The Lost And Found Box, by Sarah

The residents of Kiowa County were rather proud of their fair. It was not often so many people gathered in one spot, in Kiowa County. During fair week the three intersections were so busy they needed to deputize the local boy-scout troops to direct pedestrians across the street.
They came for many reasons. They came to see faces. They came to eat fried vegetables that don’t usually come fried, and wash them down with icy, glow-in-the-dark beverages. They came to ride creaky contraptions upside down, and hopefully keep the vegetables and glowing beverages inside.
Fair people get excited, and when people, as a general rule, gather in large numbers and get very excited, they tend to loose things.
Thus, the Kiowa County Fair’s lost and found box.
It was actually a privilege to end up in the lost and found box, or so many of the objects who ended up there thought. The battered straw sombrero, who had thrice wintered in the box, felt quite at home there, now.
“I could've ended in the dumpster,” he said to his best freind, a blue Nike cap who had spent just one winter in the box.
“Yup,” said Nike. “That would be a tough break. Wouldn’t never happen to me, though. Someone probably woulda taken me home before they threw me away.”
Sombrero twitched his band. He felt it was best not to reply. Sometimes friendship is more important than pointing out flaws in logic, especially when one is stuck in a box with someone.
“I miss walking around out there,” a singular flip-flop remarked, then giggled for no apparent reason. Her twin giggled, too, and tilted her straps into the sunlight, admiring the way the light caught the glitter on them.
“Anything I can do?” Nike asked, shifting his swoosh to get a better look.
Sombrero stifled a chuckle of his own. Nike had been working his courage up with the twins ever since they’d been tossed into the box at the beginning of the week. He, personally, never got involved with new tenants until the fair ran out—he’d had too much experience with the disappointment of owners returning for their things. Anything that was really unique or attractive or expensive, inevitably left again within a few days of arriving in the box.
“Nal,” he called over his brim.
Nal and Sombrero had been in the box so long together—two whole winters, springs, summers, and falls, that they hardly needed to talk to each other sometimes. Just as an example, Sombrero could twitch his brim a certain way, and Nal would correctly interpret that it was time for the kids to go to bed. She would then bustle them off and keep them from making a fuss about it.
“Yup.” The orange water bottle poked her lid out from under a grey sweatshirt.
“Kids still napping?”
“Yes, thank goodness.”
“Celly still sleeping off his buzz?”
Nal wiggled out into the open and leaned against the side of the box. “Think so. Why?”
“Just wanted to check the time.”
Nal sighed. “Let him sleep. The time’s all he’s good for these days…battery’s not going to last for much longer.”
Sombrero twitched his brim, setting the bright pom-poms dancing. “I’m still amazed he’s with us at all. Not the battery,” he said hastily at Nal’s reproving glare. “Just—nobody came to get him.”
“He’s a razor. Razors aren’t worth replacing—probably the owner felt like it was good riddance, a good excuse to get a newer, shinier model.”
“Speaking of,” one of the flip flops squeaked, and flopped onto the pile and lay still. Immediately all of the other objects did, too, and it was a good thing because just then, the door to the little office opened.
A small object was tossed into the box.
“Oof.” Sombrero stifled his exclamation and lay still.
When the door closed, Sombrero shifted. “If you don’t mind, pardner, could you get off my crown?”
The object quickly rolled off onto the grey sweatshirt, which stirred feebly.
“He won’t mind,” Nal said. “He sleeps practically all day—all night, too.”
“Another phone,” one of the flip flops giggled, wiggling closer to look him over. “I like your look.”
Nike groaned under his breath.
“Don’t worry,” Sombrero muttered. “He’ll be gone by the end of the day.”
“I’m not a phone,” the new object said, meticulously enunciating his consonants.
“Oh, right, you’re one of those,” flop quirked a strap at him. “I’m supposed to call you a smart phone. Maybe I don’t like your looks so much after all, oh electrical marvel in our midst.”
“Not a smart phone,” the phone retorted, moving away from her.
“Ow,” a pair of sunglasses snapped. “Watch where you’re wobbling.”
“Fine, an I-phone. Whatever.” Flop turned to her twin. “These creeps think they’re so much because they can spell out words and play music—don’t know why you waste your time talking to them, flip. It’s like a touch-screen gets you all googely-soled or something.”
“I’m not an I-phone,” the tinny voice interrupted again.
This time, all the objects froze, and turned toward it.
Sombrero felt it, too—a sudden oddness. There was something about the voice—something wrong, somehow—not like the other electronics they’d met before.
“What are you, then?” he ventured.
“It’s a secret,” the voice ticked. Sombrero suddenly realized what it reminded him of--it was almost like a clock. its words and tones held the same kind of exact precision.
The other objects stared at it, taking in its shiny black cover, the delicate wire antenna that raised and lowered as it talked.
“All right, then,” Sombrero said after another long pause. “Well, welcome to the lost and found box. Glad to have you, hope you don’t have to stay long, but if you end up staying, we don’t see nothin’ wrong.”
