My 5-year-old, Toby, had been home with a fever, so I left him napping with my new husband whom I’ve been married to for a month. A few hours into my shift, my phone rang. It was Toby. “MOMMY… NEW DAD WOKE UP… BUT HE’S ACTING.”
I blinked. “Honey, what do you mean? Acting weird?” But he just repeated it, sounding scared. “No, Mommy. He’s just… acting.”
I tried calling my husband. No answer.
I drove home like a maniac. I rushed inside. The house was silent. I called their names. No response. Then I saw Toby sitting in the living room, eyes wide. He pointed behind me and whispered: “He’s still doing it.”
I spun around. My husband was standing in the kitchen doorway, perfectly still. He wasn’t moving a muscle, not even to breathe. He had a stiff, frozen smile plastered on his face, eyes locked on a point just above my head.
“Mark?” I whispered, my heart hammering. “Is this a joke?”
He didn’t blink. He looked like a wax figure. Then, I heard a faint click-clack sound coming from his chest. I stepped closer, trembling, and noticed a thin, skin-colored seam running behind his ear.
Just as I reached out, a voice—flat and electronic—emerged from his unmoving lips: “Scene 42 complete. Uploading behavioral data. Resume human simulation in 3… 2… 1…”
Suddenly, Mark gasped, his eyes focused, and he wiped sweat from his forehead. “Hey honey! You’re home early,” he said perfectly naturally, as if he hadn’t been a statue seconds ago. “Toby and I were just playing. Right, buddy?”
Toby didn’t look at him. He looked at me, his face pale. “See, Mommy? He’s really good at it.”
