Ethan and the Robot Garden

Every afternoon after school, Ethan climbed the last flight of stairs to the rooftop greenhouse above his apartment. The neighbors called it the Robot Garden. Ethan was eight, and he knew every sound it made.

Usually it hummed. Twelve pollinator robots, each no bigger than a bumblebee, zipped from flower to flower on see-through wings. Their soft brush feet carried pollen, so the plants could make seeds and fruit.

But that afternoon, the greenhouse was silent. The little robots sat still on the leaves. The lights on their backs blinked slowly and out of rhythm.

Byte rolled in behind him. Byte was Ethan’s robot friend, round and silver, with a screen for a face and a little gear on his chest. His antenna crackled. “Beep. I hear only fuzz,” said Byte. “Fuzz is not a song.”

Ethan crouched beside a robot resting on a bean leaf. “Something is wrong,” he whispered. Through the glass, the sun was already sliding down behind the buildings.