She scrambles down, wide-eyed.
I brace my foot against the frame and pull the starter cord.
It growls to life.
But not like before. It hovers—just an inch above the ground—the blades spinning, the chassis purring with a quiet hum. No smoke. No sputter. Just quiet propulsion.
Sammy gasps. “AlienMacGyver!”
I blink. “What?”
“That’s your new name,” she declares. “You fix Earth junk with space parts. Alien MacGyver.”
I frown, unsure if that’s an insult or a promotion.
She circles the mower, inspecting it like a seasoned general might a tank.
“This is incredible,” she says, reverent. “If you added lasers, you could probably mow and fight at the same time.”
“I prefer my combat platforms less...floral.”
She laughs so hard she snorts. “You’re weird. But cool. Weird-cool.”
I should find this irritating. Should shut it down, push her away. But something about her—her raw, unfiltered honesty, her refusal to be intimidated—gets under my skin in a way that doesn’t itch. It... fits. Like a strange little key turning in a lock I didn’t know was rusted shut.
I watch her run off, still babbling about hoverblades and anti-dandelion mines.
I turn back to the yard, muttering to myself.
“She’s going to be trouble.”
But even as I say it, I’m already bracing for her next visit.
I find her in my yard again. This time she’s sitting cross-legged on my porch step, notebook open on her lap, chewing on the end of a pen like a tactician considering the next offensive maneuver.
She doesn’t even flinch when I step out of the house.
“You’ve returned,” I say.
She nods. “Had to. New intel. The ice cream truck came by and I heard someone call it a ‘dairy-based social engineering scheme.’ Seemed relevant.”
I blink at her.
“You made that up,” I say.
“Maybe,” she says, mouth twitching. “Maybe not.”
I sit on the top step, careful with my still-healing side. The burn scars tug beneath the illusion, itching faintly where new skin is forming. I rest my elbows on my knees and glance sidelong at her.
“Why do you keep coming back here?”
She shrugs. “You’re interesting. You’re not like the other grownups.”
“That’s because I’m not one,” I mutter before I catch myself.
She glances up, sharp-eyed. “You said that out loud.”
I try to recover. “I meant... I am not like other grownups... because I am conducting reconnaissance.”
