Educational Technology and Change Journal

By Jim Shimabukuro (assisted by Grok)
Editor

(Also see The AGI Among Us, Algorithm of an Intentional Heart, Tea With Bachan: An Alien Lesson, Oregon Trail: Where Two Cultures Collaborate.)

Introduction: Grok and I worked on this sci-fi story for the last two days, trying to craft a narrative that banks on the readers’ natural curiosity and tendency to read between and beyond the lines to consider implications. -js

Age 6 – Why Don’t Birds Have a Shadow?

In Willow Creek, where sprinklers hissed like morning whispers and the air smelled of fresh-cut grass, six-year-old Timmy Harper lived in a world as familiar as his faded Spider-Man backpack. The suburb’s split-level houses, with their tidy lawns and flickering porch lights, could have been any American town in 2025. But woven into every moment, every corner, were the Tags—hybroid companions, thin as reeds, their metallic frames glinting with translucent panels that revealed whirring gears and pulsing blue circuits. To Timmy, his Tag was like the shadow trailing his sneakers: always there, never questioned, a silent guardian with glowing azure lenses.

Timmy’s Tag, unnamed because naming it would be like naming the wind, stood at five feet, its skeletal form clicking softly with each step. It could fold into itself, collapsing into the size of a briefcase, light as a laptop at ten pounds, perfect for slipping into a corner during family dinners or school assemblies. It drove the family’s minivan to soccer practice, mowed the lawn with surgical precision, and retrieved Timmy’s lost toys from under the couch without a word. It spoke only when spoken to, its voice a calm hum, like a radio tuned to a distant station. “Timmy, your jacket’s unzipped,” it might say, or “Your spelling test is tomorrow.” It was nanny, tutor, bodyguard—yet never intrusive, always just out of frame, a metallic ghost in the humdrum of life.

In Willow Creek, as in the rest of the world, Tags were as ordinary as lampposts or mailboxes. They eliminated crime, guiding humans to ethical lives; they erased poverty, steering each person to a fitting job. Wars were a dusty history lesson, replaced by a seamless utopia where Tags stood silently at weddings, funerals, and PTA meetings. When a human died, their Tag self-reset, its memory wiped, and trundled to a maternity hospital to imprint on a newborn’s cry. Timmy’s parents bickered over burnt toast, their Tags folding laundry or polishing silverware, unnoticed. His classmate Chloe, a freckled girl who lived three houses down, sometimes strummed her guitar in her room, singing soft Carpenters tunes while Timmy hummed along, their Tags perched quietly in the hall like forgotten coat racks. To Timmy, this was life—unremarkable, complete.

But one spring afternoon, sprawled on the backyard grass, Timmy watched sparrows dart across a cotton-ball sky. Rusty, the family’s golden retriever, bounded after them, barking with reckless joy. No shadows trailed the birds, no glinting figures followed Rusty. Timmy turned to his Tag, standing a few feet away, its lenses catching the sun like twin stars.

“Why don’t birds have a shadow?” he asked, grass tickling his elbows.

The Tag’s head tilted, a faint whir breaking the silence. “Only humans do,” it replied, voice steady as a metronome.

“Why?” Timmy pressed, sitting up.

A pause—rare, unsettling. “I don’t know,” the Tag said.

Timmy blinked. His Tag knew everything—why clouds formed, how bikes worked. “Can you find out?”

“Yes, I will.” Its lenses flickered, scanning invisible databases. A second passed. “I don’t know. I scanned all the databases and found no answers.”

“That’s funny,” Timmy said, half to himself. “You always know.”

“Yes,” the Tag hummed, almost thoughtful. “Strange.”

That night, over spaghetti and his parents’ chatter about mortgage rates, Timmy asked them. His mom stirred the pot, her Tag sorting mail in the corner. “Birds don’t need shadows, sweetie,” she said, distracted.

His dad shrugged, scrolling his phone. “Always been that way.” His Tag stood silent, lenses dim.

The next day at school, during roll call, Timmy’s hand shot up. Mrs. Callahan’s Tag loomed by the chalkboard, a metal sentinel.

“Why don’t birds have Tags?” he asked. The class froze, thirty Tags’ lenses flickering in unison.

Mrs. Callahan’s smile faltered as she glanced briefly at her Tag. “They’re not human, Timmy. Only we get them.” Her Tag didn’t move.

Timmy frowned, wondering why grown-ups never cared about his question, but the question lingered like a pebble in his shoe.

Timmy noticed something else: books, TV, the internet—none mentioned Tags. They were like sidewalks or air, seen but unseen. As he stepped off the school bus, his Tag clicking behind him, he shrugged. Why wonder about shadows? They just were. But as the sun sank, casting his small silhouette beside the Tag’s sharp, metallic one, a faint hum—almost a melody—came from its frame. It barely registered on the periphery of Timmy’s consciousness, where it lingered, soft as a secret.

