The snow is still falling heavily, almost in chunks, the flakes giant-sized. The snow on the yard lifts and dances across the ground in tiny tornadoes. I look up at the sky, squinting in the bright white, and then out toward the icy bay and back at the woods that ring our yard. My heart begins to race.

I love everything about snow. I love everything about weather.

“What’s taking you so long?”

Joncee appears at my door again. She’s already dressed, a ski mask over her entire face, only her electric blue eyes and mouth exposed. “Get moving, slowpoke!” She comes over and grabs me by the hand, yanking me to the closet. She begins tossing out turtlenecks and ski pants and thermal underwear. “What do you want to do first? Sled? Build a snowman? No, wait! Snow angels! No, a snowman and then a snow fort. Then we can snowshoe or ski. Hurry, Amberrose! Hurry! Time’s wasting!”

Joncee races out the door so quickly, her thick, wooly socks slide across the wooden floor and she bounces off the wall in the hallway.

“I’m good!” she yells, before racing down the stairs. “Mom! I want hot chocolate and pancakes in the shape of a snowman!”

I laugh.

No, I think, the thing I love most about winter in Michigan is my sister.

“You’ll never hear Sonny Dunes talk about snow in the winter in Palm Springs. Sonny says it’s always sunny!”

I wake with a start.

“Everyone yell, ‘Sonny says it’s sunny…again!’”

I look up, and the upper deck of a tourist bus is taking my picture. I leap from my chaise, my neck aching, and race inside.

I look at the clock on my microwave: 8:05 a.m.

I must have been exhausted. I haven’t slept outside since I was a girl in…

I think of my dream and shake my head. Hard.

Stop it right now.

I make some coffee, head to the bathroom, brush my teeth, then pour a cup of caffeine, grab my cell and slide into bed. Maybe a couple of hours of normal sleep, then a hike, then a nap, then I’ll meet my girlfriends at The Parker for a drink… It’s nice to have a normal day and night. TV anchors never have a “normal” day.

It’s nice to have friends who know me now, without a trace of my past. I sip my coffee and glance at my phone.

An endless scroll of texts appear. I click on the first. It’s from Ronan.

Emergency meeting at noon! Be there!

I look at the other texts, from Cliff and Eva, asking what the meeting is about. No response from Ronan.

I call Cliff.

“I have no idea what’s going on,” he says. “Do you?”

I call Eva. Voice mail. She’s at her breakfast event.

What in the world could this be about?

I get out of bed and down my coffee, trying to clear my bleary head. I grab a second cup, go for a swim in the pool and then head to the station.

I am stunned to see the entire staff—and I mean the entire staff—in the conference room on a Saturday at noon. Eva is dressed to the nines in holiday red. She shrugs when our eyes meet, and I grab an empty chair at the end of the table next to Cliff. Ronan enters in workout clothes and a baseball cap that reads, Chill, Bro!

“Thank you all for being here on such short notice, but it’s important.” He stops and takes a big drink from his DYLN alkaline water bottle. Ronan is all about pH. He’s told us all that about a million times. “Ratings came in overnight.” He looks around the room and then stops, looking directly at me. “Not good. Not good at all.”

My heart stops.

“What’s not good?” Eva asks. “Did we slip to second place? What’s going on?”

“No, we’re still number one overall,” Ronan says.

I exhale, and the entire room explodes into applause.

“No, not good,” Ronan repeats, exasperated, sipping from his water bottle as if it’s life. “We’ve fallen to second place in the key demographic of 18-49.”

“There are viewers in Palm Springs in that age range?” Cliff asks. The room bursts into laughter.

“Yes, Cliff!” Ronan suddenly yells. “And they’re the influencers today. They’re the ones who are out spending money and running the world, if you haven’t noticed.”

The room goes quiet.

“We can’t continue to succeed with an advertising base that consists of denture creams, hearing aids, wheelchairs and walk-in bathtubs!”

“Don’t forget senior medical alert buttons,” Cliff says.

The room titters.

“You’re fired, Cliff!” Ronan yells.

