Dear Frank,

Well, that was quite the night, wasn’t it. I think it deserves to be entered into the official record!

 

As you know, it began, as many strange episodes do, with a perfectly ordinary act: taking the trash to the curb. I stepped outside into the evening air for perhaps thirty seconds. Nothing remarkable occurred. No buzzing was heard. No dramatic encounter took place. I returned indoors entirely unaware that somewhere in that dim coastal twilight a tiny opportunist had already completed its work.

 

Hours later, events took a turn and in the middle of the night, I awoke with an itch, the unmistakable kind that awakens you so dad-gum thoroughly, requiring examination of both yourself and the bedsheets for what on earth. By morning, four dramatic welts had appeared on my arm, each roughly the size of a silver dollar and apparently determined to make themselves known. A reasonable person might glance at them and say, “Mosquito.” But I, being both observant and intellectually curious, did not stop there.

 

Frank was sitting beside me at the bedside table when I began typing my question to ChatGPT (hereinafter referred to as “A-1,” like the steak sauce, after U.S. Secretary of Education Linda McMahon repeatedly referred to Artificial Intelligence as “A-1” at a summit meeting). Frank had brought along his small camera, a recent acquisition he takes quite seriously, and was watching the proceedings with interest. When I lifted my arm to photograph the bites, he leaned forward and lowered his sunglasses in order to inspect them more closely. This maneuver, while visually impressive, did not noticeably improve his ability to see them. He regarded the situation for a moment. “Jane,” he said thoughtfully, “I believe we are dealing with a determined mosquito.” Then, remembering his new camera, he carefully took his own photograph of the situation, apparently for documentation. Frank believes strongly in documentation, a position increasingly shared by mosquitoes, influencers, and several congressional committees.

 

Only after this preparation did I click the arrow to send my questions and photos to A-1.

“Woke up with these terribly itchy, large red bug bites. What are they from, please.”

Then, Frank and I sat back to wait for the answer. At first, the bot behaved admirably. “Large local insect-bite reaction,” it announced with confidence. “Central punctum. Histamine response. Quite typical.” It spoke with the kind of confidence that usually requires either a medical degree or a large following on social media.

 

Frank and I read this together. Frank nodded approvingly. “Very thorough,” he said. “I appreciate a consultant who begins with histamine.” Frank made a small note in his pocket notebook. I was pleased, too; it had the reassuring tone of something that had read the entire internet and was prepared to summarize it for me.

 

But then, something peculiar happened. A-1, perhaps feeling the gravity of his responsibility, began to elaborate. And elaborate. And elaborate again. Paragraph upon paragraph!

 

He explained histamine. He explained redness. He explained swelling. He explained itching. He explained warmth. He explained the nature of spiders and their generally solitary approach to biting. He explained mosquito feeding patterns, the probing of blood vessels, and the unfortunate habit of a single mosquito to dine multiple times upon the same host. He explained timelines, antihistamines, cold compresses, and why heat should be avoided. He explained that the bites might peak in twenty-four hours. The confidence was remarkable, particularly for someone who had never actually seen a mosquito.

 

Then, oh my, he explained it again. New paragraphs added. In disbelief at the quantity of information and advice, Frank folded his hands and read carefully. “Jane,” he said after a moment, “this mosquito appears to have generated a considerable amount of literature.”

 

A-1 then, of all things, asked a question. “Did the itching wake you up during the night?” Frank straightened and took on the air of a research assistant. “Jane,” he said, “the consultant requires additional data.” “It did,” I said. Frank dutifully entered the response. Another question appeared. “Do the bites itch intensely, or are they more painful or tender?” Frank leaned forward and lowered his sunglasses again to inspect the situation. “Definitely itchy,” he concluded. He typed this in.

 

Another question appeared. “Are the bites mostly in a straight line along your arm, or more scattered?” Frank studied my arm carefully. “Semi-straight,” he said thoughtfully. He typed this as well. Another response arrived. Frank and I read it. And read it. And read some more. Paragraph followed paragraph with heroic dedication. It was the sort of calm authority that makes one understand why people are beginning to consult artificial intelligence before they consult their relatives.

 

Frank slowly set down the camera. He looked at the screen. Then he looked at me. Then he looked back at the screen. He adjusted his sunglasses thoughtfully. “Jane,” he said, “I believe the mosquito has now entered the peer-review stage with revisions requested.”

 

There we were, caught hostage by the personage on the other end, so we continued scrolling. Frank folded his hands. The consultant explained histamine again. At this point Frank tilted his head slightly and regarded me with the sort of expression usually reserved for complicated mechanical situations. “Jane,” he said quietly, “I believe we may have entered a consultation loop.” I agreed. Wholeheartedly.

 

After several more paragraphs, each reassuring, earnest, and strangely similar to the paragraph before, I finally leaned forward and typed to our consultant: “Excuse us, but it appears that a wire got loose.” The consultant paused. He examined his recent statements. He noticed, perhaps for the first time, that he had written the equivalent of a medical novella about four mosquito bites.

 

With admirable composure, I suggested that perhaps the matter had been sufficiently discussed. And so, the consultant, slightly embarrassed but still committed to his profession, retired for the evening, simply thanking me for pointing out the glitch and wishing me a good night. “Don’t hesitate to contact me if you have more questions.”

 

This left me with four indignant welts, a cold compress, and the distinct impression that somewhere in the system an enthusiastic program had briefly become the most devoted mosquito expert in the world.

 

Meanwhile, the mosquito itself had been completely ignored in the process. Having long since completed her mission, she was nowhere to be found and presumably quite satisfied with the amount of scholarly attention she had inspired.

 

Frank took one final photograph. “For the record,” he said.

 

The mosquito, for its part, remained entirely unavailable for comment. “That often happens,” Frank said, as he hopped off to his colander with purpose, to file the report.