Her uncle died in the housefire but her mind was on the algorithm. The flames had been violent, creating wooden crisp, a house charred to rubble, broken baseball trophies. Around 3pm, the phone call came — electrical spark and plentiful ambien. He never woke up. Never felt his flesh melt, ooey gooey. She could not process her uncle or his house, disembodied. Two days ago Netflix had recommended a film based on her viewing habits, suggesting she’d enjoy ingesting it. No! False! It was awful. The day her family went to the house, to retrieve the uncle and all that lay with him — bones, mementos, unopened bean cans — her father shed tears. Fat ones, portly ones. She held his hand in feigned sympathy, but the question did not cease. Am I a product of affective automation?