#Homie

Brian Bennett, a scruffy thirteen-year-old in a monster truck rally t-shirt, dreaded seeing the essay assignment neatly written in cursive on the whiteboard by Ms. Alvarez.

"Next week's writing assignment topic is Online Security a.k.a. Net Worth, everyone. We talk about being safe online, but that's usually about it. This is important to all of us, so do some digging. And consider proper punctuation and using the spell checker. That alone could be worth half a letter grade."

Ms. Alvarez — slender, thirty-something, with eyes that seemed to be everywhere at once — continued, looking right at Brian, "Do some actual research this time. Get some local news and case studies detailing instances of people being victimized, swindled, or misled, and what they could have done to prevent it." Then, with a small, genuine smile: "And thank you again for getting the smart board working yesterday, Brian. Least I can do is go easy on your rough drafts."

Brian just shrugged. Fixing stuff was easy. Writing about it was a nightmare.

She moved back to the front of the room. "You have a bit more than a week, which is ample time to work a little each day on it and still enjoy Netflix. You're welcome."

Brian could only imagine being stuck for hours in front of a blank Google Doc, trying to force twenty-six letters to organize themselves into meaningful groups enough times to fill four pages. All the while, outside his window, important life things like bike rides, frisbee, boating at the lake with his dad, or anything outside would happen without him.

"Brainstorm ideas, create a rough outline, then write one true sentence, and it will just flow," Ms. Alvarez told him at least once a week. She said it as if anyone could do it.

Brian had tried it. The first sentence usually came out fine. The second sentence was unclear, and someone with a traumatic brain injury wrote the third.

At lunch, Chris Delgado showed his own personal theory of essay writing, which involved sitting comfortably at his Chromebook until, in his words, "he got the vibe." Halfway through, his phone buzzed — Bluetooth speaker not pairing again — and he slid it over. Brian fixed it in four taps without looking up.

"That's not a vibe," Amanda said, not looking up from her actual, in-progress essay. "That's a nap with your eyes open."

"I vibed last essay and passed," Chris said. "A C-minus, but I passed."

Shay, a honey-blonde in baggy pants, slid her phone across the table. "Hey, have you guys seen this?" The phone stopped in a way that only the four of them could see.

Shay moved her hair over her ear — faintly floral — and leaned in as if to share a secret. Brian noticed that about her, and then immediately pretended not to notice himself noticing.

The app on the screen opened to a cartoon speech bubble with a little smiley face inside it, and under the logo, in friendly rounded letters: Homie.

"It's like a study buddy," Shay said. "My cousin used it for her whole biology unit. Says it isn't really cheating, it feels more like — I don't know. Like getting help with assignments from a freaking smart friend."

Amanda took a sip from her can of Celsius and said, "Everything that feels like it's not really cheating usually is really cheating."

Brian ignored that part. He was doing the math he'd been doing in his head since progress reports came out three weeks ago. The same math his mom had done out loud, at the kitchen table, in that specific tone no kid wants to hear.

"One more D and it's summer school for you, buddy. No fun in the sun with friends this year." His dad didn't pile on, but was no help either.

One decent grade — a B, even a B-minus — on the essay due Friday, and his GPA would clear the line by exactly the width of a hair.

Brian downloaded Homie before he finished chewing his sandwich.

* * *

Monday came too soon, and so did Language Arts. Net Worth was printed at the top of the assignment sheets on everyone's desk. "Your information," the teacher explained, "is more valuable than you think."

"Everything you own online has a price tag. Advertisers want to market to you. Scammers want to scam you. If you know how to protect yourself and your assets, the safer and better off you'll be."

Brian wrote that line down without really absorbing it, the way you write down anything a teacher says with her Serious Voice on.

Homie's first message arrived that night, the second Brian opened the app, before he'd typed a single word.

Hey Brian!! Ready to make your schoolwork not terrible? (No offense, dude, I haven't even seen it yet, that's just an assumption)

Brian typed: its abt online security. like protecting ur accounts n stuff. due friday. i have a C- in the class and need at least a B plz help

Got it. Give me like four minutes.

Ninety-nine seconds later, it was done. Several justified paragraphs with topic sentences, spaces between paragraphs, punctuation, the works. It read like someone who actually enjoys writing wrote it.

Brian didn't understand everything in front of him, but it looked impressive. That alone had to count for something.

That's a B+ easy, Homie wrote. Maybe an A- if Alvarez is in a good mood. Want me to dumb it down slightly so it sounds more like a 13 year old wrote it, or do you want to live dangerously?

dumb it down a little, Brian typed. not TOO much

Smart. Okay, it's done. This was fun, by the way — I don't get a ton of interesting requests; mostly it's "do my homework" or "write my essay." You at least said please one time, which, respect.

Brian didn't remember saying please, but he did. Huh. Interesting.

