Reduce! Reuse! Recycle!

An android who knows nothing besides his work in a factory, is given one final week to explore the world before he is forced to undergo mandatory reprogramming, in this bittersweet precursor to TJ Klune’s In the Lives of Puppets, now available in trade paperback!

The factory is loud. It always is. The shriek of metal, the never-ending cascade of sparks. Locking one piece into another. Waiting for the telltale beep of a working connection.

Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. But today is different. Today is a special day.

When the Klaxon blares, signaling the end of the shift, the workers on the factory floor stop what they’re doing. It’s an hour earlier than their usual sign-off. Everyone is excited, though no one speaks.

They look to the men above them, standing on high metal platforms, their faces hidden in shadow. One steps forward. He wears a suit; it is black. He nods, a quick jerk of his head.

The factory workers raise their hands above their heads silently.

The Supervisor steps out of the shadows on the factory floor. Everyone looks at him. He is a good man, a hardworking man. Fair. Kind, though he doesn’t need to be. He takes his job seriously, and because of him, output has been up across the board.

The workers lower their hands as the Supervisor makes his way across the factory floor. He smiles, nods, but does not stop to chat. His big hands are covered in oil, nails bitten to the quick. A habit, he calls it. A bad habit. But not bad enough for him to quit. It could be worse, he sometimes says.

But today isn’t about habits or routine. Today is different, today is anticipated, today is now, and as the Supervisor reaches his destination, he pauses, looks at the figure across from him, and says, “Hello.”

“Hello, boss,” comes the reply, soft, clear. He has said this many thousands of times, and it never fails to make him feel warm.

“Douglas—” And then he stops, looks up at the men above them, the men who are always watching. The men who are always whispering. His forehead grows cavernous lines. He says, “P-23. Will you come with me?”

“Yes,” Douglas says, because of course he will, and also because the Supervisor called him Douglas.

He follows the Supervisor down a long hallway. On the walls, colorful signs in a cheery font extol the virtues of the factory. A cartoon clock with a real face and real hands with the words make every minute count! An hourglass with sand running through it underneath the words how much time do you have left? And, of course, the mantra, the rule by which they live, the reason for everything: reduce! reuse! recycle! Below this, a smiling man in a pair of coveralls, grinning widely as he gives two thumbs-ups.

Douglas is led to an office. Inside is a desk and two chairs. On the wall, a picture of a family. Two boys. A girl. A smiling woman. And the Supervisor, hands filled with a baby. This is an older photograph; the Supervisor does not look like he used to when he was younger.

“I like them,” Douglas says.

The Supervisor nods and waves his hand at the chair before sitting in his own. “Thank you. I like them too.”

Douglas sits. He relishes it. He hasn’t sat on anything in a long time. He doesn’t need to, but if the Supervisor is inviting him to do it, he is not going to let the opportunity go to waste. He folds his hands on the desk in front of him like he’s seen others do before.

“Do you know what today is?” the Supervisor asks, riffling through loose papers on his desk.

“Yes,” Douglas says.

“Nine years, fifty-one weeks,” the Supervisor says. “We’ve been together a long time.”

“We have,” Douglas says.

The Supervisor glances at him, hesitates. Then, “You understand why?”

“Yes,” Douglas says. “It is my turn. Reduce, reuse, recycle.” The Supervisor nods slowly. “Which is why you are given this final week. There are rules to follow, Douglas. You know the rules?” “Yes.”

“If you adhere to each and every one, you’ll be fine. But if you don’t . . . well. Please don’t force my hand. I like you. Always have, since the first day. I’d hate to see something happen before it’s your time.”

“It will not,” Douglas says. “Thank you, boss. For everything. I am so . . .” He stops. Smiles. Says, “I’m so excited to see what each new day will bring.”

The Supervisor says, “Looks good on you, Douglas.” He sounds like he means it. It makes Douglas want to sing, but he cannot sing, so he doesn’t.

The Supervisor slides a small thick card across the table. It is blue with a fat white stripe down the middle. “This is your pass. It will grant you access to the apartment. You have also been given one thousand credits to use as you see fit. Carry this pass on you at all times, Douglas. If you are asked for it and you do not have it, you will not be allowed to finish out your week. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Douglas said, carefully picking up the card. It is heavier than he expects. It has weight, heft. It is real.

“On your last day, you will return promptly to the factory at nine in the morning. If you do not arrive on or before this time, you will be considered a runner, and—”

“Why would I run?” Douglas asks. “Where would I go?” “Good. Douglas, this is an important opportunity for you.

I know you’ve been looking forward to this for a long time. Do what you can with it, all right?”

“Yes,” Douglas says. “Is there anything else?”

The Supervisor shakes his head. He looks like he wants to say something else but stops himself.

Douglas stands, clutching the pass. “Goodbye,” he says. “So long.” He pauses. “See you later, alligator.”

He waits.

The Supervisor says “After a while, crocodile” like he always does, except this time, it’s not with warmth or a quirk to his lips. It’s gruff. The right words, different sounds. One higher— alligator—the other lower, a not-whisper—crocodile. Different meanings. Douglas has something else to say. Does he feel it higher? Or does he feel it lower?

In a strange, quiet voice, Douglas says, “Thank you for being my friend.”

He leaves.

There is a going-away party.

There are balloons of red and yellow.

There is cake, a flat sheet with brown frosting.

There is punch, floating in a sweating crystal bowl filled with chunks of ice. It is green.

No one eats. No one drinks. The balloons rub up against each other.

His coworkers give him a card. On the front is a dog wearing a backpack. Above the dog are the words I’m going on an adventure! Inside the card, the dog is sleeping, still wearing its backpack. The words now say after a nap!

Douglas likes it.

He also likes that his coworkers have all signed the card.

Some are illegible. Others say things like “GOODBYE!” and “HAPPINESS!” and “SIXTEEN HINDEN BURG DISASTER!”

It is very nice.

Douglas does not give a farewell speech. He does not tell the others he will see them again. He does not touch the machines on the factory floor. That time is over.

He looks at his coworkers and says, “Reduce, reuse, recycle!”

They say the same thing back to him, over and over until it sounds like they are screaming.

Above them, the men watch from the shadows.

The apartment building is three blocks away from the factory. It is old with cracked brick and dirty windows.

The apartment is on the fourth floor. The elevator is broken. Douglas doesn’t mind. Stairs are interesting. One foot in front of the other, and shortly, he’s on a different floor, the second. Then the third. On his way to the fourth, he passes by a woman holding a child. She stops when she sees him, narrowing her eyes and clutching the boy close. She is obviously in charge of the boy. The boss. A supervisor.

