Calling for help

You pick up the phone with fingers that feel wrong—too long, too polished, the press-on nails clicking against the screen in a way that makes you wince. You find Aunt Vanessa's contact and hit call before you can talk yourself out of it.

Just be calm. Be rational. Explain the situation clearly.

It rings three times before she picks up. You can hear background noise—clinking glasses, distant music, someone laughing.

"Riley! Sweetheart! I was hoping you'd call. Are you settling in okay?"

Her voice is warm and slightly distracted, the way it gets when she's at some event.

"Hey, Aunt Vanessa. Yeah, so—I have a kind of weird situation here."

Okay. How do you even start this?

"Oh no, what happened? Is the house okay? Did something break?"

"The house is fine. It's—the closet system. LUXE. Chloe's automated closet."

"Oh, isn't that thing amazing? Chloe absolutely loves it. Saved her so much time getting ready for events." Vanessa sounds pleased, like you've brought up a favorite restaurant.

"Right, so here's the thing. I didn't have any clean clothes after cleaning all day, and I put my dirty stuff in the hamper, and it—"

You pause. How do you say this?

"It took my clothes. And then I went into the closet to get them back, and it dressed me. In Chloe's clothes. And makeup. And—everything."

There's a beat of silence. Then Vanessa laughs—not cruelly, but with genuine amusement.

"Oh, Riley! You used LUXE? That's hilarious. I always wondered what would happen if someone else tried it. The system only has Chloe's profile, so it must have just—well, done its best, I suppose."

"Aunt Vanessa, I'm wearing a skirt. And heels. And a bra."

Another laugh, warmer this time. "Well, you should have read the house manual! I left notes about all the systems. LUXE is very thorough—Chloe programmed it herself, actually. She spent a whole weekend customizing all the looks."

"Can I get my clothes back?"

"Hmm, I'm not sure how that works. The laundry system scans everything and stores it in the closet catalog. If your clothes don't match Chloe's wardrobe parameters, they probably went to non-catalog storage. You'd have to ask LUXE to release them."

"I did ask. It just keeps calling me Chloe."

"Well, of course it does! It only has one user profile. You'd have to contact the manufacturer about adding a second profile, and honestly, I'm not sure that's even possible. Those systems are very locked down." Vanessa's tone shifts to something more practical. "Look, sweetie, I know it's awkward, but you're a resourceful kid. Just—work with the system for now? Use the guest wardrobe if LUXE has one. And your suitcase should be arriving soon anyway, right?"

"The airline still hasn't found it."

"Oh, those airlines. I'll have my assistant call them tomorrow and put some pressure on. She's very good at that sort of thing." A muffled voice calls something in the background. "Listen, Riley, I have to go—we're heading to dinner. But you're fine, right? The house is comfortable?"

"Yeah. It's... comfortable."

"Wonderful. Love you! And don't worry about LUXE—just treat it like a very insistent personal stylist. Chloe's clothes will fit you fine if you're anything like her. Same slim build!"

The call ends. You stand there in the pink-lit bedroom, phone in your manicured hand, the jasmine-vanilla scent of your styled hair rising with every exhale.

She thinks this is funny. She thinks this is a quirky tech story she'll tell at dinner parties.

You glance at the LUXE panel. "Next recommended session: Morning Routine, 7:00 AM." The guest bedroom keypad is still dead—you noticed that earlier. Which means tonight, you're sleeping in Chloe's room. In Chloe's bed. Wearing whatever LUXE decides is appropriate sleepwear.

The skirt swishes as you turn, and you catch yourself in the mirror again. Same polished, pretty, impossible reflection staring back