“What?” Cliff says. His smooth anchor voice is suddenly shaky.

“Done. Over. Today.”

“You can’t do that,” I say.

“Oh, I can’t?” Ronan says. “Well, I can, and I did. And you’re fired, too, Sonny.”

My eyes widen. The room spins. I want to stand, but my legs are jelly.

“Excuse me?” I manage to gasp.

“Meet your replacement.”

Ronan turns off the lights and flicks on the giant TV on the wall.

An anime woman appears on screen. The name AImee appears beneath her. She is a stunningly realistic-looking Amazonian Barbie doll come to life: blond, blue-eyed, with what looks to be double D breasts. She is wearing a pink dress with a big bow around her four-inch waist.

“Hi, I’m AImee, the world’s most accurate and reliable artificial intelligence meteorologist.”

I look around the room for people’s reactions. AImee continues. “I compile the latest computer models every sixty seconds to provide the most up-to-date weather forecast in your area and throughout the world,” AImee says in a creepy voice that sounds like you misdialed and reached a sex hotline run by Alexa. “And I can be with you everywhere and at any time: on your phone, laptop, watch, or in your very own home.”

Ronan hits pause on his remote. AImee stops midmotion, her big, doll eyes focused directly on me. Ronan smiles, and then hits play again.

“The weather today in Palm Springs is expected to be sunny and eighty-two degrees. And it will stay that way all week long in the desert.”

“Wait for her catchphrase,” Ronan says, his voice absolutely giddy.

“Wall-to-wall sunshine,” AImee says, jumping up and down excitedly, her anime chest bouncing. “It’s gonna be sunny, honey!”

Ronan hits stop.

“Is this some kind of joke?” I ask.

“No,” Ronan says, turning, silhouetted in front of the TV with AImee behind him. “Isn’t she the bomb? AImee’s the wave of the future.”

“You can’t fire me,” I say, finally getting my wits about me. “I have a contract.”

“We’re buying you out.” Ronan stops and looks at me. “I really thought you’d like her.”

His voice sounds wounded. Ronan ducks his head. He’s acting like the one who’s actually getting hurt here.

“Let’s talk about this,” I say, voice calm. “People don’t want their weather from a robot.”

“She’s not a robot,” Ronan says.

“No, but you are,” Cliff says. “You have no idea what you’re doing.”

“Oh,” Ronan says, as if an important thought just returned to his head. “I’m buying you out, too, Cliff. Eva, you’re safe. For now. AImee gets introduced tonight.”

“Do we even get to say goodbye to our viewers?” Cliff asks, incredulous. “I’ve been on air here for forty years. Sonny has been here since 1993.”

“Monday will be your final telecast. Thank you all. Eva, if you can stay behind? We need to talk about a few things.”

Eva looks at me all wild-eyed as she is ushered away. The news crew stands in a line, waiting to hug me and Cliff, as if we’re at a funeral.

“Wanna get that drink now?” Cliff asks, when everyone is gone.

“Just one?” I ask. “I’ll meet you after I call my agent.”

The Purple Room is an old jazz bar and club where the Rat Pack used to drink and hold impromptu performances. It’s a mostly windowless joint, now a wonderful restaurant and jazz club, with stiff drinks and an owner who does the world’s best Judy Garland impersonation and show.

A cosmo is waiting for me when I arrive.

“You’re a mind reader,” I say.

“Cheers to our demise,” Cliff says, raising his glass.

I take a healthy sip and look at Cliff. “What the hell just happened?”

“We got canned, sister,” he says, sipping his Manhattan. “By a little man with a big ego and a tiny—”

“I got it, Cliff,” I say.

He doesn’t stop. “Who’s trying to prove himself to even smaller men with even bigger egos,” Cliff says. “Daddy’s boys can never become their own men. Especially rich daddy’s boys.”

“What are we going to do?” I sigh.