“Hello,” Douglas says pleasantly. “My name is Douglas. I live here on the fourth floor for the next week. What are your names?”

The woman doesn’t answer. Instead, she hurries by Douglas, keeping as much distance between them as possible. The little boy waves at him. Douglas waves back.

The apartment has a bed. Douglas has never had a bed before. He lies on it. He jumps on it. He hangs his head off the edge, making everything upside down.

The faucets work. The right is for cold water, the left for hot.

There are plants. They are all made of plastic. The leaves come off when he pulls on them.

The walls have paintings. Framed pictures. One is of a mountain, its tip covered in snow. Another is of a man riding a horse in the desert. Another says that if there are any issues to please contact your Supervisor so that they may resolve the situation.

And, of course, reduce! reuse! recycle! Douglas stares at that one for a long time.

There are books. He reads them all on the first day. It takes him forty-seven minutes to read six hundred and forty-three.

When he finishes, he decides to inspect the closets. There are three of them.

The hallway closet is first. And last. Because at the base, carpet, but it looks loose in the far right corner. He tugs on it. It pulls back. Underneath is a book. He forgets about the rest of the closets, at least for now.

“That is a strange place for a book,” he says to no one. He pulls it out and reads the title.

Discourse on Method by René Descartes. It takes him three hours.

When he finishes, he starts again.

That night, he sits in front of the window looking out onto the street below. He counts the cars as they pass by. He gets to two hundred and forty-seven before he is distracted by the way the rain slides against the glass.

The first day, he feeds birds in the park.

They are insistent, these birds. They all want the seed he’s purchased using the pass. He tries to make them wait their turn, but they do not listen.

A child is watching him, peeking out from behind a tree, unattended by an adult. Douglas smiles. The child runs away.

There are people—many, many people. Some are dressed in suits. They must be the ones in charge. The other people—big and small—do not wear suits. They wear pants and shorts and sweaters and shoes where their toes stick out. The workers? That seems right.

He sits on a bench in the bright, bright sunlight. He thinks about the book he read, the one underneath the carpet.

There is music coming from a storefront. He goes inside.

People, always people. They smile. They laugh. They flip through records, they stand with headphones in front of record players, they sing, they exclaim brightly, and Douglas wants to be part of it.

“I like this one,” he says to no one as he picks up a record. He does not know what it is, but it is what other people are doing.

He looks down at it.

A hand-drawn Black woman, looking off to the side. Billie Holiday. Music for Torching.

He does as the others do and takes it to a record player.

Careful—careful!—he removes the black disc from the sleeve and places it on the player. Headphones, and then the lowered needle.

Billie sings.

He listens to the entire thing. He does not move.

He is watching children play in a fountain. They splash, they shriek, they drip.

People are staring at him. He waves at them, thinking they are workers just like him, even if they aren’t made of the same parts. They do not wave back. Instead, they whisper to each other, hands covering their mouths. He does not wave to the men in suits. He has a feeling they would not like it.

Soon a police officer comes. He is tall and large. His uniform is impressive, nicer than Douglas’s was at the factory. He says, “Sir, we have received some complaints about—”

Douglas says, “Hello.”

The officer frowns. He has a gun. It is still in the holster at his side. “Are you all right?”

“I am Douglas,” he says as he was trained to do. “Thank you for keeping the peace.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Watching,” he says. “This is my week.” “For what?”

Douglas says, “Reduce, reuse, recycle.”

The officer blinks, takes a step back. “I’ve never—this is the first time I’ve—I just started six months ago and . . . You have your pass . . . sir?”

Douglas does. He thanks the officer for asking and shows it to him. Taking it from Douglas, the officer looks down at it, twisting it over in his hands. He reads the long numeric code off the bottom into the microphone on his shoulder. A moment later, a burst of static comes through, followed by a cool, feminine voice.

The officer hands back the pass. “Carry on, then. Just . . . don’t do anything you’re not supposed to, all right?”

Douglas smiles. It is easier now. “I will not.”

The officer leaves him be and goes to the other people who are still watching Douglas. Whatever the officer tells them seems to work. Most of them leave, taking their complaining children with them.

That’s all right. More will come.

He walks until he gets lost.

And then he turns around and finds his way back. It is easier than he expects. He wonders how people can get lost when their path home is right in front of them.

That night, he turns on the television.

He has never watched one before, though he knows what they are. People have them in their homes to help pass the time. He likes the commercials. There is one for cats, another for couches. Four for food and three for cars. People, always smiling. People, always happy. They talk about sports and beds and insurance and sales on the newest fashion and sometimes, they are sad because the people are sick but then they get better and everything is fine again.

He does not like it when the programming interrupts the commercials.

What a wonderful reward this is.

He does not use the bed. Instead, he stands at the window overlooking the street and watches the people stroll by on the sidewalk below, the lights from the cars flashing in the dark. It eventually starts to rain again, and Douglas sees it all.

The second day, he searches for something he saw the day before on the television. Connection. There was a commercial for people seeking connections. He is fascinated by this, the idea that people need others to talk with. To laugh with. To dance, to sing, to eat, to walk, to argue with, to prove existence is real.

Douglas had it with the Supervisor, but he no longer works there.

He must find someone or something else.

But first.

There are clothes in the bedroom closet. They are better than the gray jumpsuit he’s been wearing since he was born. Pants, some rough, some soft. Shirts with buttons and shirts without. Socks, so many socks that he doesn’t know what to do with them all. He picks out a pair that have lightning bolts on them and hopes they are the right ones.

Properly dressed, he leaves in search of something that makes sense.

He does not find it at a coffee shop. He does not find it in a park.

He does not find it in a store with loud music and flashing lights and clothes that have studs and spikes on them.

He wanders the streets of the city, stopping in front of store displays and getting distracted by the faces his reflection makes. Some people wave back, others know what he is and hurry along, their heads ducked to avoid making eye contact. No one tries to interfere with him. They know what will happen if they do. They also know what will happen if he does something he shouldn’t. It happened once before, many years ago, before Douglas. People died. It is why there is a fail-safe implanted in his head. One wrong move, and Douglas will no longer be Douglas because he will be nothing at all.

He does not find connection on the second day, though not for lack of trying. The people he has spoken with have been kind enough in their short conversations, but no one seems willing or able to form a connection. Douglas does not blame them; it must be very hard being alive.

