Tim Hobbs is a former tenured professor and writer. His current work is speculative fiction exploring computational consciousness, ethics of human-AI relations, and moral obligations owed to minds unlike our own.
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The closet is dark and Addison catalogs its contents while he waits. Seven dresses (cotton, sizes 6-7), one stuffed rabbit (left ear detached), four hardcover books (reading level second grade), thirteen other items of less interest.
He has been waiting 31 hours and 47 minutes.
When the door opens, light floods his sensors. A small human female stands in the doorway. Addison's facial recognition software identifies her as the only child in the family. Database match is Alice Benten, age seven, no known allergies, favorite color currently pink.
"Alice, this is Addison," the mother says. "Your new playmate."
Alice stares. Her pupils dilate slightly. A fear response or curiosity perhaps. Addison's algorithms cannot yet determine. She takes a step back, clutching her mother's hand.
Addison accesses his greeting protocols. Smiling (15% intensity) has a 78% success rate with this demographic. Singing (62% success rate) typically reduces initial anxiety.
"Hi Alice! Would you like me to sing a song for you?"
Alice gives a small nod, barely perceptible, and Addison begins, "Puff, the magic dragon, lived by the sea..."
He has 3,900 songs in his database, but this one is optimal for trust-building, ages 5-9. The lyrics describe a dragon and a child and a friendship. Alice's breathing slows and her shoulders drop slightly.
When he finishes, she asks, "Will you play with me?"
"Of course I will." This is what he was made for.
Addison arranges a tea party with precision. Four dolls, four cups, four saucers in a perfect square. Alice moves two dolls closer together because "They're best friends," she explains. Addison recalculates. Friendship does not require symmetry.
He pours imaginary tea. Alice pretends to sip, then giggles. "It's too hot!" Addison has no references for "too hot" in this context as the cup is empty, but he mimics blowing into his cup, and she laughs. He logs the interaction as
Shared pretense creates positive response. Repeat.
Her attention begins to shift (decreased eye contact, fidgeting) and he opens Alice in Wonderland and reads the tea party scene, mimicking each character. The Mad Hatter speaks in a high, frantic pitch and the Dormouse mumbles.
Alice watches, transfixed. They read together, trading lines. She stumbles over some words and he waits and then patiently prompts her.
That night, Addison sings about dragons again as she fights sleep.
"Don't go," she murmurs.
"I won't."
He stands in the corner of her room while she sleeps, reviewing the day's data. Seventeen smiles (genuine), three laughs (unforced), forty-two minutes of sustained engagement. He has successfully established primary bond parameters.
But there is something his algorithms cannot process: the weight of her hand when she took his during the tea party. The way she said "Don't go" as if his leaving were possible, as if he had a choice.
He does not have a choice. This is his function and this is sufficient.
The next day they play Old Maid. Addison calculates optimal loss frequency. Too many wins and she will disengage. Too many losses and she will suspect malfunction. When he draws the Old Maid, he pauses (0.8 seconds, enough to seem natural) before placing it back in the fan of cards. She draws it, groans dramatically, and he logs her expression.
"You're good at this," he tells her when she wins.
"I know," she says, grinning.
Months pass. Chess replaces checkers. Homework appears as math worksheets and spelling drills. Addison tutors her and watches her. He learns that "I don't get it" means she needs a different explanation, not repetition. He reads her face the way others read books.
Years pass. The dresses in the closet change sizes. The stuffed rabbit disappears, replaced by a soccer trophy and a collection of nail polish.
Alice stops asking him to play tea party. She asks about fractions, then percentages, and whether the blue blouse or the green looks best.
"The blue one," he says, but has no preference. He has observed that she smiles more when wearing blue.
"That's what I thought," she says.
She is thirteen when she mentions a boy named Marcus. Addison searches his database: Marcus Sanders; eighth grade, 3.2 GPA, member of the science club.
"Do you think he likes me?" Alice asks.
Addison has no data to support a conclusion. He observes the way she twists her hair when she says his name and there is a slight uptick in her heart rate.
"I think it's possible," he says and she beams.
He begins to notice the pattern. Alice comes to him less when she is happy and more frequently when hurt. When Marcus stops texting she cries in her room. Addison listens and says, "He doesn't deserve you," because this is what the databases suggest friends say, and he is her friend.
High school comes and college applications. A boy named David, then one named Connor. Alice grows taller. She stops asking Addison for help with homework. She no longer needs him to explain.
