In the Lives of Puppets

by T.J. Klune

She stopped. Her screen flashed a question mark. “Do you hear that?” He glanced back at her. “Hear what?” “I do not know. It sounds complex. It is coming from the ground house. I need to diagnose it.” She rode by him, flattening the grass on the forest floor, leaves crunching. He watched as she disappeared through the doorway. He followed, cocking his head. He strained to hear what she had. At first, there was nothing. And then— His eyes widened. “No way.” He jogged toward the ground house. Electric lights burned inside, reflecting off glass jars filled with unused parts and unplanted seeds. The floor creaked under Vic’s weight with every step he took. He wound his way through the shelves and piles of books and electronics. A washing machine, though it was broken beyond repair. What his father called an icebox, though it never made any ice. Dad never liked to throw anything away, saying there was a use for everything even if it wasn’t readily apparent. Vic was the same way, which is why it frustrated him that his father didn’t like when they went hunting in the Scrap Yards. The ground house was filled with objects his father had salvaged, even if he hadn’t been back in quite a while. How was it any different when Vic did the same? But he ignored it, all of it, because of the sounds that rolled over him, warm and sweet. Music. It was music. But it wasn’t like the music boxes against the far walls. Those were monophonic, and though enchanting, they did not compare. A voice u...