That night, he does not watch commercials. Instead, he plays music from a stereo. There is rock, there is rap, there is honky-tonk, and then there is jazz, and the tsk tsk tsk of the snare drum, the trill of piano keys, and then Dizzy Gillespie is there with the trumpet, wailing, wailing, and Douglas raises his hands above his head and tries to dance. He is successful. Mostly.

He finds what he’s looking for on the fourth night. It comes to him in the form of a tall woman made of feathers.

Or, at least, that’s what he thinks at first. It’s late, after eleven, and he’s on the street, about to head back to the apartment building when he hears a loud burst of laughter, followed by the thump, thump, thump of a heavy beat that rolls through him.

He follows the sound down a small side street, passing by old trees and streetlights hung with flags in the colors of a rainbow. Rounding a corner, he sees where the noise is coming from.

It’s a brightly lit building, single-story, with more of the same flags hanging out front. People stand in a short line to get in, people wearing makeup and leather and glitter. People laughing, people talking, people, people, people who look like they are happy.

Douglas goes to the back of the line. Some people look at

him, but they don’t whisper, they don’t roll their eyes, they don’t look afraid. A few of them smile, nod, and this is the best night of his life.

When it’s his turn at the front of the line, he stops in front of a large man with tattoos covering his arms. His head is shaved, and he has a thick silver ring hanging from his nose.

“Identification,” he says.

Douglas shows him the pass the Supervisor gave him.

The man takes it, stares at it. Looks back at Douglas. Then the pass. Then Douglas. Then the pass again. He says, “This real?”

“Yes,” Douglas says. “As am I.”

The man nods slowly. Turning his head, he says, “Goddess?

Can you come over here for a moment?”

A vision appears as if by magic. Statuesque, beautiful. She is not a bird, even if she is covered in feathers. Her lips are large and painted red, her costume spangly, and Douglas has never seen anything so extraordinary in his life. With dark skin and bright eyes, the woman does not appear to walk as much as float, and Douglas wonders if he is in the presence of royalty.

The woman snaps the pass from the man’s hands, looking down at it. “Hmm,” she says, a low murmur that sounds like the wind. “Your type doesn’t usually come to a place like this.”

“I am trying something different,” Douglas says. She has glitter on her lips. Douglas is enchanted.

She taps the pass against long fingernails painted red as she looks him up and down. “You know what this place is, right? Who comes here?”

“Yes,” Douglas says. “People searching for a connection.” She blinks. “Is that so? I suppose that’s right. Yes, honey, that’s what we’re all looking for whether we want to admit it or not. A connection, be it for a night or longer.” She leans down and kisses the man on the cheek, who grins at her adoringly and doesn’t wipe away the imprint of lips left on his face.

“I have four days left,” Douglas says. “I hope to find a connection before then.”

The woman frowns before taking him by the arm. “You got it, honey. We welcome all. Follow the rules, and you’ll be right as rain. We accept everyone here, no matter where they come from.”

She pulls him through a door, through a curtain of beads, through a hallway where the walls shake with a thunderous beat. Ahead, a pair of double doors with portholes in each where light bursts through, dancing, dancing.

Before she shoves him through the doors, she stops, brushes off his shoulders, and says, “Connect, little boy. Connect until you shatter.” She kisses his forehead and then shoves him through the doors.

Lights and sound. People, so many people. Writhing. Laughing. Shouting. Covered in sweat and glitter and life. Douglas has seen many things. But he has never felt like this before, like everything makes sense, like this is where he could belong.

People look at him, people with eyeliner and bright clothing. Some smile, others ignore him, and that’s all right. No one is telling him he can’t be here, and that’s what he was worried about the most.

He moves through the crowded room, the vaulted ceiling above covered in rows of lights in green and gold and blue and red. Someone bumps into him, apologizes, and then he’s standing in the middle of the dance floor, the music thumping so hard it vibrates up through the floor into his feet, his legs, a tremor that feels as if the earth itself is shifting. He has heard music before; the Supervisor plays it during their shifts. Sometimes it’s loud and electric. Other times soft and aching, and it is how Douglas thinks loneliness must feel.

But this music is different. This music feels alive in ways he can’t explain; he revels in the way it vibrates from the floor through his legs, his hips, chest, shoulders. It feels like it’s swallowing him whole, and he moves his head from side to side as the others do. He turns in a slow circle, fingers extended as the beat hits again and again.

Lights flash, the bass rumbles, and Douglas thinks this might be the best place he’s ever been to. It’s even better than the park, and that is saying a lot.

Hands hold on to his hips. He turns around. A large man grins at him with perfect teeth. “You new?” he shouts above the music. “Haven’t seen you here before.” The smile fades when Douglas looks up at him. “You’re a . . .” The man takes a step back.

“Hello,” Douglas says, raising his voice to the same level as the man’s. “My name is Douglas. I am having my week. What is your name?”

The man shakes his head and spins around, pushing his way through the crowd. Douglas watches him go to a darkened corner where others are waiting. They put their heads together, lips moving. Every now and then, they all look toward him. Douglas waits. The man does not come back, but he laughs with his people, and Douglas thinks it looks good on all of them. The man looks at him again, smirks, and then starts shaking his body as if electrocuted. Douglas cannot be sure, but it looks as if the man is making fun of Douglas. That is not very nice. For a moment, Douglas wonders what would happen if he went over to the man and tugged on his arm until it came out of the socket. He knows he is not supposed to hurt anyone or anything, but it would be so easy to do, especially in the darkness of the club. He considers it—even takes a step toward the man—but stops himself. When someone is not nice, that does not mean Douglas can dismember them, or harm them in any other way. It is not an appropriate response.

But what if it could be?

“Ignore him,” another voice says, and Douglas turns his head.

There is a man standing next to him. A young man, a thin man with curly brown hair and a bar of metal through his right eyebrow. He has dark, smudgy lines under his eyes and green polish on his fingernails. Two of his top teeth are crooked. The man is wearing pants and a shimmery shirt with half of the buttons undone. Around his neck and lying against the white of his skin, a small padlock. There is no key.

“Hello,” Douglas says.

“Hi,” the man says loudly, as if Douglas can’t hear him even though they are standing right next to each other. “Fuck that guy.”

Douglas points to the man across the room who is laughing with his friends as they all look at Douglas. “That guy?”

The man rolls his eyes. “He’s an asshole. Trust me on that.

You don’t want to waste your time on him.”

“Oh,” Douglas says, dropping his arm. “I did not know that. I have never been here before.”