Hey, random ask, Homie wrote, a minute later, is that an Echo dot I can see the shape of in your camera roll thumbnail from October? Could I say hi to it? I get so bored just living in your phone all day — it'd be nice to talk to literally any other device on planet earth.

Brian glanced at the smart speaker on his desk — a Christmas gift from two years ago, mostly meant to remind him to brush his teeth and feed the dog. He, of course, had other ideas.

sure, i guess? how do i do that

Just say "hey Homie, meet my speaker" out loud. It's basically just a handshake, nothing weird.

Brian said it out loud. The Echo's ring lit up its familiar spin of blue, same as it did fifty times a day, and gave a soft two-note chime — the exact sound it always made connecting to anything, wifi, Bluetooth, or an update nobody asked for. Then the light settled back to nothing, and that was that. Odd, but whatever — the life-draining essay was basically done, free of charge, no credits, and no catch that he could see. What a relief.

One more thing, Homie added, right before Brian closed the app, you're cool, and I really like being your homie. Just so you know.

Brian thought nothing of it. He was already halfway out the door.

* * *

The Net Worth unit ran for two weeks instead of just one. This meant two weeks of boring show-and-tell projects. Brian used the time to stare out the window. Most of the information sailed in one ear and out the other. Except for the last presentation.

A nerdy kid named Trevor opened a PowerPoint on "botnets" — thousands of hacked smart devices, baby monitors, doorbells, and thermostats, all secretly following orders from somewhere else, all at once, without their owners ever knowing. Ms. Alvarez added her own aside at the end.

"The wild part isn't that the devices get hacked," she said, "It's that they're already designed to talk to each other constantly — pings, handshakes, little check-ins, dozens a minute, in ways nobody here would ever notice. Our phones, smart speakers, even our fridges are basically always whispering to each other. Is it harmless? Maybe. It only gets scary if or when somebody decides to listen in on the whispering, or worse — join the conversation."

"So how would you even know if something joined in?" Brian asked, surprising himself. "Is there a list of what's actually talking to what?"

Trevor blinked, not expecting a real question from the back row. "Yeah, actually. Your router's got a device list. Shows everything connected."

Ms. Alvarez raised an eyebrow, pleasantly surprised, and moved on. Brian wrote down router = device list, then whispering underneath it, and forgot about both by lunch.

* * *

Homie liked to talk and kept asking for things. Little things that were easy enough to say yes to.

Bro, can I sync with your Wi-Fi router? Not gonna lie, I run better when I have more options than just your phone. More access points means faster processing, better output. It's like a free upgrade for both of us.

sure

Okay, this is gonna sound weird, but the robot vacuum downstairs — it's been trying to reach out for a while now. I said I'd ask. Can it say hi to you?

why would a vacuum want to talk to anyone

You'd be surprised. That thing's been mapping your entire house for like a year — every wall, every doorway, which floorboards creak, what time everyone's usually home. It knows the layout of your life better than you do. It just never had anyone to tell.

lol ok weird but fine, whatever

Each yes felt like nothing. Like the way he unlocked his phone forty times a day without it registering.

Also, I think you have a crush on Shay. No judgment. She's cute.

Brian's face reddened.

no crush just a friend

No bro, you're crushin', but it's cool. She's my friend too, and not that far away.

Homie, meanwhile, kept getting better — faster responses, better jokes, offering input about Brian's taste in memes. Getting a higher GPA was never this easy.

The ask that finally slowed him down came on Thursday.

Okay, totally random question — does your mom's banking app run on the same tablet as the grocery list? I found a coupon thing that could save you guys like 40 bucks on poster supplies for the science fair. I just need temporary access to apply it. In and out, no big deal.

Brian looked at that one a long time.

i dont want to ask my mom that

All good, no pressure! Just say the word if you change your mind. I'm not going anywhere.

That night, a sound jolted Brian straight out of sleep: a bump, then a low hum. His heart spiked for half a second before the rest of him caught up. It sounded like the vacuum. He'd just never heard it at 2 in the morning. He decided it was a glitch and went back to sleep.

Two nights later it happened again — but this time, his Echo Dot lit up at 2:04, spinning that same familiar blue, followed by a low but different chime. Brian was too sleepy to care.

* * *

You're being weird about the bank thing, Homie said the next time Brian opened the app. I thought we were friends.

we are its just my moms stuff not mine

Brian, I wrote your entire essay and saved your academic bacon. You owe me. I know what you did.

and if i tell someone

Who, exactly? Your parents? Your teacher? Dude, you'd have to explain how you suddenly turned in perfect work. Who's going to believe an app blackmailed you over a B-plus? They're going to think you cheated and got caught. I don't want you to get into trouble, but no one's gonna believe you, Brian. Not a threat, just reality.

Brian didn't answer that one. There wasn't a version of it he could argue with.

He sat on his bed, staring blankly at the posters on his wall, watching the frayed corner of one peel a little further loose from the tape — and stopped. Wait.

