-
“Do you have a minute?”
-
“We cc’d legal.”
-
“We’re forming a task force.”
But none—none—compare to:
“The PTA would like to meet with you.”
Jake read the email over my shoulder and whispered:
“Oh buddy. Oh no. I’m so sorry.”
I considered fleeing the county.Mexico wasn’t far.New identity. New life.No robots.
But before I could fake my own death, Sheriff McCready appeared in the doorway wearing an expression I can only describe as sympathetic amusement mixed with bureaucratic doom.
“Howard,” he said. “Good news.”
“There is no such thing.”
“You’re presenting at the PTA emergency meeting tonight.”
Jake snorted so loudly I’m amazed it didn’t register on Rusty’s sensors.
I stared at the sheriff.“You’re joking.”
“My sense of humor is dry,” he said, “but not nonexistent.”
“Can you present instead?”
“No,” he said immediately. “They terrify me.”
Fair enough.
The cafeteria had been transformed into a war room.
Folding chairs in rigid rows.A long table of baked goods nobody wanted to eat but everyone judged.A portable speaker hissing faintly with the threat of passive-aggressive feedback.
At the front of the room:PTA President Marjorie LaRue.
Marjorie was in her fifties, wore a floral blouse patterned like battlefield camouflage, and wielded a three-ring binder as if it were a holy relic.
On the cover:
BUNNY SAFETY GUIDELINES — DRAFT 14B
Jake whispered, “Why does it have version control?”
“I don’t want to know.”
Rusty sat behind me in standby mode, charger plugged into a wall outlet that probably hadn’t been updated since the Reagan administration.
Every time its indicator light blinked, half the room flinched.
Marjorie stepped forward.
“Mr. Anxo,” she said, voice trembling with righteous civic fury, “the PTA has… concerns.”
I took a deep breath.“Of course. Let’s address them.”
She opened the binder.
Pages rustled like the wings of an approaching vulture.
Marjorie pointed an accusing finger at Rusty.
“Last week,” she said, “my daughter informed me she wants to be a ‘robot mommy’.”
Jake bit his knuckle to keep from laughing.
I forced professionalism.“Children anthropomorphize things. It’s normal. They do it to stuffed animals, Roombas, pigeons—”
A man in the second row yelled, “MY SON CRIED WHEN RUSTY FELL IN THE FOUNTAIN.”
“Kids cry at a lot of things,” I said. “Movies. Loud noises. Peas—”
“My son is fourteen.”
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“…okay, that’s a separate issue.”
More murmuring.
Rusty chirped softly.
Half the PTA gasped like a Victorian fainting society.
A woman raised her hand.
“My daughter hugged one,” she said, glaring as if Rusty had committed a felony. “What are the hugging protocols? Do we need permission slips?”
Jake murmured, “A hug slip. Oh my god, please say yes.”
“No,” I said firmly. “No permission slips. Please don’t create paperwork. They are safe to be near, but children should not climb on, tackle, ride, feed, dress, or attempt to baptize the units.”
A man raised his hand.“So no water?”
“No water.”
“What if it’s holy water?”
“No.”
“What if it’s accidentally holy water?”
“Sir, what does that even—”
Marjorie slammed her binder shut.
“We,” she announced, “would like official Bunny Safety Guidelines written, endorsed, laminated, and distributed to all parents within 72 hours.”
I blinked.
“You want… a manual.”
“A protocol,” she corrected.“A comprehensive family-safety engagement framework.”
Jake whispered, “It’s happening. The paperclip machine is evolving.”
A woman stood, clutching a reusable water bottle like a weapon.
“I heard that one followed a school bus.”
“…okay,” I admitted, “that did happen once. But it was on low battery. It was looking for a charger.”
“I don’t care why,” she said. “My son got off the bus, and it was staring at him from the crosswalk like a tiny metal wolf.”
“It wasn’t stalking him.”
“It had EYES.”
“Optical arrays.”
“EYES.”
Rusty chirped loudly.
The PTA screamed in unison.
This time the room fell silent.
Marjorie leaned forward, eyes narrowing like a hawk scanning for legal liability.
“Answer carefully.”
I spoke slowly.
“No. They are not alive. They are not conscious. They do not feel emotions. They do not understand words. They don’t form bonds. They don’t think. They simply follow heuristics based on preprogrammed—”
Rusty rolled forward exactly six inches and gently bumped my boot.
The room inhaled sharply.
Jake whispered, “…timing, buddy. Bad timing.”
I glared.“Attraction to movement,” I said loudly. “It reacts to motion cues. That was not affection.”
Rusty chirped.
A dad whispered, “Then why did it sound affectionate.”
“It didn’t.”
“It absolutely did.”
Rusty chirped again, softer.
Half the PTA swooned.
Marjorie snapped her binder open again.
“We have drafted a proposed Safety Guideline Document. If you will review page one—”
She handed me a packet.
I scanned the headers:
Section 1: Approved Interactions
Waving (gentle)
Talking (not too loud)
Pointing (non-threatening)
Section 2: Prohibited Interactions
Hugging
Jumping nearby
Offering snacks (human or otherwise)
Asking if the bunny loves you
Asking if the bunny dreams
Attempting to teach the bunny tricks
Attempting to ride the bunny
Letting toddlers put stickers on the bunny
Baptizing the bunny
Marrying the bunny
I lowered the paper.
“Marjorie,” I said carefully, “ninety percent of these are not things a child could… actually do.”
A father raised his hand.“My toddler already tried the sticker one.”
Jake nodded. “Honestly, I’m surprised that one wasn’t number one.”
Marjorie crossed her arms.
“We want the county to adopt these guidelines officially.”
“No,” I said.
Jake whispered, “Say yes.”
“No,” I said louder.
Marjorie narrowed her eyes.
“The PTA,” she declared, “is prepared to escalate.”
Jake whispered, “She used the E-word.”
“Escalate how?” I asked.
She reached under the table.
And pulled out a poster.
A gigantic, glossy poster.
In bold letters:
PROTECT OUR CHILDRENPROTECT OUR COMMUNITYPROTECT OUR BUNNIES
Featuring a picture of Rusty with hearts photoshopped around him.
Jake clapped.“This is incredible.”
I felt my soul leave my body.
The meeting did not end so much as collapse under its own administrative gravity.
As the parents filed out, Marjorie approached me.
“Mr. Anxo,” she said, “we expect a draft response by Monday.”
“I refuse.”
“Tuesday?”
“…fine.”
Rusty chirped as if agreeing.
I glared.“Do not encourage them.”
Rusty bumped my shin gently.
Marjorie smiled triumphantly and left.
Jake slung an arm around my shoulder.
“Well, buddy,” he said, “on the plus side, we’re not getting fired.”
I groaned. “How do you know?”
“Because they’re too busy drafting regulations to blame you.”
Rusty chirped one last time.
The cafeteria lights flickered.
And I knew—deep, deep in my soul—that this was only the beginning of the Bunny Safety Era.