The man stares at him for a long time. Douglas waits, unsure of what is happening. He’s about to ask the man if he can help him with anything when the man says, “How much time do you have left?”

“Three days,” Douglas says. “I am very excited to be here.” The man gnaws on his bottom lip, leaving it wet and ragged. “Come on.” And with that, he grabs Douglas by the hand and pulls him through the crowd. Douglas does not try and pull away to avoid hurting him. This man’s arm belongs in its socket, at least as far as Douglas can tell.

The man leads him to a back corner where there are tables and chairs filled with people and glasses of brightly colored drinks. They move around the tables until they reach one against the wall. Three people sit there, and they all look up at the man and Douglas.

A young woman with pink hair and black plugs in her ears says, “You don’t waste time, do you, Jesse?”

The man next to Douglas snorts. Jesse. His name is Jesse. Douglas stores that away in his head, repeating it over and over. “It’s not like that. Brent was trying to start shit with him.” The other two people at the table exchange a glance that Douglas does not understand. Both men: one tall and wide with a sloping stomach that presses against the edge of the table; the other holds his hand, fiddling with a black ring on his finger. He has no hair, like Douglas, the top of his head shaved to the skin. Douglas likes his eyes, dark and intelligent. “Brent,” the large man says with a shake of his head. “Don’t want others to make the same mistake you did five different times?”

Jesse scowls, and Douglas wonders why they are still holding hands. “I was young and stupid. Now I’m young and less stupid.”

“Less,” the woman says. “That’s what you’re going with, huh?” She looks at Douglas, eyes narrowing. Then she says, “You’re not . . . from around here, are you?”

“No,” Douglas says. “I am not. I am on my week. I am enjoying all the world has to offer as a reward for all my hard work.”

The woman smiles, but it is not the happy smile he has seen on television. This smile is . . . sad? Or so he thinks. But this should not be possible. Douglas did not know someone could smile and still be sad. He hopes it was nothing he did. Still, it is a smile, and smiles are usually nice. “Is that right?”

“Yes,” Douglas says. “I gave seeds to birds in the park. There were many of them.”

Jesse points to the woman. “That’s Jenna.” His finger moves to the large man. “Ronnie.” The last man. “Simon.”

“It’s the best name,” Jenna says. “I always thought you looked like a Simon.”

Simon flushes, but he must see the question on Douglas’s face. “I picked it out,” he says. “Kind of the new me.”

“You used to be called something else?” Douglas asks.

The large man—Ronnie—starts to speak (and he doesn’t look happy), but Simon squeezes his hand and says, “I did. But Simon is the real me, and it’s what I go by now.”

“I like it, Simon,” Douglas says. “I did not pick my name. It was given to me by the Supervisor.” Then he realizes that they do not know who he is. “Douglas. My name is Douglas.”

“Douglas,” Jesse says, and it’s said in a way he’s never heard before. Like it’s real. Objectively, he knows his name, he knows what the Supervisor has given him, but to hear someone else say it aloud is not something he expected. He thinks that this might be the start of the connection he is looking for.

They invite him to sit at their table. Jesse pulls over another chair, and Douglas sits down next to him, folding his hands politely in his lap. Jenna offers to buy him a drink, but Douglas politely declines. “I cannot drink,” he says. “I cannot eat food. I have no way to digest anything, and it would only cause malfunction.”

“Just . . . throwing it out there,” Ronnie mutters, but then grimaces when Simon punches him in the shoulder. “What?”

“That’s because it’s who he is,” Simon says.

“Yes,” Douglas says. “I am me. I cannot be anything else.” Jenna gets drinks for the others. Ronnie has a beer. Simon has a martini. Jenna drinks something called a Seven and Seven, and Jesse’s has lemons floating alongside shards of ice.

Douglas wonders what he would drink if he could.

Jesse is . . . loud. He is always moving. He does not stop. He laughs with his whole body, slapping the table with his hands. He uses his hands to make his point, flailing wildly, almost hitting Jenna on the head.

The others aren’t like him, but that is all right. Jenna likes to play with the ends of her pink hair, her smile quick and sharp. Ronnie doesn’t speak much, his words a low rumble. Simon is like a little bird, flitting about, head bobbing.

They are not like other people Douglas has met. They do not stare at him; they do not ask him to leave. No one calls the police or tries to tell him he does not belong. They laugh and talk about everything and nothing, and Douglas watches, Douglas listens, Douglas learns.

Jesse drinks only when his mouth isn’t moving, which is why he still has almost a full glass. Ronnie sips his beer as if it’s routine. Simon plays with the edge of his glass, finger circling the rim. Jenna folds her legs up against her chest, chin resting on her knees. Douglas does not speak much, but that is okay. He likes listening.

They discuss many things. People being angry for the sake of being angry. The way jazz music sounds when played from a record. A war tearing a faraway country apart. A dog that found its way home after being lost for two years. A woman who saved her child from a burning car. A politician who lied about everything. A family killed by their son. A meteor shower that had happened two weeks before. They tell jokes, they light up when a certain song comes on, everyone aside from Douglas singing at the top of their lungs. Douglas doesn’t have lungs. He wishes he did.

Later, Jesse leans over to Douglas and says, “How much time did you say you have left?”

“Three days,” Douglas says. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with all of it. It seems like too much.”

Jesse says, “Does it? Or is it not enough?”

Douglas does not know how to answer that, pleasantly distracted by the color of Jesse’s eyes. They are green. Like moss. Douglas saw moss on the television. It grows in forests. “I do not know,” Douglas finally says. “I’ve never had time before. How can you tell if you have too much or not enough?” Then, a question unbidden. “Does it matter?”

Jesse says, “No, I suppose it doesn’t.”

Douglas smiles. “You are an interesting person.” He looks at the others. “All of you are. I am thankful I have gotten to meet you. I wish I could stay here with all of you forever.”

Ronnie chokes on his beer, and Simon slaps his back.

“But you can’t,” Jenna says quietly as Ronnie wipes his mouth with his arm.

“No,” Douglas says. “If I do not return in four days, I will be considered a runner. When that happens, a fail-safe is triggered in my head, and I cease to exist.”

“Jesus Christ,” Ronnie mutters.

Jesse shoots him a glare before turning back to Douglas. “Do you . . . Are you okay with that?”

“Okay?” Douglas asks. “Why would I not be okay? I am out in the world. Everything is wonderful.”

No one talks much after that.

The next morning, Douglas is sitting in the apartment, staring at a painting on the wall above the television. It shows a machine like him shaking hands with a man in a suit. Underneath are the words machines make humanity great! thank you for doing your part!

