The breeze felt nice on her skin: cool, crisp, a subtle autumn breeze. Maggie often came to this spot, this high rocky cliff overlooking the inlet, where she could watch the planes that came into land at the airport behind her. The air always smelled salty, with a hint of muddy silt, and the sound of the waves on the rocky beach below was soothing.

            Every ten or so minutes, she would see the glint of a small plane as it approached on the horizon. It would get bigger and bigger the closer it got, until it roared over top over her and touched down on the runway to the north. Sometimes, they flew very low, and it seemed as though she could reach her hands up and touch the belly of the plane. When she was young, her dad used to bring her to this spot. They would sit on the grass and watch the planes together, pointing out which ones were FedEx and which ones weren’t.

            The air was starting to cool off enough that she was getting goosebumps. A shiver ran through her body, and she rubbed her arms vigorously to warm them. A nice cup of coffee at the café seemed like an excellent idea just then. Inhaling deeply, she stretched out her arms and yawned. There was a strange metallic scent to the air today that she hadn’t smelled before, making her wonder if there was a storm coming. All the more reason to get out of the cold air.

           When she arrived, she parked across the street from the café, lining her car up perfectly with the curb. Before she got out to cross the street, she straightened the scarf around her neck, sitting back a moment. It was strange; she realized that she didn’t recall actually driving. I must have zoned out, she concluded. It happened to her often; she just attributed it to “being on auto-pilot.” She would often arrive somewhere or find herself in the middle of something, but not necessarily know how she got there. Truthfully, she didn’t know if she should be more concerned.

            Once inside the café, she took a seat by the large window towards the back. She loved the view outside, directly overlooking the rocky beach and the ocean. There were a few double-sided benches out there beneath shade trees running alongside a heavily manicured trail. Maggie saw an elderly gentleman sitting on a bench, facing towards the café. He seemed familiar to her, but she couldn’t place his face.

            “Can I get you anything?” a barista approached Maggie.

            “Uh, yes,” she replied, a little startled. “I’ll take a mocha please.”

            “No problem!” the cheerful barista replied and left her. Maggie turned her attention to the window again, but the man was gone. She craned her neck to see if she could spot him on the trail, however, he was nowhere to be seen. Maggie shrugged, contented to wait for her coffee.

            A moment later, the bell of the door chimed, signaling that someone had entered. Instinctively, Maggie looked towards the door and saw the man enter. She didn’t think anything of it, looking back out the window.

            “Excuse me,” came a gravelly voice a moment later. She looked around her shoulder and the man was standing there behind her. “May I join you?” Maggie stared at him, unsure of what to say.

            “Sure?” she finally said; it was more of a question than an answer, but the man didn’t seem to mind. Taking the seat directly across from her, the man sat. Maggie strained her memory trying to remember where she had seen him before. She couldn’t shake the feeling that the version of him she was remembering was much younger. Her age younger.

            For a moment, he just stared at her, with a slight smile on his face. She guessed he must have been in his 80’s or 90’s. His back was hunched, his hands peppered with age spots and leathery wrinkles. The hair on his head was snowy white but thick and full. And his eyes were pale gray, which caused Maggie to wonder if they had been blue at one time.

            “I didn’t know if I should say anything,” he said quietly.

            “Say what?” Maggie asked, confused.

            “You don’t recognize me, do you?” the man asked, tilting his head a little bit. He scratched the back of his hand as he waited. Maggie stared.

            “I don’t know,” she replied honestly.

            “I didn’t expect that you would,” he said sadly. The barista returned with Maggie’s coffee.

            “Hello,” she said when she saw the man. “Can I get you anything to drink?” The man waved his hand, indicating no. So she walked away. Maggie glanced down at her coffee. The barista had drawn a leaf in the milk foam. She picked it up and took a sip, but it tasted of the sickly syrup of artificial sweetener. Irritated, she wondered why they would use an artificial flavoring for a mocha.

            “Who are you?” Maggie asked, looking back at the man.

            “My name is Jim,” he said. “I’m your husband.” Maggie felt her face redden. She wasn’t sure if she should be angry or terrified.

            “I’m sorry, sir,” she began, “but I’m not married.” She began to look around to see if there was anyone she could go to. She wondered if the man had dementia or Alzheimer’s; maybe someone was looking for him. Maybe he’d escaped his nursing home.

            “Please,” he said, reaching across the table for her hand. Maggie recoiled, bumping her coffee and spilling it. The man watched as the coffee covered the top of the table before trickling onto the floor.

