The car’s interior lights up. A voice comes on. “Hello, Miss Chen,” it says. I startle. “Hi,” I say back, unsure where I should be looking. “A preference for the car mood?” the voice continues. “Something serene, perhaps?” I glance out at the mob of journalists still shouting at the car’s shaded windows. “Serene would be nice, Mr. . . . Car.” “Fred,” the car says. “Fred,” I reply, trying not to feel weird about talking to a bottle of champagne in an ice block. “Hi.”