It was his standard greeting to new objects—to lighten the mood, make things more friendly, like.
“We won’t be here long,” the new object ticked, and moved to the other side of the box, leaning against it nonchalantly.
“What did he mean by that?” Nike whispered to Sombrero a moment later under the cover of flip’s giggling. The shoe had leaned against the side of the box, next to the new object, and was busily trying to get its attention.
“Sounded strange,” Sombrero muttered back.
“Sounded threatening,” Nal put in, huddling close to them.
All three of them took a peek at the new object, and found the screen staring blandly back at them, not in the least distracted by the shoe’s antics. “Not long,” the tinny voice repeated, and now there seemed to be a sardonic kind of tone to it.
“Definitely threatening,” Nal said, lowering her voice still further.
Flop had gotten over her little game of feigning reluctance, and had joined her sister in trying to get the object’s attention. It was to no avail. The object continued to stare at Nal, Nike, and Sombrero, as if watching them. At this point even the gray sweatshirt’s interest was piqued; the collar stiffened and it half rose in the box.
“Am I to undershtand you’re saying… that you’re out to get ush?” the words slurred out—the first words that sweatshirt had spoken in more than a week.
“Sweathsirt!” Nal shook her top.
“Yeah, say it right out,” Nike nodded approvingly. “Let’s get all the cards on the table.”
A bunch of mini playing cards suddenly swarmed out from under sweatshirt. “Did you say our name? Is nap over? Can we come out? Will you play with us?” They chorused.
“Good job, Nike,” Nal groaned. “All right, kids. You can get up now. Say hi to our new friend. And no, sweatshirt, of course he’s not out to get us. You’ve been sleeping too much lately—you need to talk to people more, so you don’t go as batty as celly.” She then slapped her cap over her mouth, and trembled. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“We’ve all been worrying over celly,” Sombrero comforted her. “We know you weren’t being mean-spirited.”
“Celly’s gone batty! Celly’s gone batty!” cried all the little cards, dancing a circle around the sides of the box, moving around the new object where he interrupted their path.
“Quiet,” the new object said loudly.
All in the box froze again except for the little cards. They stopped singing, but kept up their march, giggling and shoving each other.
“What is it?” Nal asked, her voice trembling.
Nike shook his brim and indicated the speaker that hung in a corner of the room.
Something was happening—something, someone was saying something over the loudspeaker, which wasn’t all that abnormal, except the tone of his voice held a strange note; fear… an edge of panic…
“Did you catch it?” Nike asked Nal when the talking stopped.
“I—I think he said there was a bomb—something about evacuating.”
Nal seemed scarcely able to believe what she was saying, and she stared at the new object, which seemed, somehow, to be smirking.
“Are you a bomb?” Sombrero asked after a moment.
The new object suddenly did something very normal—it shrugged.
“It’s a bomb,” Nike whispered. “I knew it.”
“Hey-el, I were the one who figured it first. I just shaid—“
“Quiet, Sweatshirt,” Nal ordered. Slowly she turned toward the object.
“What are your demands?” She asked the question blandly, precisely, enunciating all her consonants, just like the object did when it talked.
The object shrugged again, swinging its antenna down in front of its screen as if inspecting it. “I couldn’t say. I wasn’t built to answer demands.”
“All of us were built to answer demands,” Sombrero growled. “I was built for the demand of covering heads. Flip and flop, they answer the need of those who want something between their feet and the ground, and also want to look good. Sweatshirt kept the cold off for a time, and Nal here—well, she answers one of the most important demands of all. Without what Nal carries inside her, there is no human life. Of course you answer demands! Someone created you, didn’t they?”
The object shifted its weight from one corner of its base to the other. “I can’t answer your questions,” it said flatly.
The flip flops had backed away at this point. One of them fell over Nike, who didn’t even notice.
“What are we going to do?” Flop wailed.
“Nothing. You can do nothing.” The object answered.
“Come on, Cel—Man. Bomb, whatever you are,” Nike said. The hat trembled, but edged a little closer to the object. “Come on. You wouldn’t want to hurt all of us, would you?”
“Nike,” Nal warned, but it was too late. All the mini-cards stopped in their tracks and turned toward the object, then flipped around and turned toward Nike.
“Hurt us?” The tiny queen of spades spoke up.
“No, no, no,” Nike sputtered. They—it—we’ll be fine.”
“You won’t be fine,” the object corrected immediately. “None of us will be fine. We will all be gone.”
“Gone where?” Queen of spades asked, a tremor in her voice.
“Burned up! Exshploded, shattered to shmithereens--“
“Enough, Sweatshirt!” Nal snapped, but the sweatshirt continued to rave, and all the little cards started crying and running and hopping and swarming over everything.
“Sombrero,” a voice hissed next to one of Sombrero’s pom-poms.
Sombrero started. “Celly?” he whispered back, his voice covered by all the noise.
“Come down here.”
Sombrero glanced around, and slid under sweatshirt and a paper bag full of tangled cords who were swarming around like a nest of snakes, roused by the noise and chaos.