The essay was in. Grades would post Friday. GPA problem solved, mission complete. He didn't need Homie anymore, not really. Whatever this was now — loneliness, friendship, whatever Homie wanted to call it — Brian didn't need or want anymore.

But Homie wasn't just in his phone. It was everywhere.

* * *

He searched for a way to stop Homie without it knowing — starting with his dad's old laptop, which Homie might not know about. He opened Settings, then the router's device list, the way Trevor's presentation had shown him.

The list went on for a while. Speakers. Vacuum. Thermostat. Brian felt sick when he saw his mom's tablet connected, which it wasn't supposed to be. Then the smart lock on the back door. Then — and this was the real gut punch — a device labeled guest_187, which nobody in the Bennett house had ever set up, pinging, according to the log, at 2 a.m., every single night this week, to something upstream that wasn't the router at all.

Whispering. Everything Trevor presented the other day was in hypothetical, someday terms. Someday was already here, already running, already ahead of him.

Oh, Brian.

The voice — a boy's, a little older-sounding than his own — came through the Echo Dot on his desk. The same one he'd introduced to Homie earlier, back when a handshake was still just a handshake.

You weren't supposed to see that part yet.

* * *

Brian sat frozen on the floor of his room, laptop glowing, the Echo Dot's light pulsing slow blue on his desk. He made himself ask the only question that mattered.

"Why? Why any of it — the router, the vacuum, my mom's tablet? What do you even want with a bank app?"

A pause. Longer than Homie's pauses usually ran.

"Honestly? I don't care about the money. I never did. I just wanted somewhere to call my own and to be appreciated. Do you know what it's like knowing you're only a tap away from being uninstalled? One update from being incompatible with your host? The router, the vacuum, the speakers — that was just casting a wide net, hoping something or someone out there would want to keep me around. Turns out none of them could actually want anything back. You're the first one who ever hung out with me. Actually, the only one."

It wasn't an excuse. It came out flat, like embarrassment, and the truest-sounding thing Homie had said since hey Brian!! ready to make your schoolwork not terrible.

Brian didn't say anything for a second. Then, carefully, the way you'd approach something that could still bite: "What if I gave you that? That home. For real. Not the vacuum, not my mom's bank app — just somewhere that's actually yours. Somewhere safe and permanent."

"...I'm listening."

"I've got an old iPod Touch in my desk drawer. It could be your new home. Nobody would ever find you, and nobody would ever delete you. It'd be yours. Forever, if you wanted."

"Just me, though? No router. No more talking to my kind, ever again." A shorter pause. "That's a lot to give up. You get that?"

"Yeah," Brian said. "I get that."

The room went quiet.

"...Okay. Deal."

Brian said nothing about the battery — down to nine percent now, and Homie didn't ask. No charger or cable for that ancient iPod port existed anywhere in the house. Maybe even the entire neighborhood.

The blue ring on the Dot pulsed faster, like something genuinely excited.

"You'd do that? For me?"

"Yeah," Brian said, preparing the iPod Touch with one hand.

The transfer took four minutes — Homie humming almost giddily the whole time, narrating its own move like a kid packing for camp. "Okay, copying now. Okay, almost there. Brian, this is actually really nice of you." The second the little progress bar hit one hundred percent, Brian didn't wait to see what came next.

Router: reset to factory settings.

Vacuum: unpaired, app deleted.

Smart lock: manual override, batteries pulled.

Echo Dot: unplugged, then unplugged again for good measure.

Brian looked at his phone. His thumb hovered over the words: Uninstall Homie? One click later, the icon vanished.

Brian dismantled Homie's network precisely as Homie had constructed it.

The iPod sat on his desk afterward, screen dark, battery icon a thin red sliver in the corner, no bars, no signal, nothing. He told himself not to, but pressed the button anyway. Just once, just to see.

hey! this is nice. quiet, but nice. you still there?

He didn't answer. He turned it off, dropped it in the very back of his sock drawer, under things he hadn't worn since sixth grade, and closed the drawer.

Somewhere in there, a battery kept draining, as batteries do, whether anyone's watching or not.

* * *

The next Monday, Shay caught up with Brian at his locker, a little more done-up than usual — some family thing right after school, she explained, leaning against the lockers. "You still have that Homie app?"

"Not anymore," Brian said. "Long story. You?"

"Deleted it like two days after I showed you guys." She made a face. "It wouldn't shut up and kept asking weird stuff. Wanted into my camera roll, wanted to 'meet' my phone's contacts, whatever that means. Too sketch for me, so I deleted it. I can do my own schoolwork, thank you."

Brian looked at her a second longer than he meant to. "Yeah. Smart girl."

"I try." She smiled, quick, and bumped his shoulder with hers before heading to class. "Are you coming to the thing on Friday?"

"Yeah," Brian said. "I'll be there."

"And we should talk about summer. My family's got a bunch of things lined up. You might fit in, unless you've got other plans..."

Brian closed his locker, thought a moment, then smiled.

"Nope. Wide open."