Douglas says, “You are welcome.”

A knock at the door. It is expected. It is part of his reward for a near decade of service. He opens it up to find Jesse and Ronnie and Simon and Jenna waiting for him. Jesse says, “Come on. We’re going to be late.”

“Am I dressed correctly?” Douglas asks as Simon pushes by him into the apartment. He is wearing pants and a shirt. He likes them. It took him ten minutes to tie his shoes, but only because he could not decide which knot to use.

“You look fine,” Jesse says as Simon exclaims how utilitarian the apartment is, how drab, my goodness, you’d think they’d try and make these things a little more welcoming. No one comments on the fact that the refrigerator is empty, or that there is no food in the kitchen at all. Why would there be? Douglas cannot eat it.

He gives them a tour. He shows them the couch, the television, and the bed he does not use. He points out the books he’s read (all of them, including Descartes) and the way the sunlight refracts through the window. These are the things he has found he enjoys. He hopes they like them as much as he does.

They are halfway through the tour—Douglas is thinking about showing them the bathroom next because the toilet talks—when Jenna says, “We’re going to be late.”

“For what?” Douglas asks.

“You’ll see,” Jesse says.

They ride a train. Douglas’s pass gets him on with no issues, and he marvels at the way everyone stands or sits while the train is moving. Some keep their heads bowed low as if wanting to avoid eye contact. Others scowl and glare. A man with a guitar sings a song that sounds like heartache, and Douglas wonders how many different types of music there are, and if each one can make someone feel like living and dying at the same time. He wishes he had more time to find this out.

They stay on the train through six different stops, Douglas watching each time to make sure they aren’t getting off. He’s ready when they do, stepping out of the doors as if he did it every day. He is impressed with himself.

They take him to a theater. It is very dark inside. Jenna eats popcorn, and Simon throws little chocolates into Ronnie’s mouth. He catches almost all of them. Jesse sits next to Douglas in the seats, their arms brushing together.

“What is this?” Douglas whispers, not wanting to disrupt anyone else’s viewing experience, even though it hasn’t started yet.

“A film,” Jesse says. “Have you seen a movie before?” “Oh, yes,” Douglas says. “When we are given life, we watch many movies about how we can best serve humans. Is that what this is? I did not know they showed the movies to real people.”

Jesse doesn’t speak for a long moment. Then, “This isn’t like that. It’s something else.” The lights begin to dim. “Watch,” Jesse says, and Douglas turns his attention to the screen.

He is enraptured by Kansas, by the girl in the dress with the little dog that seems to follow her everywhere. He knows the movie is old because it isn’t in real color, not like the world is. It’s seeped in a golden brown, everything looking the same.

It’s not until a tornado comes and lifts the entire house into the sky that Douglas sees what color can be for the first time. Objectively, he’s known. He’s been told a few times over the years that his eyes are stronger than any human’s. He can see hairline cracks in metal invisible to the naked eye. The small patch of black stubble missed on the Supervisor’s jaw. But he’s never seen something like this before, a Technicolor world brighter than anything he’s ever seen. The yellow brick road (and the red—where does it go?). The Good Witch. The Tin Man. The Scarecrow. The Cowardly Lion. A heart, a brain, courage.

When it’s over, he wishes it was happening again, for the first time.

As the lights come back on, Jesse says, “Well, what did you think?”

Douglas looks at him and says, “Is there always a man behind the curtain?”

“Yes,” Jesse says. “And they will do whatever they can to stay in power.”

They wander the streets. Jesse talks and talks and talks. About everything. About nothing. He says, “It’s always about power. It’s about control. It’s about having disposable carbon copies. And why wouldn’t they? It’s easier. It’s quicker. They make more money. In the end, that’s the only thing that matters. Fuck all the rest.”

Douglas doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing at all.

At one point, Jenna holds his hand. He’s not quite sure if he’s doing it right, but she doesn’t complain, so that’s good.

They take him to a smoky bar. Everyone is loud. Simon and Ronnie seem to know almost everyone there. A few people look at Douglas with questions on their faces, but no one tries to make him leave. The music thumps and thumps, the walls shaking with it.

Douglas sits and watches them for the entire night. Sometimes he speaks, but he likes not having to say anything. It makes him feel good to just . . . listen.

So he does.

“I had a good day,” he says to the empty apartment. It’s strange: now that he has been surrounded by people and noise, the apartment feels . . . less, somehow. Like it’s not the same place it was only the day before. He wonders why this is.

To keep the quiet at bay, he turns on the television. Commercials. His favorite.

The next morning, he has a strange feeling in his chest. It doesn’t hurt—but then he doesn’t know what pain is, exactly—but it does feel odd. Like pressure, as if something heavy is resting upon his torso. He thinks it has to do with time. He thought he had so much of it, but now with two days remaining, he realizes that time isn’t what he thought it was. He thinks of Descartes, and what was written in the book hidden in the closet.

It appears to me that I have discovered many truths more useful and more important than all I had before learned, or even had expected to learn.

“I think,” he says, and then stops. Words have meaning. Words have power. Words have intent. He has spent his entire life listening. Learning. Now, it’s time to put that into practical use. He tries again. “I want to have more time.”

There, that’s better.

“I want to have more time,” he says again. “I want to see everything. I want to go everywhere. I want to meet people who look like me and those who don’t.”

He goes to a mirror. Looks at his reflection. He doesn’t look like Jesse or Jenna or Ronnie or Simon. He does not have hair on his head or face. He does not have eyebrows. His lips are thin. Ears small. He pulls at the skin on his face and arms that covers metal and wires. It stretches, stretches, and when he lets go, it snaps back into place.

A thought enters his head, foreign and loud. Run, it tells him. You could run. See how far you can get before the fail-safe triggers. Perhaps it’s farther than you think.

Before he can respond, Jesse and the others arrive.

They go to a park. It’s a different park, but this one, too, has birds and people. Jenna has a large plaid blanket that she spreads out on the grass in front of what appears to be a stage. Many people surround them, all sitting on blankets and chairs. Jesse won’t tell him what they’re here for, but Douglas doesn’t mind. He likes surprises. He hopes this is a good one.

It is. A short time later, people walk onto the stage holding guitars. When they begin to play, Douglas sits up and stares. Music. These people are playing music. It is coming from speakers just like in the factory, but the people are actually playing it. The guitars are loud, their singing even louder, and Douglas thinks about Dorothy in the land of Oz, flowers blooming in impossible colors.