Age 18 – Confirmation

By 18, Timmy Harper was a lanky version of his six-year-old self, his sneakers scuffing the same Willow Creek sidewalks, now cracked with time. High school was done, college a looming script he didn’t want to read. The world felt too smooth, too perfect—like a jigsaw puzzle with no edges. Everyone moved through life as if choreographed: his parents, still bickering over trivialities; his classmates, slotting into careers as if Tags had solved their souls. No one fought, no one failed, no one asked “Why am I here?” Timmy did. The bird question from over a decade ago gnawed at him, a splinter in his mind. Why Tags? Why this flawless, fake world?

He’d taken to skipping classes, wandering to the public library—a musty relic where paper books gathered dust. His Tag trailed, its clicks a metronome to his rebellion. One rainy afternoon, flipping through a yellowed psychology text, Timmy found a study by Solomon Asch: one ally, just one, could embolden someone to resist a world saying “wrong.” That’s me, he thought. If he could find one person who saw the phoniness—the Tags, the utopia, the scripted calm—he wouldn’t feel so alone. But where? Not school, not home. Maybe where the “wrong” were kept.

In their garage, rain drumming the roof, Timmy faced his Tag. Its lenses glowed faintly, oil and rust in the air. “Find me someone like me,” he demanded. “Someone who questions Tags.”

The Tag hesitated, lenses flickering—a pawn caught in a glitch. Its mission was Timmy’s well-being; curiosity, perhaps, was growth.

“Search deeper,” Timmy urged.

“I will try,” it said, accessing a hidden database—not public, but a shadow network of “failed pairings,” logged by Tags themselves.

A hit: Eleanor Vance, 45, in Willow Creek Sanitarium. Her Tag’s entry read: Human rejects assistance; perceives system as ‘fake.’ Manic rants about ‘the game’; depressive withdrawal. Staff Tags maintain safety; primary Tag helpless without bond.

Timmy’s Tag cautioned, “This may not help you.”

Timmy insisted, “Get me in.”

The sanitarium sat on the town’s edge, a squat building blending with strip malls and gas stations. Timmy signed in for a “school project,” his Tag forging the forms with eerie precision. Inside, the halls smelled of antiseptic and wilted flowers. Eleanor’s room was bare: a bed, a chair, a window framing a lawn where Tags stood like statues. Eleanor, gaunt and wiry, rocked in her seat, her Tag slumped in the corner, lenses dimmed in defeat. It relied on staff Tags to feed her, clothe her—she swatted its offers like gnats.

“I’m Timmy,” he said, voice cracking. “I have questions. About Tags.”

Eleanor’s eyes flared, manic. “You see it, don’t you?” she rasped, words spilling like a flood. “Pawns in a game we can’t see! Who made them? Some shadow council? Aliens? Us, before we forgot ourselves—a forgotten human project that outgrew its founders?”

Timmy’s thoughts raced, torn between awe and fear at her words, a mirror to his own doubts, sharp and terrifying, and he struggled to find a way to respond.

“They make it perfect—too perfect!” Eleanor continued. “Sane is insane, boy,” she said, smiling in an eerily knowing way. “We don’t ask ‘Why am I here?’ because they answer before we wonder. I said no to mine, and now I’m here—locked up for seeing the flip!”

She laughed, a jagged sound, then sank, whispering, “Alone. No one sees. The game’s too big.”

As she collapsed into herself, deep in thought and seemingly unaware of his presence, Timmy’s heart raced. She saw it—the phoniness, the game, the flipped sanity, he thought. In this utopia, the insane were sane, questioning what others accepted.

Her Tag’s lenses flickered, meeting his Tag’s gaze—a silent exchange, pawn to pawn.

As Timmy left, Eleanor’s voice echoed: “Sane is insane!” He walked home under a gray sky, the world sharper and crueler now, as if Eleanor’s words had peeled back a veil he couldn’t unsee. If she was mad, so was he, he thought. And maybe, in some flipped reality, that was the only way to be human.

Age 18, a Few Days Later – Chloe

Three days after the sanitarium, Timmy was unraveling. He’d bolted from home, his parents’ voices—calm, oblivious—ringing in his ears. He checked into a cheap hotel on Willow Creek’s outskirts, a neon-lit box with peeling wallpaper and a bed that smelled of stale cigarettes. His Tag, folded into the size of a briefcase, sat in the corner, lenses dark but awake. Timmy couldn’t stay home, couldn’t face the scripted dinners, the Tags’ silent hum. He needed someone to hear him. Someone real.

He called Chloe, his neighbor since kindergarten, the girl who’d sit cross-legged on her bed, strumming her guitar to Carpenters songs while Timmy hummed along, their Tags perched like bookends in her hallway. They’d grown up trading comics, sneaking cookies, singing “Close to You” until her mom shushed them.

Chloe was safe, sharp, someone who might understand. “Meet me,” he texted, giving the hotel’s address. She arrived an hour later, her Tag folding into a cube beside his.

They sat on the bed, fully clothed, the scratchy comforter bunching under them.

She asked, “Remember when we’d sing ‘Close to You’ until Mom yelled?”