“I had a long, wonderful career at my local station,” Cliff says. “Able to live in the paradise where I was born and raised. I didn’t have to move my family all over the country from Des Moines to Denver, starting over every few years in a new city. I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished. You should be as well.” Cliff looks at me and raises one of those bushy brows. “You can’t control crazy. And Ronan is squirrel-hiding-his-nuts-for-the-winter crazy. I actually feel sorrier for Eva than us right now. Imagine what she’ll have to endure. And for who knows how long before he tires of her, too.”

Cliff stops and takes a sip of his drink. “This allows us time to reassess and reinvent. I might do radio. I can do all that volunteering Eva wants me to do. I might write a book.” He pauses for a moment. “Or, I might do nothing. I might actually take my wife to dinner on a weeknight, or watch the news in bed like the rest of the world. It’s been decades since I’ve had a normal week.” He takes another sip of his cocktail. “What this Ronan kid doesn’t seem to care about is that I’ve covered wars, I’ve covered race riots, I’ve covered presidential elections. This dimwit doesn’t realize that you were on air 24/7 after the ’94 earthquake, sleeping in the studio so you could give viewers the latest news, provide emergency response and, most importantly, reassure them. That weather robot will never be able to do that. And Ronan will find that out when it’s too late, when there is a crisis. You did more before you turned twenty-five than he will ever do his entire life.” Cliff raises his glass. “It’s been an honor to be a newsman. And it’s been an honor to work alongside you for all these years.”

I shake my head at Cliff and will myself not to cry. “I admire the hell out of you.”

“But? There’s a but in there. I can tell.”

“But I’m fifty, Cliff. I need to work. I need to earn a living. I still love what I do.”

“Then you’re probably going to have to uproot your life from Palm Springs and head somewhere else.”

“I don’t want to,” I say.

“You can fight for your job,” Cliff suggests. “Maybe Ronan will reconsider.”

I look at Cliff, and he laughs before I do.

“You can sue,” Cliff says. “But his pockets are way deeper than yours.” He hesitates for a second. “Don’t ever forget the world is yours, Sonny. It’s always sunny for you, isn’t it?” He grabs my hand and gives it a squeeze. “What would Frank do?”

I nod, allowing myself to tear up just a bit, and another drink is ordered. That cosmo leads to another, which leads to a shot of tequila and then me standing on the bar singing songs by the Rat Pack, the world spinning before my eyes.

The next thing I know is that I feel hands around my waist lifting me from the bar and leading me to the lobby. I collapse into one of the circular 1960s sofas.

“I’m calling you a Lyft,” Cliff says. “You can pick up your car tomorrow.”

I watch two Cliffs try to dial one cell and start to laugh. Then I notice, directly behind him, the large mural that is painted on one of the lobby walls. I close one eye to stop the room and concentrate on reading it.

Alcohol may be a man’s worst enemy, but the Bible says love your enemy.—Frank Sinatra.

“Ride’s here,” Cliff says, pulling me from the sofa and guiding me out the doors and into the car.

“Take her straight home,” Cliff says to the driver.

Cliff leans into the car. “I’ll call you in an hour to make sure you’re home, okay? My wife will be here any minute for me.” He stops. “Sonny? Sonny!”

I try to focus on Cliff. “Love you,” he says. “You’re gonna be okay.”

He shuts the door and walks—or rather, stumbles—back into the lobby.

I nod off briefly, and wake up to notice we are heading back to my house.

A voice in my head asks, What would Frank do?

“Three twenty-one Dinah Shore,” I say to the driver.

“That’s not what I have here,” he says, checking his phone.

“Change of plans,” I say.

He repeats the address, I nod, and he adjusts his navigation. I smile. He keeps looking at me in the mirror. “Hey, aren’t you—?” he starts.

“No,” I say.

My lids grow heavy, and I blink, once, twice…

“Ma’am? Ma’am? We’re here.”

I wake up slumped across the back seat as if my spine is made of a Slinky.

I sit up and shake my head.

“You live at the TV station?” the driver asks.

“It’s a temporary thing,” I say, my words slurred.

I try to find my credit card but can’t so I hand the driver my entire bag.

