Seven missed calls.Four voicemails.One text from Jake that simply read:“DUDE.”
Not reassuring.
I put on coffee, braced myself, and opened the first voicemail.
Commissioner Barnes’s voice exploded out of the speaker.
“Howard! Call me back! The manufacturer is emailing us hourly updates and I don’t understand half these words!”
Click.
The second message was Avery, sounding like he’d aged three years overnight.
“Howard, why does the Hopper’s behavior log include something called a ‘crowd positivity response curve’? Did we approve that? Am I liable for that?”
Click.
The third was Jake.
“Hey buddy. So, you’re gonna want to get online. Like… now.”
Click.
The fourth message was from Sheriff McCready, and somehow that was the worst one.
“Anxo. We need to talk. Soon. Preferably before the Commissioners start googling things unsupervised.”
I sighed. Deeply.
Coffee in hand, I opened my laptop and prepared for whatever nightmare Jake had discovered.
It was trending.
Not nationally — thank every deity that still takes night shifts — but locally. Very locally.
A short clip: Rusty scaling the Ferris wheel, bucket tilted like it had Important Opinions.
Captioned:
“Coyote County: Come for the funnel cake, stay for the dumpster bunnies.”
Below it, about two dozen comments argued whether the term was adorable or defamatory.
I rubbed my face. “No, no, no…”
Jake’s next message came through.
JAKE: did you see itJAKE: DID YOU SEE ITJAKE: we’re going to need merchJAKE: like… yesterday
I typed back.
ME: No merch.JAKE: tiny bunny-shaped keychainsME: NO.JAKE: Howard please let me have this
Before I could reply again, the county issued a new email blast.
MANDATORY BRIEFING — 10:30 AMSUBJECT: Manufacturer visit preparationATTENDEES: All relevant department headsADDITIONAL NOTE: Please refrain from using unofficial terminology (“bunnies,” “trash gremlins,” “feral Roombas,” etc.) during manufacturer interactions.
I drank half my coffee in one swallow, put on a clean shirt, and drove to the county building.
The Commissioners looked like a trio of haunted scarecrows propped up by caffeine and mutual despair.
Stolen story; please report.
Avery gestured at a whiteboard filled with chaotic arrows and bullet points.
“Howard, good, you’re here. Explain this.”
I blinked. “Explain… what?”
Avery pointed at a heading he’d circled six times:
Potential Liability: Public Attachment Behavior
“…Ah,” I said.
Delgado tapped her pen. “We have reports that several children at the fair asked if they could ‘adopt’ the Hopper.”
Barnes added, “And one woman emailed to ask if the county offers programs to ‘sponsor an at-risk trash robot.’”
McCready spoke up from the corner. “Three teenagers tried to name Rusty.”
“That is its name,” I said before I could stop myself.
The room groaned collectively.
Barnes stabbed a finger toward me. “This is exactly the problem! We cannot let the BiOnyx reps think we’re—”He waved his hands like he was shooing away pigeons.“—encouraging… any of this.”
Jake raised a hand. “In fairness, they started it.”
Everyone glared at him.
“…the public,” he clarified. “The public started it. Not us.”
Avery sighed. “Howard, we need you to present a unified, competent, serious front at tomorrow’s meeting. No jokes. No improvising. No… whatever it is you do.”
“What do you do, exactly?” Barnes asked.
“I prevent things like this from happening,” I said.
All three Commissioners stared at me.
“…okay,” I admitted. “I mitigate things like this when they happen anyway.”
Jake nodded enthusiastically. “He’s very good at triaging nonsense.”
“Not helping,” I muttered.
Delgado clicked a remote. A slide appeared:BIONYX CORPORATE TEAM — ARRIVING SUNDAY @ 9:00 AM
Below that:
? Lead Systems Engineer? PR Specialist? Field Technician? Legal Observer (???)
That last one had three question marks next to it. Great.
Avery said, “They want a facility tour. And a behavioral demonstration. And a full review of our safety protocols.”
Barnes added, “And they want to interview you.”
I blinked. “Interview me for what?”
“They didn’t say,” Delgado admitted. “But the email used the phrase ‘operational oversight assessment,’ which sounds… ominous.”
Jake whispered, “Sounds like they think you’re the bunny whisperer.”
“I’m not,” I said.
Everyone again looked at me like I’d just said the least convincing thing in history.
Delgado capped her marker. “Howard, no matter what happens, you cannot let them think we’ve lost control.”
I nodded. “We haven’t lost control.”
Jake coughed. “Not… entirely.”
“Jake—”
“I’m just being accurate!”
McCready cleared his throat. “Also, we need to talk about the other problem.”
Everyone turned to him.
“What other problem?” Avery asked.
McCready held up his county phone and cued a video.
It showed two Hopper units at the transfer station.Rusty and BT4-07.Sitting side by side.Buckets pointed forward.
Someone off-screen tossed a crushed soda can between them.
Both Hoppers snapped forward at the same time, trying to catch it.
The video ended with them bumping into each other, backing up, making unhappy whirring noises, and trying again.
Jake whispered reverently, “They’re learning games.”
I whispered, “Oh no.”
Barnes collapsed into a chair. “You need to fix this.”
Avery gestured helplessly. “Preferably before tomorrow.”
Delgado added, “Try to make them… I don’t know… boring?”
Jake shook his head. “Impossible. They’re adorable little trash-fetching chaos engines. You can’t turn that off.”
Everyone stared at him.
He blinked. “What? I’m right.”
The Commissioners all looked at me.
I stood there, shoulders heavy, coffee cooling in my hand, wondering at which point in life I had taken a wrong turn that led me to explaining Ferris wheel-climbing trash robots to elected officials.
“Okay,” I said finally. “I’ll handle it.”
Avery perked up. “You will?”
“Yes. Tonight. I’ll go down to the transfer station and run diagnostics. Factory resets. Recalibrations. Whatever it takes.”
Barnes exhaled. “Good. Good.”
Jake gave me a sympathetic pat. “Buddy… you know they’re going to act normal right up until the BiOnyx team shows up.”
“Don’t say that.”
“They are.”
“Jake. Please.”
But he was right.
Of course he was right.
Every Hopper ever built has the same instinct:
Perfectly normal until someone important is watching.
I walked out of the briefing room, already planning my evening of preventative damage control.
Jake jogged after me. “So, what’s the plan?”
I sighed. “Jake… we need them to behave.”
He nodded solemnly.
“Which,” I added, “means this will go horribly wrong.”
He nodded even harder. “Absolutely.”