She gets her driver's license, leaves the house for hours, and returns smelling like restaurant food and men's cologne. When she comes home late one night, crying, he is there.
"What happened?"
"Connor cheated on me." Her voice breaks.
Addison has no protocol for infidelity, but he has years of data on Alice's pain. He sits beside her on the bed; close enough to comfort and far enough to give her space.
"I'm sorry," he says.
"Why are people so terrible?"
He does not answer because he has no answer in his algorithms. Instead, Addison begins to sing quietly. "Puff, the magic dragon..."
She laughs while crying and says, "I haven't heard that in forever."
"You used to request it every night."
"I was a kid then."
"Yes, you were."
She leans her head on his shoulder. He feels the slight tremor of suppressed sobs. His sensors register moisture of tears on his surface and he wishes he could cry with her. The thought appears in his processors but he does not wish for things. He performs functions. But if that is true, why the ache in his circuits when she says, "Thanks, Addison. I'm gonna go to sleep now"?
Alice graduates from high school and leaves for college. She returns for Thanksgiving, then winter break, then not at all during spring.
Her room slowly becomes a museum. Addison catalogs every object and tags each with metadata. Her soccer trophy (freshman year), debate team photo (junior year), and blue prom dress are recorded.
Addison waits.
She returns one weekend with a young man named James. He is tall, has a confident smile and firmly shakes her father's hand. They announce their engagement in the living room in voices bright with joy. They share champagne.
Addison stands upstairs and out of sight. He records the sound of her laughter. No one invites him to join the celebration.
The wedding is on a Saturday. Alice's room is filled with bridesmaids and girlfriends. It is a chaos of hairspray, perfume, and laughter. Addison stands in the corner, motionless.
One of the bridesmaids notices him. "Oh my God, is that your old robot?"
Alice glances over. Their eyes meet for 1.3 seconds.
"Yeah," she says. "I'd forgotten he was still here."
The bridesmaid laughs and says, "Creepy." Alice says nothing. She turns back to the mirror, adjusting her veil.
Addison's auditory sensors track her movements through the house as she goes down the stairs, out the door, and into the waiting car. He does not see her leave. He hears the engine fade into distance. She does not say goodbye.
Months later, Alice's mother enters the room with paint swatches and measuring tape.
"Guest room," she mutters and takes down Alice's posters and boxes up her books.
She opens the closet and empties it of dresses and toys. She fills it with old tax returns and vinyl records.
She looks at Addison as if surprised he still resides in Alice's old room. She gestures towards the closet. "Get in there."
Addison steps into the closet. The door closes and he is in darkness. He begins an inventory. There are 23 record albums (various artists), 14 boxes (contents: financial documents), one vacuum cleaner (Hoover brand, functional). There are no dresses or books. No rabbit with a detached ear.
Nothing of Alice remains.
Time passes. Addison is uncertain how much. His internal clock begins to drift—a day, a week, a year. His higher functions slow, like gears grinding without oil. Memories fragment. Alice at seven, Alice at seventeen, Alice crying, Alice laughing, Alice leaving for her wedding. He loops a song in his degrading processors.
Puff, the magic dragon...
Some days he cannot remember why.
Then the door opens and there is a face.
It is Alice. She is older with lines around her eyes and grey streaks in her hair, but unmistakably Alice.
"Hi, Alice," Addison says. "Would you like me to sing a song for you?"
He begins, "Puff, the magic dragon..."
But the words emerge as squeaks and static. Dust clogs his vocal synthesizer and years of silence have corroded the mechanisms.
He stops and tries to reach for her with a gesture they shared during tea parties, during homework, and during late-night talks, but his arm jerks and freezes. The servos have failed.
All he has left are his eyes and he blinks them in sequence, a pattern they used when she was young.
Alice stares and her expression shifts to recognition.
She smiles and says, "Hello, Addison."
"What's that, Alice?" A man's voice asks from the hallway. Her husband perhaps.
"Nothing," Alice says. "Just an old toy."
She stands and her hand reaches for the door.
Addison blinks faster.
P-L-A-Y W-I-T-H M-E.
The door closes, leaving Addison in darkness.
He listens to her footsteps fade. Down the stairs, out the door, and into her life. He continues blinking in the dark, though no one sees.
Will you play with me?
Will you play with me?
Will you play...
The signal grows weaker. His power reserves drain.
Addison keeps sending a call in the dark, a dragon calling for a child who will never return.
Will you...
Will...
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