“Your friend already paid before I picked you up,” he says, passing it back.

“Thank you,” I say. “And tell him thanks when you see him.”

“Are you okay?” he asks.

The driver is all of twenty, probably. He’s all sparkly eyes and good skin and sunny skies ahead.

I stumble out of the car and then lean into his driver’s window.

“Jury’s still out,” I reply, before drunk-walking into my TV station.

I look around. Saturdays are quiet. The big clock in the waiting area reads 6:10 p.m.

Perfect.

A sign over the door blinks, LIVE! ON AIR!

I think I’m being stealthy as I tiptoe inside the studio, but I collide into the back of a cameraman.

“Sonny?” he asks. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see my replacement in action,” I say, but the words come out in a slurred jumble.

“Are you drunk?” he asks.

“Are you?”

Eva is stationed behind the news desk with one of the weekend anchors, Brant, who looks as if he just graduated junior high.

Ronan must have asked Eva to make the big announcements.

“Welcome back,” Eva says. “Well, DSRT is undergoing a number of wonderful changes meant to enrich the lives of our viewers and make our great station even better. One of those changes is a new meteorologist joining the team. I’d like to introduce our desert viewers to AImee, one of the world’s first artificial intelligence meteorologists. AImee is fed the latest weather data every minute and, thus, can bring you the most accurate information not only in Palm Springs but also throughout the world. And, for those who wonder where Sonny is, well, she’ll be back on Monday to say goodbye and tell us all about all the amazing things she has planned for the future. Hi, AImee! And welcome!”

Eva looks to the left, where I would usually be standing. One of the hardest tricks I had to learn as a meteorologist was to act natural in front of the green screen. I had to learn where to point on a blank screen that to viewers looks like a live feed of the weather map.

If you think that’s a lot to grasp, try doing it.

AImee doesn’t even have to point. She doesn’t even have to study the weather. She doesn’t have to put it into context for viewers. She doesn’t have to do anything. Graphics just pop up behind her, like in a Pixar cartoon.

“Hello, Eva. Hello, Brant. What a pleasure to be here.”

“That’s so creepy,” I say too loudly to the cameraman. I start to act and speak like a robot. “Hel-lo. I sound like R2D2 but have bigger boobs.”

Eva hears my voice and looks over at me.

No, Sonny, she mouths.

But it’s too late. I’m already beelining toward the set.

“Shut up, AImee,” I say, bursting before the cameras.

AImee keeps going because she’s not real. I can see the cameraman looking between me and AImee, unsure as to what he should do.

“Hi, DSRT viewers. Wanna know what’s really going on? I was fired. By a spoiled, rich brat. For being too old. For getting a few wrinkles and occasionally putting on a pound or two. For being too real. For having a contract. For this…thing.”

I pound the green screen with my hand. “There is nothing real about her. Not her face, her shape, her voice… Look.” I start kicking the green screen, over and over. I take off my shoe and begin beating it, tearing at it, until it collapses. AImee’s image vanishes, but her voice continues like a robotic ghost.

I turn to the camera. I start yelling.

“She’s not real! Nothing about her is real. Is this where we’re all headed in life? Replaced by robots? Until nothing is real anymore?”

Over me, AImee says, “It’s gonna be sunny, honey!”

“Oh, hell no!” I say. “Sonny’s the one who always says it’s gonna be sunny again! You can’t rip off MY trademark line. HONEY!”

I reach down under the news desk. They’re still there.

I grab two of the adhesive suns with my face on them and stick them on my chest, one on each breast. I walk toward the camera.

“You wanna know what’s real, AImee?” I shake my bosom. The cameraman spits out his gum. “Me! Everything about me is real!”

I look over and can see that the station has finally cut to a commercial. I have a moment of clarity: they kept me on for so long because they knew it would be good for their ratings. Anything for ratings.

Eva stands up, walks over to me and holds me.

I weep in her arms.

The last text I remember seeing when I get home and fall into bed is one from Cliff.

You didn’t go home, did you?

I pass out, and I dream of snow.