10. Building an Avatar

Laramie and Dave look through photos of her past to assemble a composite 3D model of her face and voice she can control with her loquette.

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Social media photo of Laramie caught in a candid moment at The Rusty Nail.

“So, let me get this straight,” I say, dipping another piece of nigiri into a swirl of soy sauce and wasabi. “This digital avatar thing is going to be like, what exactly?”

We’re talking through Dave’s Bluetooth earbuds. To a casual observer, he would be doing all the talking with his headless lunch companion, who gestures silently back with her chopsticks.

I break with etiquette and use a knife and fork to divide my nigiri into three pieces. I put one bite into my box, which transmits a pretty decent spicy flavor to my loquette. I’d gasp if I could.

Dave laughs as I beat my chest dramatically and make dramatic coughing sounds. “You okay, Laramie?”

“Yeah,” I say, “That cleared out my nose, so to speak. Now, you were saying?”

“So, imagine being able to express yourself fully again, in all your red-headed glory. The avatar will be a composite of every image, video, and recording of you that exists out there in the digital world. Your social media, photos friends have posted… we’re going to grab as much of your digital footprint we can find,” He gestures excitedly with his hands as he explains.

I ponder the implications. To have a voice again, a face to show the world, it’s almost too good to be true.

“And this loquette thing, it’s going to help gather all that data?” I absently touch the shiny black rock resting against my collarbone. My vision blanks out for a second as my fingertips brush against its cameras.

“Exactly! The loquette’s image search is like… a tractor beam for your digital essence,” Dave says with a grin. “It’ll help you do really fast queries and pull all those bits and pieces of virtual Laramie together.”

I pepper Dave with questions, wanting to understand every angle.

“But how will it capture my personality, my expressions? Will it just be a static image?” I’m eager yet apprehensive, not wanting to get my hopes up too high.

“Oh no, it’ll be so much more than that,” Dave assures me as he plucks up a dragon roll and pops it into his mouth.

“Think of it like… distilling the essence of Laramie into digital form,” he says as he finishes chewing. Dave’s table manners leave a little to be desired. I gotta admit, one of the perks of having a loquette and a box is being able to eat and talk at the same time without looking gauche.

He continues: “Your quirks, your mannerisms, your fiery spirit, that big smile you used to have: It’ll all be there.” He looks at me intently, eyes wide and shining behind his glasses.

Fiery spirit indeed. To have that part of me back, even in virtual form… I never realized how much I took my face for granted.

“All right then, let’s do this,” I say. “How do we get started?”

Dave grins. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Trip Down Memory Lane

Dave leads me to his workshop. It’s a cozy space filled with an eclectic mix of high-tech gadgets and old-school charm. I spot his vintage Pac-Man arcade game in the corner, neon lights casting a warm glow. The top of the game cabinet looks like it needs a wipedown. I feel a little thrill that my cameras can pick up little things like dust bunnies and coffee rings on his desk.

“Welcome to my little piece of paradise,” Dave says with a self-deprecating chuckle. “This is where the magic happens.”

I step closer, peering at the array of screens. Lines of code dance across one monitor while another displays a 3D model of a human head represented in angular planes and muted colors. It looks eerily like… me. Well, the old me. I recognize how my neck and undercut were shaved to keep my wild auburn curls high, tight, and under control.

Dave notices my gaze and nods. “That’s just the beginning. We’ll be feeding in all sorts of data to create a fully realized avatar.” He starts typing, fingers flying over the keys. “Photos, videos, audio clips, you name it. Anything that captures your essence.”

I watch, transfixed, as he easily navigates through my online presence. Social media posts, blog entries, and even old theater productions from my college days. It’s surreal seeing my life splashed across the screens, a tapestry of memories.

“Wow,” I say, after remembering to connect to his speakers. “I never realized how much of myself is out there.” It’s a strange feeling, both vulnerable and empowering.

Dave smiles. “That’s the beauty of the digital age. We leave traces of ourselves everywhere.” He clicks on a video, and suddenly, my own laughter fills the room.

I remember that day: a day at the beach with friends before everything changed. I was 11. The camera pans to my face, all freckles and mirth, my curls shining in the sunlight. A lump forms in my neck stem as I watch my past self being so vibrant and carefree.

Dave’s hand finds mine, giving it a gentle squeeze. “We’ll bring that Laramie back,” he promises softly. “One pixel at a time.”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak without getting choked up.

Images of Laramie throughout her childhood and university years.

Fine Tuning the Model

Dave’s fingers dance across the keyboard, pulling up image after image. “We need a range of emotions,” he explains, brow furrowed in concentration. “Not just the happy moments, some sad ones, angry ones, and downright awkward ones. It’ll make your avatar more realistic, more… you.”

I hesitate, then type in a name I haven’t spoken aloud in over two years: Ryan Falstaff.

My ex-boyfriend’s social media page fills the screen, a grid of frozen smiles and staged candids. I scroll until I find what I’m looking for: a photo taken right after our last fight. It’s a group shot with friends at a party. My eyes are rimmed red, my makeup smudged, and my smile strained.

“That one,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. Dave nods, adding it to the growing collection without comment—his knee presses against mine, a silent show of support.

