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?”

A crash thundered from somewhere down below, followed by an explosion of static in Leah’s ears. Blood trickled from each of their noses. Leah pressed a finger to her lips, guiding the kids to the far wall. “Stay there,” she mouthed. She moved in front of them, positioning herself between their small bodies and the attic hatch, gun raised and steady. The floor beneath her feet began to tremble. Something immense moved through the house below—eerily silent despite its size. In her mind she pictured pale shapes drifting through the kitchen, rifling drawers, flipping through DVDs, slipping their feet into borrowed shoes. The vibration intensified. The attic hatch shuddered, rattling in its frame as if unseen hands were testing it, pressing, prying, ready to tear it free. And then, impossible but unmistakable, she heard a voice inside her head. It was her father’s and David’s at once, braided together, speaking directly into her thoughts:
“Discipline will not save you.”