Ceeron’s FamilyUnit was carrying our supplies. They had plenty of space in their big/metal backpacks. Beach towels. Large umbrellas. Folding chairs. A cooler full of drinks/food. These items were placed on the grass.

I settled awkwardly on a towel. The sun gleamed against my metal skin as a question blinked across my circuitry.

Now what?

I was not designed for relaxing at the beach. Or relaxing anywhere. Nothing in my programming explained the protocol for this situation. What does a robot do when the main objective of an activity is to do nothing? I was not entirely sure. But I was a highly advanced piece of technology. I was fully capable of learning.

And so I sat, allowing time to drift gently by.

My FamilyUnit discussed solar installation techniques with Ceeron’s FamilyUnit.

SkD and its FamilyUnit raced one another up/down/up/down a stretch of grass.

Emma tossed a throwing disc with her mother and father, their laughter occasionally rising above the rhythm of the tide.

I gazed toward the water. A remarkable sight. Blue as far as my visual ports could see. And beyond. It seemed to stretch on/on/on forever.

Of course, I knew this was false. The ocean was not literally infinite. Eventually, the ocean ended at another far-off shore. But this logic faded as I looked out on the vast body of water. And only one word chimed inside my vocabulary drive.

Endless

Read on for a sneak peek of Lee Bacon’s newest title, Imaginary

Chapter 1.

There was a time when everyone had imaginary friends. Everyone your age anyway.

The polka-dot panda on a unicycle.

The green blob with a ferret for a hat.

The taco with arms made of cheese sticks.

It was a strange crowd.

I fit right in.

But as you got older, your classmates lost touch with their imaginary friends. Kids were growing up, moving on, finding other things to care about. Real things.

Until.

One day.

I looked up and realized …

All the other imaginary friends were gone.

I was the only one left.

Chapter 2.

An imaginary friend is like a carton of eggs.

We come with an expiration date.

Like all the other worn scraps of childhood—the tattered blanket, the fluffy bear with the face that’s been smooshed from too much cuddling—there’ll come a time when you’ll outgrow me.

Sends a shiver down my fur just thinking about it.

When you were little, you’d lead me around proudly, introducing me to the people you met.

But now you’re eleven. And I’ve stuck around long past the usual expiration date.

These days, you don’t brag about me. You don’t talk about me at all. Not to your friends, not to your teachers, not even to your mom.

I’m a lot less popular than I used to be.

Chapter 3.