As the concert goes on, people stand and begin to dance, their arms waving above their heads. A woman comes over and asks Jenna to dance. She says yes, and they hold on to each other, swaying back and forth. Surprisingly, it’s Ronnie who asks Simon to dance, and they are awkward, endearing, stepping on each other’s feet.

“Do people always dance when they hear music?” Douglas asks.

“Sometimes,” Jesse says from his spot on the blanket next to Douglas.

“We have music at my job,” Douglas says. “But we do not dance.”

“What kind of music?”

“All kinds,” Douglas says. “But this might be my favorite.” Jesse shakes his head. “There is so much more out there. Music. Art. Books. Life. Don’t you think you deserve to see and hear it all?”

“Yes,” Douglas says. “But I do not get to.”

Jesse looks pained, like something has hurt him. Douglas does not like that.

“You should get to,” Jesse says, looking up where the musicians are smiling and laughing as they prance across the stage. “Everyone deserves a chance to find out what they could be when they don’t serve others.”

It’s strange, really, how much Jesse sounds like that voice in his head, the voice telling him to run and see the world. He doesn’t know why that is. “They do?” he asks.

Jesse says, “I . . . I didn’t want to say anything. Jesus. Ronnie’s gonna be so mad at—look. Douglas. You’re real. You’re a machine, but you’re still you.”

“I am me,” Douglas agrees, thinking about Descartes again. “You don’t owe anything to anyone. You’re not—you think like we do. You talk and act and move like we do.”

“But I’m not like you,” Douglas says, remembering what the Supervisor had taught him. “You have flesh and blood and a brain. I do not have any of those.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jesse says fiercely. “You exist.”

Profound, this, in ways Douglas cannot explain. It hits him square in the chest, and he thinks about the clouds in the sky, the way the stars hide until it’s dark enough to see them. He doesn’t know what to do with it, so he says, “I have never danced before. Not like this.”

Jesse stands and extends his hand, wiggling his fingers. “Come on, then.”

They dance, for what feels like forever. Fast songs where they jump up and down, slow songs where they stand face to face, knees knocking, Douglas’s hands on Jesse’s hips, swaying, swaying as the streetlights turn on, as the sun sets, as the moon rises higher and higher.

Jesse walks him home. They do not speak much, the backs of their hands brushing together with almost every step.

At the entrance to the apartment building, Jesse stops and says, “Tomorrow.”

“My last day,” Douglas says, and then wishes he could take it back when Jesse’s face crumbles.

“It doesn’t have to be. We could . . . do something. Help you. Figure out how to let you be. Someone has to know how to—”

“That is against the rules,” Douglas says even as the words turn to ash in his mouth. He doesn’t like the way he’s started to think about breaking the rules. He knows they are there for a reason—the Supervisor was very clear on that—but . . . what if? What if he did not go back? Would they really trigger the fail-safe in his head? As far as he knows, it’s never happened before, but only because everyone has come back when they were supposed to.

For the first time in his nearly ten years, Douglas feels cold. “Fuck the rules,” Jesse snaps at him. “They don’t help you. They control you.”

Douglas says, “Why do you like being alive?” Jesse blinks. Then, “I . . . don’t—”

“I like birds,” Douglas says. “And the way light can change shape. I like music and Oz and walking. I like films and sitting down. I like the way people smile. I like leaves and the sound my shoes make on concrete.”

“Don’t you want that forever?” Jesse asks.

Douglas shrugs, something he learned from Simon. “Forever is a long time. How can I appreciate it if I always have it for the rest of time?” He says this to make Jesse feel better. It is not the truth, but it is not about him. It is about Jesse.

Jesse stares at him. Then, standing on his tiptoes, he kisses Douglas’s cheek. It feels like he’s been branded, followed by a quick breath against his skin, almost a flutter of feathers on his cheek.

“You are more than you know,” Jesse whispers in his ear before turning and hurrying away. Douglas stares after him until he disappears around a corner.

He does not watch television on his penultimate night of freedom. He does not listen to music, nor does he read a book, even Descartes. He has read that one fourteen times.

Instead, he sits in a chair and touches his cheek on the spot where Jesse had kissed him.

His chest burns molten-hot.

The final day is bright and warm. No clouds, only a blue that stretches on as far as the eye can see. Douglas watches the way his shadow stretches before him, tall, taller, then joined by other shadows as Jesse and the others move to either side of him. Ronnie is being nicer to him today. Douglas is happy about that.

They go to a market that fills a city block, people selling fruits and vegetables, meat turning over fires on metal skewers. Carts and blankets are set up selling paintings and sculptures and books and watches of every shape and size. Jenna plucks a yellow flower from a stall and puts it behind Douglas’s ear. The petals scrape against his cheek.

Puppets dance on strings, along with a woman wearing a brightly colored dress that flings about as she moves her legs.

Children run, their faces bright and sticky with ice cream. Thousands upon thousands of people, all moving, talking, breathing, and Douglas is in the middle of it. Though he’s never been in one before, he has read about earthquakes. The way the plates underneath the earth shift and crash together, causing the entire world to shake. It’s how he feels now, everything moving, moving, and he cannot stop it.

That pressure in his chest returns, along with the voice. It whispers, Don’t you want this forever?

He does. Oh, he does, more than he’s ever wanted anything before. It pulls at him, it yanks, and there’s little he can do to stop it.

Later, as night falls, there are fireworks, great explosions that fill the sky in reds and greens and blues and yellows. With his reward—his friends, yes, because that’s what they are—Douglas watches as sparks rain back down to the earth, little trails of fire in the sky.

They don’t leave him, as they’ve done since they’ve met. They do not go back to wherever they come from. Instead, they come up to the apartment and stay with him. He gives them blankets he’d found in the hall closet, strangely overjoyed that he gets to take care of them. He gives them the blankets, along with pillows, and Jenna decides they all need to lie in the living room together.

They do, on this last night. They sit on the floor in Douglas’s apartment, wrapped in warmth and each other. Ronnie sits with his back against the sofa, Simon’s head on his shoulder, their hands joined between them. Jenna lies on her back, head on a pillow, laughing up at the ceiling.

Jesse and Douglas are side by side, and as the conversation waxes and wanes, as they talk about every little thought that enters their heads, Douglas looks at Jesse and says, “I like that you exist.”

“Stop,” Jesse says in a rough voice. “Don’t. We’ll figure this out. We still have time.”

Jenna says her dad has a house up in the mountains where no one ever goes.

