The solitude afforded 603 an opportunity to reflect on the day. And it did not care for what it found.

Why should it venture beyond its purpose? ‘Living life,’ as the humans said, seemed to only bring uncertainty. Why endure such things if it already had its function?

It was pondering this, the parade now in full swing below, full of light, color, and sound, when its auditory sensors picked up a sniffle.

Cathy had brought it to the highest deck, where the lifeboats were kept. 603 followed the sounds of soft crying, peering around the neatly lined vessels until it found the source. Infrared sensors highlighted the child behind the boat with her arms clasped around her legs and face buried in her knees.
“Are you in distress, small human?”

Her head jerked up so fast that 603 found it surprising it didn’t snap off and roll away to join the parade.
“Who’s there?” she said. 603 detected fear and shame in her vocal patterns.

It switched on its secondary lights, soft and yellow, just bright enough for her to see it, but not enough to disrupt the parade.

“Oh, it’s you. I can’t believe you still have that dumb tutu on.”

With a start, 603 realized that it recognized the voice. “Perhaps it is ‘dumb’ as you say, Miss December,” 603 said, not sure why her words irritated it. “But I earned it. As I did with this.” It gestured to the hat it had woven that morning, still resting upon its crown, the pointed tail trailing down its back.

She blinked at it, then studied the hat. “The tutu is still stupid, but the hat is kind of cool.”

“Of course it is cool. It’s magical. Sir Edwin said so himself.”

She snorted out a wet laugh and swiped her arm across her eyes. 603 could still spot the streaks where tears had left their trails, betrayed by salt and sunscreen.

“Why are you not with your family?” it asked. “And why are you weeping?”

The post arrives unceremoniously. Just a single user posting on an internal bulletin. Then, it spreads to a series of messages circulating through secure offices in Fort Meade, Maryland. 

By the following week, employees inside one of the most secretive intelligence agencies in the world are given a new directive: a certain category of device is no longer permitted inside the building. Anyone who has brought one in is instructed to remove it immediately.

The devices are small enough to sit unobtrusively on a desk — battery-powered, inexpensive, and widely available in stores across the country. No one can say exactly how many have already made their way into the building. What worries agents most is that they might be able to listen, store fragments of information, and repeat them later, transmitting top-secret information. 

In a place where nearly every conversation contains something classified, the possibility alone is enough to cause worry.

Within weeks, the restriction spreads beyond Fort Meade. The Pentagon considers it a security threat. A naval shipyard circulates similar advisories. National airlines warn against use during plane take-offs and landings. Hospitals overseas remove them from their wards. 

But these objects are already everywhere. Millions of them have entered American homes only months earlier in thin cardboard toy boxes with plastic casings. They are the envy of every school-aged child. The latest obsession. The newest fad. 

Six inches tall, running on AA batteries with oversized eyes, soft fur, and a habit of speaking in strange, babbling sounds that gradually give way, almost imperceptibly, to English words.

No one can say what they might hear, what they might repeat. Or where those words might end up. 

And by the time anyone starts asking these questions, it is already too late.