That his grandfather had been determined to keep their pursuer’s identity hidden from Alex, refusing to answer any questions about who he was, only confirmed it. Just thinking about it set something shivering in Alex’s blood.

He studied the photograph of his dad at the party for the millionth time, trying to penetrate the haze. He felt sure he could match this shadowy picture with the tall shadow leaping through his memories. He taped a fresh sheet to the board, fished out his charcoals, and bent to begin another drawing.

He worked for an hour, hunched in concentration, losing himself, until he realized his arms and neck were aching. He stretched and rubbed his eyes, remembering too late his fingers were filthy with charcoal. His eyes stung. Blinking it away, his gaze caught on the robot lying by his side.

He picked it up and stared at it, long and hard. When he closed his eyes, its ghost hung printed in negative behind his eyelids. He concentrated, straining to send his mind out, detect anything reaching back.

Nothing. He shook the robot in frustration. “Where are you?”

Alex set it aside and looked back at his sketch. He had planned to draw the man’s face, but it had somehow eluded him again. Instead, this latest picture showed the tall figure leaping away through the air, powered by the curious spring mechanisms he wore around his boot heels. His coat billowed like the cape of some eerie superhero. A silver-handled cane caught the light in one hand. In the other, a blade shone.

Alex sighed and reached for a fresh sheet of paper, then snatched his hand back as the edge sliced into the pad of his thumb. Hissing, he lifted the finger to his mouth, then hesitated, struck by a memory of cutting his finger on the old toy’s rough tin in this room once before, his blood leaking inside, a first uncanny sensation creeping over him soon after.

He recalled his grandfather telling him about the other, real robots they had encountered, how the tall man and his followers powered them: . . . they use themselves . . . Pieces of people. . . Bits of their own bodies . . .

Blood glistened, rich red among the grimy black whorls of his thumbprint. He grabbed the robot before he could change his mind, held one hollow eye beneath his thumb, then squeezed until blood welled up.

There came a knocking at his bedroom door.

“Just a minute!” Alex scrambled to hide the robot and drawings under the bed. Jumping to the door, he stole a last look around, then pulled it open. Carl stood there, a bundle of fresh laundry under one arm, a mug of tea in each hand. Proffering one, he stopped and laughed.

“Going goth?”

“Huh?”

“Your eyes.” Carl gestured at his own with a mug. “You’ve got, like, panda rings.”