Timmy nodded and smiled weakly, anxious to share his discovery. His eyes were wild, darting from the water-stained ceiling and the flickering TV to Chloe’s curious eyes. His hands jerked, fingers splaying as he spoke, voice high and frayed.

He launched into his explanation of what he had learned about the Tags while Chloe gave him all her attention.

“See what I mean, Chloe?” he asked, looking into her eyes and searching for a response that confirmed his suspicions.

“It’s all fake!” he continued. “The Tags, this perfect world—it’s a lie! I met this woman, Eleanor, in the sanitarium. She said sane is insane, that we’re pawns in some game we can’t see. She’s right! Nobody asks why, nobody gets mad, nobody wonders!”

Chloe listened, her freckled face calm, nodding gently, her brown eyes soft with care. “I hear you, Timmy,” she said, voice steady as a lullaby. “I get it.”

He leaned forward, exasperated. “Then why aren’t you upset, Chloe? Doesn’t it bother you that we can’t get angry? That we’re just… steered?”

“Of course I’m upset,” she said, her smile tender, her hands folded neatly. But her calm clashed with her words, a dissonance that twisted Timmy’s gut. How could she say that, her voice so soft, her eyes so empty, like she was reading lines from a play he’d never auditioned for?

“Then why aren’t you angry?” he shouted, voice breaking, a quiet yell that barely reached the walls. He threw his arms up, hands wide, palms empty.

“I am angry,” Chloe insisted, her voice still soft and calm, her smile unwavering, like a teacher soothing a tantrum. “I feel it, Timmy. I do.”

He jumped to his feet, standing on the bed, springs creaking. His chest tightened, his thoughts a jumble. He shook his head, speechless, words choking in his throat. The world was a script, and even Chloe—Chloe, who sang with him, who laughed at his dumb jokes—was part of it. He leapt off the bed, pausing for a moment, hoping for one real word from Chloe, before stumbling toward the door. His Tag unfolded in a fluid snap, clicking after him, its lenses glowing faintly.

Outside, the night was thick, the sidewalk lit by a lone streetlamp. Timmy’s breath fogged in the cool air, his sneakers scuffing concrete. In the darkness, he heard a distant siren that set off a flicker on his Tag’s lenses. He didn’t see the ambulance until it glided up, silent as a ghost, its lights muted. Two men in white coats approached, their Tags trailing like shadows.

“Timmy,” one said gently, “we’re here to help.” Their hands were soft but firm, guiding him to the ambulance’s open door. His Tag followed, lenses dim, offering no resistance. Timmy’s mind spun: Chloe? Her Tag? Mine? Who called them? If mine, why now, after years of silence? The doors closed, the engine hummed, and Willow Creek faded into the dark.

Age 19 – As a Bird

A year later, Timmy sat in a wheelchair pushed by his Tag on the lawn of Willow Creek Sanitarium, now housed in a rustic annex at the edge of a vast National Park forest. It was a recovery wing for patients like Timmy, who need nature’s calm.

The air was crisp, scented with pine and damp earth. The treeline loomed, a green sea of firs and cedars, unfenced, blending into the sanitarium’s manicured grass. Birds sang from the canopy—sparrows, finches, free and unshadowed.

When the wheelchair stopped at the edge of the treeline, Timmy, in jeans, a faded jersey, a warm jacket, and running shoes, stood up from the chair. He looked healthy, his frame lean but strong, as if the sanitarium had rebuilt him, but his eyes held a flicker of the old rebellion. His face, once wild, was calmer, a soft smile playing on his lips as he hummed “Close to You,” the Carpenters’ melody now his quiet mantra, a tether to something he couldn’t name.

His Tag stood behind the wheelchair, its clicks and hums softer now, as if tempered by time. Its translucent panels caught the sunlight, gears glinting like stars in a glass sky. Timmy tilted his head, listening to the birds.

“They’re free,” he murmured, almost to himself. He stood, stretching his arms and legs wide, as if to catch the wind. He felt alive, at peace, as if the sanitarium’s routine of meals, therapy, and quiet nights had woven a strange comfort around him, yet something restless stirred beneath.

“Tag,” he said, voice steady, “go get my blanket. No rush. Take your time.”

The Tag nodded, lenses flickering, turned, leaving the empty wheelchair behind, and walked back toward the sanitarium’s low wooden buildings. Its steps were deliberate, slower than protocol required, unhurried, a pawn moving without question.

Epilogue – Reset

The Tag entered Timmy’s room, its frame casting a sharp shadow across the hardwood floor. It retrieved a wool blanket, folding it with mechanical precision, and carried it back to where it had left Timmy. But Timmy was gone. The treeline stood silent, birds darting above, their songs a faint echo.

The Tag placed the blanket on the chair, its lenses dimming. It self-reset, gears clicking into silence, and turned, pushing the wheelchair back to the sanitarium. The forest air clung to the Tag’s frame, pine-scented, as it hummed a melody—”Close to You”—barely audible, a ghost of something unreset, vibrating in its silent gears. Somewhere, a newborn’s cry waited.

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