“It doesn’t need new batteries; it’s just broken,” Pam Frye told the two-year-old pulling on the knee of her jeans. The two-year-old, a cherubic blondie with thin fingers and a large vocabulary pressed the tiny robot into Pam’s hands.
“It’s broken?” the girl asked.
“Yeah, honey, it’s broken,” she said.
“No more Muticore?” the girl asked, looking up at Pam with tears welling in here eyes.
“No honey. Muticore is broken.”
“Fix it,” the girl said, shaking the little robot in her fists.
“I can’t honey. I’m sorry.”
The girl scrunched up her face and glared up at Pam, and then, carefully announcing each syllable: “Fix. Muticore.” The girl pursed her lips. “Fix. Him.”
Pam snatched the tiny robot and held it up to her face to get a look at the six legged, bullet-shaped robot.
“Fix him!” the girl yelled. “Fix him!”
Pam tried to shut out the girl and rolled the Muticore over in her hands. She pressed the little emerald button on the back of the robot’s chest. Nothing. She pressed it again. And again. And again.