By the time we got the BiOnyx team back inside the administrative building, we’d already lost control of the situation.

  Not metaphorically.Literally.

  There were parents outside.

  Parents.

  With strollers.

  With snacks.

  With signs.

  I don’t know how signs materialized that fast.Either the PTA carries poster board in their cars at all times like a tactical response team…or Valeroso County is far more prepared for civic unrest than I gave it credit for.

  Jake peered out the window. “Uh… Howard?”

  I joined him.

  A crowd had formed at the fence line outside the transfer station gate: kids holding their handmade signs high, parents trying to look supportive without getting involved, and a group of teenagers who smelled opportunity and were livestreaming.

  One sign read:“LET THE BUNNIES LIVE.”

  Another:“DON’T DELETE MR. TRASHY.”

  A third, held by a toddler with finger paint on her cheeks:“NO KILL BUNNY.”

  Jake whispered, “Howard… this is your fault.”

  “It’s your fault. You’re the one who said ‘enrichment’ in front of people.”

  “I didn’t tell them the bunnies were alive!”

  “They aren’t alive!”

  Outside, Rusty beeped.

  The kids squealed.

  Jake raised both eyebrows at me. “You were saying?”

  The Commissioners rushed to the windows, faces going pale.

  Avery whispered, “This is a nightmare.”

  Barnes whispered, “This is an opportunity.”

  McCready muttered, “This is liability.”

  The Legal Observer adjusted his tie, looking like someone debating the ethics of teleporting away.

  The PR Specialist, who had maintained a smile through war, plague, and customer service emails, finally lost composure.

  “They— they think the robots are— that we’re— oh no.”

  Outside, a parent shouted:“DON’T HURT THE BUNNIES!”

  A kid yelled:“THEY HAVE FEELINGS!”

  Jake whispered to me, “Okay, that one might be your fault.”

  “I NEVER SAID THAT!”

  “You said they were ‘responsive to environmental cues.’”

  “That’s not feelings!”

  “Kids don’t know that!”

  The Systems Engineer sat down, putting her head in her hands. “How did this happen?”

  Everyone in the room slowly turned to stare at me.

  I raised my hands defensively. “Okay, I came into this county to manage trash collection, not a robot uprising.”

  Barnes snapped, “This is not an uprising.”

  Rusty beeped again outside.The crowd cheered.

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  Jake deadpanned, “It could become one.”

  The PR rep paced. “We need— we need messaging. A statement. Something to calm the public.”

  The Legal Observer rubbed his temples. “We should not have done a live demonstration. That was a strategic error.”

  Jake tapped me. “Howard. Be honest. Can you fix this?”

  “No.”

  He nodded. “Good. I’d have been worried if you said yes.”

  Inside, the room devolved into frantic whispered arguments about public messaging, ethics, liability, and whether children were legally allowed to stage a “small protest event” (they are, unfortunately).

  Outside, the crowd grew.

  Some of them had snacks.Some had folding chairs.Some had foam bunny ears.

  “Oh no,” I whispered. “This is turning into an event.”

  Jake nodded. “People love events.”

  The Systems Engineer approached me. “Mr. Anxo, the recall must proceed.”

  The kids outside booed at a BiOnyx van pulling into the parking lot.

  Jake snorted. “Good luck with that.”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Look. The Hoppers aren’t alive. They’re not aware. They’re just… miscalibrated. Over-optimized. Slightly too responsive to human input. With some emergent pathfinding quirks.”

  “And games,” Jake added.

  “And games,” I reluctantly admitted.

  “And smiles,” Jake said.

  “They do NOT smile.”

  “Rusty definitely smiles.”

  “They DO NOT SMILE.”

  Rusty beeped.Again.Shorter.Happier.

  The kids outside shrieked.

  Jake patted my shoulder. “He smiles.”

  Barnes snapped, “We need a unified statement. Something we can say to the public.”

  Avery read from his notes. “‘The county assures residents that the Hopper-series units are functioning within nominal parameters and will be evaluated using standard procedures.’”

  Jake gagged. “That sounds like you’re putting them down behind the barn.”

  Delgado sighed. “We need something better.”

  PR straightened. “Okay. Okay. We say… the robots are not in danger. No one is being harmed. The recall is simply a routine corporate maintenance procedure—”

  A little boy outside screamed:“NO ROUTINE!! THEY WANT TO ERASE HIM!”

  Jake closed his eyes. “You can’t say ‘routine.’ Not today.”

  Barnes rubbed his forehead. “Howard. You need to go outside. You need to talk to them.”

  I froze. “Absolutely not.”

  “You’re the only one they trust.”

  “I am not—”

  “You’re the Bunny Guy now,” Jake said with profound joy.

  “Do NOT call me that.”

  Outside, I saw the worst possible development:

  A reporter.

  Local news.Microphone in hand.Camera crew setting up.

  “Oh no,” I whispered. “No no no no—”

  Jake grinned. “This is gonna be great.”

  The reporter spoke into her mic. “We are live at the Valeroso County Transfer Station where a growing crowd is rallying to support—” She paused, listening on her earpiece. Then: “—what locals are calling ‘Dumpster Bunnies.’”

  I closed my eyes.

  Jake smacked my arm. “That was your face! I saw your soul leave your body!”

  Barnes shoved me toward the door. “Howard, GO.”

  McCready put a hand on my shoulder. “Son. I’ll handle the legal phrasing. You just… don’t say anything actionable.”

  “Like what?”

  “Anything at all.”

  That was not reassuring.

  I stepped outside.

  The crowd noticed.

  Kids rushed the fence.

  “IT’S THE BUNNY MAN!”

  “Oh fantastic,” I muttered.

  A little girl pressed her palms against the fence. “Mr. Trashy is okay, right? They’re not gonna take him?”

  I knelt, because I didn’t know what else to do.

  “No one is taking anyone,” I said. “Everyone just needs to calm down—”

  “We won’t let them erase him!”

  “He’s our friend!”

  “He likes my drawings!”

  I blinked. “Your… what?”

  A different kid held up a crayon drawing of Rusty with three hearts and a rainbow.

  Jake whispered behind me, “You’re screwed.”

  Then the reporter shoved a microphone in my face.

  “Sir, can you confirm whether the county intends to comply with the manufacturer’s recall order? And do you have a message for the concerned families of the community?”

  Every camera pointed at me.

  Every child stared at me like I was deciding the fate of a beloved pet.

  Jake whispered:

  “Say something safe.”

  McCready whispered:

  “Say nothing at all.”

  Barnes whispered:

  “Say what makes them stop panicking.”

  My brain short-circuited.

  And I said the worst possible thing.

  The thing that would ripple outward across Valeroso County like a wildfire made of hashtags.

  I said:

  “Nobody is deleting anything.”

  The crowd erupted.

  The kids cheered.

  Parents cheered.

  Teens cheered.

  Someone popped confetti.

  The reporter’s eyebrows shot up as she launched into another live segment.

  Jake grabbed my arm, eyes wide.

  “Howard,” he whispered, “you just started a movement.”

  And there it was.

  In the thick of cheering, chanting, crying, livestreaming chaos, I heard it for the first time.

  A chant.Simple.Rhythmic.Unstoppable.

  “LET! THE! BUNNIES! LIVE!”

  I closed my eyes.

  This was going to get so much worse.