In another photo, I’m with mom and dad in Myrtle Beach. I was 11, and Margo was just five. I’m standing on a crowded beach, the ocean stretching endlessly behind me. My arms are crossed, and my lips are pressed into a thin line. The sun casts harsh shadows across my face, highlighting the frustration in her eyes.

“I remember this trip,” I say, a rueful laugh escaping my lips. “It was supposed to be this big family bonding experience, but I was just so angry the whole time. Angry at my parents, angry at the world. It was the last trip we all took together as a family.”

Dave zooms in on my face, studying the nuances of my expression.

“You’re still a kid, but it’s still great for the model,” he murmurs. “We need this kind of emotional range for your avatar. The good, the bad, and everything in between.”

Together, we pore over the photos, selecting the ones that capture the essence of who I was. A pensive me, lost in thought as she stares out a car window. A triumphant me, holding up a trophy at a high school debate tournament. A heartbroken me, tears streaming down her face after losing a volleyball tournament.

With each image, I feel like I’m reliving those moments, the memories washing over me in vivid detail. The salty tang of the ocean air. The butterflies in my stomach before a big competition. There was an ache in my chest as I watched my first love walk away.

It’s painful to confront these pieces of my past. But there’s a strange catharsis to it. Dave lingers over each one, asking me questions about what I was thinking. Are the questions for his model, or is he getting drawn same as I am?

As we work, I feel the weight of my past settling over me like a shroud. Each image is a ghost, a reminder of the person I used to be. The girl who dreamed of taking the stage, of changing the world with her words. The young woman who thought love was enough to conquer any obstacle.

I’m not that person anymore. The accident saw to that, stealing my natural voice, identity, and future dreams. But as I watch my face become more detailed in his sandbox window, I see her digital eyes look more alive and expressive.

Dave’s fingers brush the outside of my thigh, sending a shiver up my spine. “Oh, sorry, “ he says, but it’s a touch that lingers a second too long to be accidental and seems to speak volumes in the charged silence of the workshop.

I don’t pull away. Instead, I lean into it, letting the warmth of his skin seep through the thin fabric of my midnight blue tights. It feels like a step towards something new: terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

We don’t talk about it. We don’t need to.

I dip my drinking hose into another steaming cup of coffee. There’s soft music playing in the background. I can feel electricity in the air, and it gives me goosebumps. In this moment, surrounded by the broken pieces of my past and the hope of a new future, I am content to simply sit with this guy who’s putting me back together again.

A Hard Memory

We scroll through hundreds more images, each a snapshot of a life that feels familiar and distant.

And then, I freeze. There, on the screen, is a photo of me at 12, standing beside a freshly dug grave, my face a mask of grief and confusion.

“That’s … that’s from my mom’s funeral,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “She was killed by a drunk driver when I was just a kid.”

The memories flood back, unbidden and raw. The day was overcast, with a heavy gray sky that seemed to mirror the weight in my chest. I stood in my black dress, the fabric scratchy against my skin, as the casket lowered into the ground.

Dad was beside me, his face a stoic mask, but I could see the cracks in his composure. His eyes were distant, lost in a world of grief and uncertainty. I knew he was wondering how he would raise two girls on his own, how he would fill the void left by Mom’s absence.

Margo clung to his leg, her tiny frame wracked with sobs. At six, she was too young to fully understand the finality of death, but she knew Mom was gone and never coming back. Her cries pierced the somber air, a soundtrack of heartbreak.

It all comes flooding back. I remember feeling like I was drowning, suffocating under the weight of my own emotions. I wanted to scream, to rage against the unfairness of it all, but I swallowed it down, trying to be strong for Margo and Dad. I accepted the hugs and condolences from faceless relatives with a tight smile, their words of sympathy feeling hollow and insincere.

It wasn’t until Grandpa Joe approached that my façade crumbled. He wrapped me in his arms, his familiar scent of wintergreen and pipe tobacco enveloping me like a blanket. And then he said the words that shattered me.

“She’ll always be with us,” he told me.

And Mom always has been.

Dave’s hand finds the spot where my neck meets my shoulder, squeezing gently. “I’m so sorry, Laramie. I can’t even imagine…”

I lean into his touch, savoring the warmth of his grip. “It was a long time ago, but it still hurts, you know? Like a part of me is missing, and I’ll never get it back.”

He nods, his eyes full of understanding. “Grief is like that. It changes shape over time, but it never really goes away.”

We sit in silence for a moment, the weight of sorrow hanging between us. Then, without a word, Dave pulls me close, resting his head against the top of my neck. It’s an awkward angle, but I don’t care. I close my eyes and nuzzle into him, letting his warmth wash over me.

Time seems to stretch and contract, seconds bleeding into minutes. Finally, reluctantly, I pull away. “Thank you,” I try to whisper, but my synthesized voice remains steady and measured.

Impulsively, I lean forward and rub the bottom of his chin with my neck, trying to show the intensity of my feelings physically instead of with words—my body against his. “I don’t know how to thank you,” I say.

He reaches up, resting his thumbs on the top of my neck. “You just did.”

Reluctantly, I pull away, the electric buzz of new possibilities thrumming through my veins. “I should probably get some sleep,” I murmur, suddenly shy. “But I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Count on it. I’ll be up all night getting it ready for you,” Dave promises, his smile full of unspoken promises.

I float back to my apartment, my mind awhirl with thoughts of tomorrow and the days that will follow. 

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