            “I need to go,” she said, standing.

            “Maggie,” the man said in a sad voice. “Please. This is my last chance to see you.” The mention of her name stopped her in her tracks. Something exploded in her memory; an image so distant she wasn’t even sure it belonged to her.

            “Will you walk with me?” he asked. “Outside? There will be plenty of people if that’s what you are worried about.” Maggie chewed on her lip a minute before slowly nodding. She dropped a few bills on the counter for the barista and followed the man outside. They walked around the café to where the benches lined the trail. Facing the ocean, the man, Jim, sat down.

            “I thought you said we were going to walk?” Maggie asked, nervous.

            “I’m not as young as I used to be; I get tired easily,” he chuckled. He patted the bench beside him, offering for Maggie to sit. Tentatively, she sat, but as far from him on the bench as she could manage.

            “Maggie,” he sighed. “This isn’t going to be easy to hear.”

            “Okay,” she said slowly. She figured she could play along until his caretaker showed up. It was better than letting the poor man get lost in the city.

            “But we’re facing an energy crisis, and they are going to shut down the Program. I just had to see you. Had to apologize.”

            “Program? Energy Crisis?” Maggie repeated. “Sir, do you want me to call someone for you?” She glanced around, desperate for someone to interrupt them and say they needed to take the man home.

            “I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry,” he went on, ignoring her obvious discomfort. “I thought it might be best if you were written to not encounter anything past 21. But if you want to remember me, take this.” Jim held out a little ring. Maggie recognized it. It was her ring. White gold with a single diamond.

            “My ring,” she said automatically.

            “Your wedding ring,” Jim clarified. “It’s a key. If you touch this, you’ll remember me. I wasn’t going to do this until after we’d met, but -” he wavered. Maggie held up her hand, reaching out for a moment, but stopped.

            “If I’m lying, it’ll do you no harm,” Jim said gently. Maggie thought about it, wondering how many different poisons could be transmitted by touch.

            “Okay,” she said hesitantly after a moment. Reaching out her hand, she took the ring from Jim.

            At the touch, her body felt like it was on fire: an artificial burning sensation that licked her from head to toe. It felt as though gravity had collapsed and she was being crushed beneath the weight of the existence.

            Jim’s eyes filled with tears as he watched. “I’m so sorry,” he repeated knowingly. Maggie stared at him. She thought of the chemo. She thought of the expressionless stare from her 3-year-old son. She thought of the hours and hours she spent wishing she hadn’t left college. She remembered the suffocating feeling of marriage. She remembered the Program. The breathing tube through which she couldn’t speak, couldn’t say no. She remembered the hours and hours of poking and prodding and coding. She felt death.

            “I’m not real,” she said finally. Jim’s tear-streaked face twisted in pain.

            “You are!” he insisted.

            “I’m nothing but an algorithm. My consciousness put into code.” Maggie slumped against the bench.

            “I planned to join you,” Jim said after a few moments of silence.

           “Then we could meet and try again. I could try again. To be better.”

           “It wouldn’t be you,” Maggie interrupted. He didn’t notice.

           “I saved enough money,” he pleaded. “But the energy crisis. They are taking all of the Programs off-line.” Maggie wondered how he was actually there. She imagined him wearing a sort of virtual reality contraption. She thought of the world she remembered. She remembered the debates and the panic about how much time was left. How much energy was left.

            “So I will die again.”

            “You won’t know,” Jim said quietly. Maggie glared at him.

            “You mean I wouldn’t have known, but you decided to come here and ruin what time I have left to exist?”

            “I had to see you,” Jim tried to say. Maggie cut him off.

            “This year, this year was a perfect year for me. But I don’t even know how long I have been reliving this day, and I don’t know if anything I feel or remember is real. Does it matter? I’m dead. I’m a series of numbers. What kind of existence is that? How could you have done this to me?”

            “I’m sorry,” was all Jim could say.

            “Why couldn’t you just let me go?” Jim had no answer. Maggie stared off towards the ocean.

            “When?” she finally asked.

            “Tomorrow,” Jim replied. Maggie stood up. Without another word, she turned to walk to her car. She was going to go and sit at the cliff, feel the breeze, and watch the planes land.

– Sara Davis

Author’s Note: “The Algorithm” uses a familiar setting to explore the impact of toxic relationships. It shows how even when faced with death, one of the characters is selfish enough to deny another character a peaceful end.