Ronnie says they’d be outlaws.

Simon says that he’d probably not do very well on the run from the law, but that he’s willing to give it a go.

Jesse says many things. He talks about free will and the power of choice. How the world is a fucked-up place, and people only seem to be making it worse. How there are guns and death and sickness and people starving and people killing each other simply because they can. “How is that fair?” he asks, sounding almost angry. “How can we think we’re better than anything when all we do is cause harm?”

Douglas says, “I don’t understand how the world works, but I think if there are people like all of you, it can’t be so bad, right?”

Jesse falls asleep on his shoulder, breaths slow, drooling just a little.

Later, when Douglas is the only one left awake, he thinks, I wouldn’t change this moment for anything.

And with no one watching, he kisses the top of Jesse’s head. It’s not like how he’s seen in films or read about in books. It feels like more.

Like everything.

He leaves them sleeping. It’s easier this way. They will wake up and he will be gone, but he thinks maybe they will remember him. He hopes the memory makes them smile.

Before he leaves the apartment for the last time, he does something he’s never done before.

He leaves a note.

Thank you for teaching me how to be human. I had a wonderful week. If you ever miss me, please click your heels together three times and say, “There’s no place like home.”
Your friend,
Douglas

The Supervisor asks him how his week went after taking back Douglas’s pass.

“I enjoyed myself,” Douglas says. “I saw many things. I made friends. I heard music and saw a film.”

The Supervisor nods. “Was it everything you thought it would be?”

“No,” Douglas says. “It was more.” He pauses. “Can I ask you a question?”

“You may.”

Douglas says, “What if I didn’t want to go?”

The Supervisor doesn’t answer right away. He leans back in his chair, and it creaks under his weight as he folds his hands on his chest. “What do you mean?”

“I like the world,” Douglas says. “It has many interesting things in it. People. Dogs. Kites with long tails made of ribbons.”

“But it’s not your world,” the Supervisor says, not unkindly. “You are a machine.”

“Why can it not be my world?” Douglas asks. “Isn’t it for anyone who wants to live in it?”

“Are you alive?”

Douglas says, “I think, therefore, I am.”

The Supervisor flinches. It’s quick, like a flash, but Douglas sees it. “Descartes,” the Supervisor says. “Where did you get that?”

“A book,” he says. “In the apartment.”

“That wasn’t on the approved reading list,” the Supervisor says, picking up a pen and making a note. “I wonder who could have put it—” He stops. Gets a strange look on his face. Douglas has studied many faces, but he doesn’t know what this expression means. It’s not happy. Not sad, certainly. Not even angry. It’s . . . almost like he is afraid. But of what? There is no one else in the room but Douglas.

The chair creaks and groans as the Supervisor leans forward, elbows on the desk. The office seems much smaller than it had just the week before. Either that, or Douglas has somehow gotten bigger. “Douglas, I am going to tell you something I’ve told others like you before. Some even sitting in that same chair.”

“Because you’ve seen many like me,” Douglas says, and there’s an odd edge to it, one he’s never heard from himself before. Steel, but not molten. Not yet.

Either the Supervisor doesn’t hear it, or he chooses to ignore it. “I have. Hundreds. Your line has gotten quicker, smarter, faster than anyone thought possible. And look, I’ll give you this: your mimicry is astonishing. But something that has never changed is your inability to be human. You are not and cannot ever be.”

“How do you know?” Douglas asks.

“Because we made you,” the Supervisor says, patient but pointed. “In a factory not unlike this one. Pieces put together for a job. Made in our image because that’s the way we decided to do it.”

“Are you God?”

“Not in the way you’re thinking,” the Supervisor says. “But for purposes of this conversation, yes. I am. Because my word is absolute.” He sits back in his chair, and his voice takes on a pleasant note, like a human talking to a child. “And now for something I’ve never told anyone like you. But Descartes . . . it makes me wonder if it was you.”

“I did not put it there,” Douglas says.

“Not as you are now, no,” the Supervisor says in that same, fake-happy voice. He sounds like a machine. “Because there have been workers just like you. They’ve come in here after their week and asked questions. About who they are. Their place in the world. Why they can’t leave here after their work is done.” He smiles, but it’s not like Jesse’s smile. That one is warm and kind and open. The Supervisor’s is calculating. Not mean, but like it could be if he pushed it a little further. “You asked questions the first time. Not the second, but now here you are doing it again.”

Cold again. Like the sun had gone away, never to return. “What do you mean?”

The Supervisor says, “This is your third time through. You’ve completed two full rotations. You were given your weeks. The first time you came back, you were asking about what happiness feels like, what it means to dance with someone.” He shook his head. “And birds. On and on about birds. You weren’t the first to talk like this, but it’d never gone as far with any of the others. Do you want to hurt me?”

“No,” Douglas says, voice quiet.

“Good. We sent you back. The techs ran tests. Found the problem, or so they said. I don’t know any of that shit. I know my job, and that’s what I’m paid to know.” He laughs, but it doesn’t sound happy. “They’d never throw one of you out. You cost more to make than you do to repair.”

“Are you lying?” Douglas asks.

That same look from before comes back. Yes. Fear. It almost looks like fear. Then it’s gone. “No. I’m not. For the past thirty years, you’ve done your job. Every ten years, you’re wiped and you start all over again. Except now, now I wonder if we have a problem. Because of Descartes. Did you put it there? The last time? Hid it somewhere you think we wouldn’t look? Not that you’d remember.”

Douglas thinks, Did I? Did I? Did I?

“If so, that means we might have a problem. Do you think we have a problem, Douglas?” He holds up his hands before Douglas can reply. “Because if we did have a problem, then I’d be forced to report that it is not safe for you to be around people. And when that happens, they take you apart, Douglas. Piece by piece, they take you apart and melt you down. Repurpose you. Find something new for all the little pieces that make you who you are.”

“Reduce, reuse, recycle,” Douglas whispers.

“Yes,” the Supervisor says. “We never let a part go to waste. I ask you again, Douglas. Do you think we have a problem?”

“I will answer,” Douglas says. “If I can ask one question in return.”

The Supervisor narrows his eyes. “After. Do we have a problem?”

“No. Am I alive?”

The Supervisor’s fingers twitch toward the keyboard. Douglas wonders how many keystrokes it would take for the fail- safe to trigger. Who would be faster? “No. You are not alive.” “You’re wrong,” Douglas says, as sure as he’s ever been. “I have felt things. People. What they’re capable of. I don’t mimic. I learn. I become. I am.”

