About an hour after I was brought in, a tray came floating down the corridor toward my cell. When it reached the cell, it hovered there outside the door, and then another amazing thing happened.

One by one, each item on the tray (a bowl of soup, a sandwich, a sealed plastic juice cup, a plastic spoon for the soup, and a straw) floated up off the tray and passed through the spaces between the bars, hovering in place inside my cell. Then the tray itself did likewise, after which the food and utensils resumed their places on it. The tray then came to rest next to me on my bunk.

I wondered just how this could be possible. I also wondered just how I was supposed to eat while wearing handcuffs. And lastly, I wondered if the food had been “treated” and thereby unsafe to eat. I was hungry, though, and that sandwich looked mighty good.

Almost as if someone knew I was wondering about the sandwich, it came open. The top slice of bread and what appeared to be roast beef rose from the plate. On the other slice was turkey, cole slaw, and some kind of dressing I couldn’t ID on sight.

I decided I was too hungry to worry about what might be wrong with the food. I’d just eat it and deal with the consequences later. I waited for someone to release my cuffs. No one came, so I tried to do it myself.

“Let me go, Irons,” I said. “I want to eat.”

Nothing. Whatsoever.

“Please let me go, Irons?” I pleaded.

Still nothing.

“How am I supposed to eat like this?” I asked aloud. I got an immediate answer.

The sandwich closed and floated up toward my mouth, stopping at “biting distance.” I was still unsure, but too hungry to fight it. I took a bite.

Russian dressing. Delicious.

After a couple of bites, I wanted to try the soup, but the handcuffs made that quite difficult, if not impossible. I looked at the bowl and said, “Um… soup…” whereupon the soup spoon loaded up and floated up toward my mouth.

I opened my mouth to eat the soup, but the spoon just hovered there, avoiding my mouth. *What gives?* I wondered, before it hit me. Of course. The soup’s hot. I blew on it a bit and then ate it. I couldn’t quite place the soup. I guessed it was something homemade, but it was quite good.

While I had a mouthful of sandwich, I had a visitor. A beautiful Indian-looking woman stood smiling at me from outside my cell as I ate. I didn’t want to seem rude or anything by not speaking, but I was otherwise occupied, so she spoke first.

In a singsong Indian accent, she said, “It certainly looks like you are enjoying your food.”

“I am, thank you,” I answered, once I was able.

“You could have had your cuffs removed,” she said. “No need to try to eat like that.”

“Really?” I said. “I tried, but Irons wouldn’t let me go.”

“Officer Irons,” she began, a bit stiffly, “you wouldn’t let this man go?” I thought it was odd that, although she was supposedly talking to Irons, she was looking me straight in the eye.

“No, Irons wouldn’t release me,” I confirmed.

Still looking at me, she repeated, “Officer Irons.”

“Officer?” I said. After a few seconds the light came on. “You mean to tell me that Irons didn’t release me just because…” I didn’t finish the question or wait for an answer. Holding my arms out in front of me, I started, “Officer Irons,” but before I could say another word, the cuffs clicked open, released my sore wrists, and floated to rest on my bunk. I sat there for a few moments, staring at the handcuffs, before I finally said, “Sure wish I’d thought of that earlier.”

“See what a little recognition can do?” the Indian woman asked sweetly.

“Um, yeah,” I replied. “Excuse me for being rude, but who are you? I’ve been dealing with fembots, mannequins, self-driving cars, and even handcuffs since I’ve been here. Are you from here, or are you human like me?”

She smiled broadly. “I’m Sharifa. Sorry to have to tell you this, but I’m not human like you. I’m also a fembot. Actually, I’m… well, they call me an ‘assistant prime minister,’ but really I help out with some things around here. Someone called me and told me you were being excessively punished for the crime you’ve been charged with, and I’m here to investigate.” While she was replying to my question, she took a chair and entered my cell, sitting directly across from me.

“Assistant PM? I must have hit the big time,” I said.

Still smiling, she said, “Like I said, that’s what they call me. Don’t believe what you hear about Feminalia being ‘sovereign territory.’ That just means they control the area and they’re not letting humans in, except the way you were brought in..”

I heard what she said, but I was staring rather intently at her pretty face, and I could see it was making her uncomfortable. Finally I spoke. “You’re not a fembot,” I said.

Still smiling, she said, “I expected that response. Will this be enough to prove it to you?”

She then placed both hands on the briefcase resting in her lap, palms up, and then both hands popped off at the wrists. What’s more, both hands were flexing their fingers. I stared at the flexing digits on the detached hands. “Believe now?” she asked.

“Um, yeah. Do you mind…” I trailed off. She just continued to smile while I grasped the right hand as if to shake it. The hand grasped back, just like it normally would for a handshake. “You’re doing this?” I asked incredulously.

“Yes I am,” she said. “But I didn’t come here to let you play with my hands. I have some news you might be interested in, about getting out of here.”