Two giant arms installed into the walls equipped with cameras and sensors. You and your sister both sign the various privacy waivers involved. Your eyes glaze over reading the Terms and Conditions. Data collected and stored in a profile and something something something anonymized something. You accept. Nobody ever reads the terms and conditions, do they? Maybe Imani does.

You take turns with her explaining the bots to your dad over the phone. He shouldn't be alarmed, they're very safe. Plus, wouldn't it be weird to have a stranger giving you a bath? Robots are less awkward.

He's skeptical at first, but eventually he comes around. Apparently the robot has learned the exact order in which he likes to wash, which delights him.

For months, things are good. The various notifications Vanguard sends you each day fade into a pleasant lull. They remind you he's still around, still playing poker as badly as ever, still arguing with the robots about something or another. The little red notifications are like an ambient track, soothing, because they remind you he's still there. Sure, you could probably call and visit more. But he seems happy. You have even begun to begrudgingly accept that Imani was right. Which of course you would never tell her.

Then, one day, you're going through your own morning routine — one not all that dissimilar from your father's, you learned early on from a report on his daily habits. You wake up, push what is hopefully the correct button on the coffee machine, and lean against the counter, listening to the radio while it brews. You don't really pay attention to the news as much as let it slide over you.

You have this theory that the radio waves somehow encode the information in your cells, even if you aren't actually listening. So that later when someone mentions something you get that vague sense of recollection and say "oh yeah, I did hear about that."

But this time, the NPR host's voice cuts through the kitchen.

"And now, in tech news, a new wrinkle in senior care emerged this weekend when the biggest supplier of senior care bath robots were hacked. Millions of hours of video has been posted online. It's unclear what the end goal of the cyberattack was — according to Balnium, the company behind these robotic bath aids, the perpetrators have made no contact or demands."

You pick yourself up off the counter and grab your phone, quickly Googling words you never thought you'd type: senior bath robot hack. Sure enough, Vanguard Estates is on the list of compromised facilities. Right on cue, a new email slides across the top of your screen — a message from the facility, vaguely assuring families that they're on top of the situation and that there's nothing to worry about whatsoever.

You find the link to the page where the footage is posted. There's a pit deep in your stomach as you click. It's a wall of wrinkly, naked screenshots. You're relieved to see that no names or patient numbers are attached -- nobody would recognize these people unless they really knew them. You also realize that the only way to find out if your dad is on here is to scrutinize every one of the thousands and thousands of videos.

You dad will probably never see this page. In fact, he'll never even see this news. The facility has tight filters on the news that residents get, and they certainly will remove this from their feeds. There's no way he would know if you didn't say something.

When you video chat later that day, he can tell you're being weird.

"What's wrong?"

"Why do you think something's wrong?"

"You're doing that thing where you tug the hair on the back of your neck so you don't blurt out what's on your mind."

It's nice to see him this lucid, this observant. But you also sort of wish you'd caught him in a slightly less clear moment. Because now you really have to choose. Should you tell him? You don't even know if he's on here or not, and you're not sure how he'll take it. You consider whether you would want to know, if it was you.