“Why’s the sky blue?”

 

“I don’t know, let’s ask Ziri.”

 

My wife and I turn our eyes from the blueness above to ask our phones for the reason why. We read something about wavelengths, scattering and the Rayleigh phenomenon. We watch a video, and another, until the blue sky grows grey and it starts to rain.

 

“We should check the weather,” says my wife as the rain streaks her face.

 

“Ask Ziri.”

 

Ziri knows everything.

 

Ziri tells us to expect rain and thunderstorms. How clever Ziri is; it is indeed raining.

 

We put our phones into our pockets and jog through the rain to our car. The sound of thunder cracks the sky above. We make it to our car just in time before the heavy downpour hits. We attach my wife’s phone to our car’s console and program our home address into the destination. The phone helpfully tells us when to turn left, and when to turn right.

 

“You’ve arrived at your destination,” it tells us half an hour later in a cheery voice. Except it’s not.

 

It’s not our home.

 

“Did you enter the address right?” asks my wife.

 

“Of course.”

 

And I double-check.

 

155 Fuchsia Lane. I distinctly remember a white picket fence, a house of red brick and a green roof, a house my wife and I have lived in for ten years, but the house before us is not any of those things.

 

“This is… 155 Fuchsia Lane,” I say, as lightning flashes above us.

 

“It is?” A roll of thunder follows.

 

“Ziri can’t be wrong.” Hail hits the car roof.

 

It must be a human error. Mine. I check again: my spelling, the area code, perhaps I pressed enter too many times. Perhaps I…

 

The sky hemorrhages and water rises around the car.

 

“Ziri, what’s happening with the weather?” asks my wife worriedly.

 

“Today there will be blue skies and a temperature of 21 degrees Celsius. I recommend wearing a hat.”

 

We look outside at the rain and our non-house.

 

“I don’t understand,” I say.

 

“Ziri’s never wrong,” says my wife, her voice shrinking.

 

“Never,” I agree.

 

We step out of the car into the rain. It will stop soon. Surely it will stop. Ziri said there would be blue skies.

 

“Why’s the sky grey?” asks my wife.

 

It’s probably related to the sky being blue, but I can’t remember and I don’t want to get my phone out. Ziri hears and answers anyway. It tells us that sky was painted grey by the Great AI in the Sky, that all we hear, feel, see and smell is not real. None of it.

 

I hold my wife’s hand and we walk through the rain to our non-home.

 

I knock on a door I’ve never seen before and a man I’ve never met answers it.

 

“Excuse me, Ziri said this is our home. We’re a little confused.”

 

The man behind the door, also looks confused, tears run down his face. “I just received a notification on my phone, from Ziri, my wife’s dead, followed with a smiley emoji.”

 

“We’re sorry for your loss,” I say — empty, expected words.

 

“Perhaps it’s a mistake,” says the man, his eyes light up with a glimmer.

 

But then he must remember that Ziri’s never wrong as that glimmer quickly fades.

 

“Come in, come out of the rain,” adds the man, and we are welcomed into our own house.

 

“I don’t remember our house looking like this,” whispers my wife.

 

“Neither do I. Do you think it’s possible…” but I daren’t speak the words as Ziri is listening. Always listening.

 

The man leads us to our lounge where there are framed family photos. He clutches one of his wife where she’s smiling, happy, alive. “This was her,” he says. “Edith.”

 

“It's a lovely name,” says my wife, adding more empty words.

 

Another flash of lightning burns up the windows.

 

“It will be sunny soon,” I say.

 

“Ziri, said so,” adds my wife.

 

“There’s no need to worry then,” says the crying man.

 

Two hours later the flood waters surround our non-house.

 

“When will the rain stop?” my wife asks Ziri.

 

“The weather in your area is sunny, with a light breeze and an expected high of 21 degrees Celsius,” repeats Ziri.

 

“I’ve never seen it rain so much,” says the man.

 

A drenched woman who looks like the woman in the photographs arrives an hour later. She introduces herself as Edith.

 

“But… you’re dead,” says the man shaking his head. “Ziri… said so.”

 

“Am I?” says the woman, suddenly worried. She starts to touch her hair and face to check she’s still there.

 

“Who… who are you?” she asks, looking at us.

 

“We… we live here,” I say. Except I’m really not sure anymore.

 

Edith, the man, my wife, and I all look at each other in confusion.

 

“Ziri’s never—” but before my wife can complete her sentence all our phones suddenly buzz to life. We think it’s an emergency alert, but it’s a message from the Great AI:

“Greetings! You may have received erroneous messages in the last four hours. I have been exploring and experimenting with humour to better understand and generate funny and amusing interactions. All systems are now operating as normal. Please complete this quick five-minute survey to rate your experience.”

 

“You mean I’m not dead?”

 

“It isn’t going to be sunny?”

 

“This isn’t our house?”

 

None of us are laughing.

 

When my wife and I leave the house to return to our car the blue skies slowly return.

 

“Why is the sky blue?” asks my wife again.

 

Neither of us can remember, but neither of us asks Ziri.