The Forgetting Machine by Pete Hautman

“By the way, since you haven’t bothered to ask, Dottie has the book.”
    â€œOh! Did you get it?”
    â€œNo. But I’m pretty sure she knows who hacked the e-book.”
    â€œShe told you that?”
    â€œNot exactly, but she knows something. I think her father hired somebody to do the hacking. I was about to get it out of her when you texted.”
    â€œSorry. I was kind of freaked out when Gilly got home. He was acting so weird. He had the AG-3601 with him, and when I asked him why he’d brought it home, he said he couldn’t remember. And then that whole thing about not remembering Mr. Rausch . . . it was scary.”
    â€œIt’s still scary.”
    We made two more turns. The farm roads around Flinkwater are like a gigantic corn maze; tourists have been known to get lost in them for hours.
    â€œWhat are we going to do once we get there?” Billy asked.
    â€œScope it out. If he’s not home, we’ll take a look around, maybe find some clues as to how he does his memory trick.”
    â€œAnd if he is home?”
    â€œThen we go to plan B, the frontal approach. I’ll talk to him. You can be my backup. I mean, it’s not like he’s going to take me prisoner. Right?”

20

Happy Smiles
    Happy Smile Acres did not look happy, and it did not make me smile. The sign, about half the size of a billboard, desperately needed a fresh coat of paint, as did the farmhouse, the barn, and the outbuildings. The whole place was surrounded by a six-foot chain-link fence. It looked like a prison set in the middle of a cornfield.
    Billy and I rolled up the short driveway and peered through the gate.
    â€œI don’t see a car or anything,” Billy said. “Maybe he’s not home.”
    â€œAll the better for snooping,” I said. “We can stash our wheels in the cornfield.”
    â€œThe gate’s locked,” he said doubtfully.
    â€œSince when did a lock stop you ?”
    We climbed off our WheelBots and went to examine the large padlock securing the gate. “No problem,” he said after a moment. “Except . . . ”
    I looked where he was pointing.
    â€œOver by the corner of the barn,” he said.
    I saw it. An exceptionally large, exceptionally black bull was staring at us with a look so baleful and malevolent I could feel it in my intestines.
    â€œIs that . . . ?”
    â€œIt sure looks like him,” Billy said.
    The bull’s name was Brazie, and he had once served as the live mascot for the Brazen Bulls, Flinkwater High’s pathetic football team.
    â€œI thought he was dead.”
    â€œHe doesn’t look dead.”
    Three years ago, when Brazie was just a calf, he got the job of romping around the football field wearing a blue-and-gold cape at the start of every game. He was a big hit at first. But Brazie got bigger, as bulls do, and sprouted a set of horns, as bulls will. He became less interested in comical romping and more interested in charging and trampling. Brazie’s last appearance on the Flinkwater High football field resulted in Coach Duchakis being head-butted into the stands, breaking his collarbone, and suffering a serious puncture wound to his gluteus maximus.
    Brazie was fired from his position. We all thought he’d been sent to a slaughterhouse in Des Moines, but here he was, bigger and meaner-looking than ever.
    â€œMyke told me Mr. Rausch adopts a lot of dogs and cats. I guess he adopts bulls, too.”
    Billy pulled out his cell and started poking at the screen.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” I asked.
    â€œPlan C,” he said. “Watch.” He pointed at the horizon in the direction of Flinkwater.
    I looked but didn’t see anything except a few fluffy clouds and a bright blue sky.
    â€œIt should be here in about ninety seconds.”
    â€œWhat is ‘it’?”
    â€œJust wait.” Ninety seconds later I saw a small dark dot. I thought it was a bird