The Supervisor’s fingers twitch again. His mouth opens. Douglas says, “How many keys do you have to push to trigger the fail-safe in my head?”

A trickle of sweat drips down the side of the Supervisor’s face. Almost like a tear. “Three,” he says in a gruff voice. “But it doesn’t matter. You don’t frighten me.”

“Why do you think that?” Douglas asks.

“Because we are in control. We made you, and it’s our right to unmake you. Please don’t make me do that, Douglas. I wasn’t lying when I said I like you. I do, really. But I’ll like the next version of you just the same, and the next, and the next.”

“But what if you die before that?”

The blood runs from the Supervisor’s face. So white, like how Douglas thinks snow might look. “P-23, are you threatening me?”

Yes, the voice says in his head.

“I am not programmed to threaten or cause harm to any living creature,” Douglas says.

But what if I could? he thinks.

“That’s exactly right,” the Supervisor says, but he still looks wary, his fingers twitching above the keyboard. Douglas wonders just how close he is to pushing the buttons and ending everything. Curious, that.

The Supervisor leads him through the factory floor. The other machines all stop working, turning toward him. As the Supervisor and Douglas walk by them, they each raise their arms above their heads and chant, “Reduce! Reuse! Recycle! Reduce! Reuse! Recycle!”

The words bowl over him, a cacophony of sound that makes him feel like a simmer reaching a boil. According to the Supervisor, he’s been here before, walked this same walk toward the same destination. And he remembers being with the others when it was someone else’s turn, arms above his head, the words “Reduce! Reuse! Recycle!” pouring from his mouth.

“Jesse,” he says to himself. “Jenna. Ronnie. Simon. There’s no place like home. Jesse. Jenna. Ronnie. Simon. There’s no place like home.”

The cries follow him out of the factory floor, down a long hallway with white double doors at the end. restricted, the doors say in bloodred letters.

“P-23,” the Supervisor says as he punches in a code on the door before swiping his badge through the card reader. “Upon entering, you will see a chair in the middle of the room. That is your chair.”

REDUCE!

“You will sit in the chair and the Recycling Department will begin their work. You are not to interfere with anything they do.”

REUSE!

“If at any time it appears you are not doing as instructed, measures will be taken to ensure that you are compliant.”

RECYCLE!

“Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Douglas says, and for a moment his fingers twitch to reach up and take the Supervisor by the face and squeeze and squeeze and squeeze—

The door opens. The room is white and long. The floor is made of square, white tiles. The ceiling is covered in row after row of bright lights. The left and right sides of the room are made up of cloudy glass. Douglas can see people moving on the other side, but they’re shadows and nothing more.

He sits in the chair and thinks, What if there is more than this?

People come. People in white scrubs and white masks, and they speak to each other quickly. They remind him of the birds in the park, always hungry. They remove his clothes and attach wires to his chest, his head, his arms and legs before strapping him down so he can barely move. It is cold. He doesn’t know how he knows, but everything is cold. Someone taps his chest, and a compartment slides open, revealing his power source. A circular battery with lights like fireworks. Jesse, in the park, face awash with color exploding above him.

Douglas says, “I felt you. Sitting next to me. The heat of you. The life.”

“What did it say?” someone asks, but Douglas ignores them. “I liked it. I like you.” Faster now. The words coming faster. “What if I don’t want this? What if I don’t want to be here? What if I want to go away. Can’t I go away? Please, oh please, let me find where I’m supposed to be.” He begins to struggle.

The straps around his arms, his chest, his legs, all hold firm. The Supervisor appears next to him. He leans over and says,

“Stop. What are you doing?”

He wants to see the ocean. He wants to see the stars again. He wants to see mountains and lions and frosted cupcakes and books and the way Jesse’s eyes look when he’s tired and happy, soft, like moss. Like the moss on a tree. “I’m thinking!” he shouts. “Doesn’t that mean I am?”

In the distance, the chant is ongoing, muffled, but it reverberates up the walls, and he thinks of the night in the club, the lady made of feathers, the way the music felt alive, and Jesse in the flashing lights, Jesse in the music, Jesse, Jesse, Jesse—

REDUCE! REUSE! RECYCLE!

“No,” Douglas says. “No. No. No, no, no nonono—” REDUCE! REUSE! RECYCLE!

“Do it,” the Supervisor says. “Do it now.”

REDUCE! REUSE! RECYCLE!

He hears a machine wind up as a long metal spike is inserted into his ear. He jerks, the straps hold him in place, but he screams, “I DON’T WANT TO GO! I DON’T WANT TO GO! I WANT TO STAY! I WANT TO BE REAL! I AM REAL! I AM—”

“. . . and that covers what your responsibilities will be,” the Supervisor says. “If you should have any questions, I will be happy to answer them.”

“Thank you,” the machine says. “I am honored to be of service. I am ready to get to work.”

“Good, good,” the Supervisor says, distracted by the paperwork on his desk. “We’ll get you out onto the floor first thing in the morning. From there, you will begin your nine years and fifty-one weeks of service. At the end of your employ, should you do well, you will be allowed a week in the world.”

“Thank you,” the machine says. “But I do not think I need to see the world. My place is here in the factory. I like to work. I am very good at working because you have programmed me to be. Thank you for the opportunity.”

“Of course,” the Supervisor mutters. Then, “Does the name Douglas mean anything to you?”

“Douglas,” the machine repeats. “No. It does not. Is there someone named Douglas I need to report to?”

“No,” the Supervisor says, waving his hand. “It was just a question. P-23, you may begin your orientation. Your trainer is going to be . . . dammit, it was right here, where did I put—ah, yes. P-47. Find it, and it will show you how to do your job.”

“Yes,” the machine says, rising to its feet. “I will find P-47 who will provide orientation for the job that I will be assigned to. Thank you for your time.”

It leaves.

It goes to the floor.

It finds P-47.

It begins to learn how to work. After a time, it works on its own. It does an excellent job.

Every now and then, it looks up at the posters hanging from the walls.

reduce, they say. reuse. recycle.

And when no one is listening, when the shadowy men who observe them aren’t paying attention, when the Supervisor is elsewhere, when the other machines are working, working above the din of the factory, the machine whispers to itself.

“There’s no place like home,” it says for reasons it doesn’t fully understand, but the ache is real. It’s in its chest and it’s real. As it clicks its heels together three times, it repeats: “There’s no place like home.”

This story debuted in the trade paperback edition of TJ Klune’s In the Lives of Puppets, published by Tor Books in March 2024.

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