The old cell-phone’s screen provided a weak light to see by. “You’ve got to do something,” it wheezed.
“Do something?” Sombrero asked.
“This is bad, very bad,” Celly continued.
“You shouldn’t get all worked up like this.”
“Do you not understand what this is about, man? I’ve had news go through me—tweets, and stories—these bombs. We’re not just talking about a few wrecked things. We’re not talking about a small fire. We’re talking people dying!”
“By people, do you mean humans?”
Celly swatted his screen with his antenna in exasperation. “For Cry—yes! Can’t you hear the ticking? Time is running out. That thing is a giant ball of fire just waiting to go off…waiting ‘till who knows when, who knows who’ll be nearby…who knows what these people want…”
“Cool it, Celly, son,” Sombrero replied tersely. “Now this isn’t another one of your low-battery induced hallucinations, is it? I can trust your databases?”
“Sombrero,” Celly said, hurt in his tone.
“Now, c’mon, Cell. Remember last week, how you suddenly went all weird and started beeping randomly, cutting out when we tried to talk to you—“
“Have I lied to you… yet, ‘bro?”
Sombrero eyed the cell phone soberly. “And now you’re starting to cut out, again. That doesn’t improve my confidence too much.”
“I may not be the sharp razor I was when I got tossed in here. But I’m telling you right now dude, and using the very last dregs…of my battery life to do so…that you…dudes have to…get that guy…out…of here.”
“How am I to do that, son?”
“Dunno…old…geezer,” Celly wheezed, “But I’ve done what I said I had…to do… told you, and now…now I’m…finished.”
“Oh, son,” Sombrero grimaced. “Don’t.”
“I’m…popping…myself out, ‘bro. Don’t…want…to be here…when it happens.”
“Cel-“
But the razor phone twitched suddenly. It’s back fell open, and the flat, square battery clattered to the floor of the box.
Sombrero couldn’t stomach looking at the exposed circuitry. He felt heavy and sad, but also full of determination, as he wiggled up to the top of the box.
“Nal. Hey Nal,” he hissed. The cards had quieted down, but they lay in a quivering heap in the corner. Nal glanced at the object, which now stood in the middle of the box, keeping a sharp screen on every movement.
“I’m watching you,” it barked at flip and flop, who seemed to be having a hard time of it, huddled and sobbing together in a corner.
Sombrero looked at Nal and felt a deep sadness come.
“What?” She whispered.
“No whispering,” the object barked. “Come out here where I can see you.”
There was no time. Sombrero twitched his brim in the object’s direction, then wiggled a pom-pom, pointing at himself, then snapped his brim shut for a second.
“No,” Nal said. “No.”
“I’m sorry, Nal. Love you, Gal,” Sombrero managed. A few seconds later, he suddenly made a flying leap, landing on top of the object. All the contents of the box screamed, then began cheering him on.
“You can do it, hon,” Nal choked out.
“Geeeet ‘im, Geeeezer!” Sweater wheezed.
“You’re the man, ‘brero,” Nike said.
Sombrero closed his brim tightly, trying not to groan as the object went crazy, rattling angrily inside his crown, stabbing its antenna sharply, furiously into anything it could reach.
He could no longer talk, so he wiggled his pom poms at all the objects in the box.
“Where you going?” Nike asked incredulously.
“Whasha doin?” Sweatshirt warbled.
“No, wait—“ Nal said.
Sombrero couldn’t wait. He couldn’t stop. Who knew when the clock would tick to an end?
Once out of the box, He rolled. Rolled through the doorway, down the little sidewalk.
He was a strange sight—a sombrero with the brim apparently sewn shut, rolling on its own along the cement pathways that decorated the fairgrounds. Luckily the bomb threat had cleared everyone out of the fairgrounds, so nobody saw him. He rolled into the woods, past trees and bushes. He rolled and rolled until he reached a small copse of bushes by a little stream—he had to be at least three hundred feet from any part of the fairgrounds.
He came to a stop.
“Let me out,” the tinny voice ordered.
“Nope.” Sombrero slurred, keeping his brim shut.
“I’m not a bomb. It was just a joke.”
Sombrero didn’t answer. He sat there.
All through the night he sat, listening to the orders, then the jibes, and finally, the pleadings of the object.
Eventually, the object silenced, and only the tiny, strange ticking noise continued.
Had it been a joke?
Sombrero couldn’t take the chance.
It began to rain, hard. The mud began to stir under Sombrero’s crown; the stream banks rose and touched his closed brim.
The object began buzzing again angrily. “I’ll be ruined,” it said. “I’ll break. This rain—“
The words fell on deaf (though sopping wet) straw. Sombrero continued to hold his brim shut, continued to wait it out.
The object began crooning to itself softly. It was a strange tune, and yet somehow haunting. Sombrero thought he might have recognized if he could only think hard enough.
He must have fallen asleep then, because suddenly it was bright outside. He gasped, remembering, and then realized that the object hadn’t moved—it was still inside of him. But the strange ticking had stopped.
Slowly, Sombrero moved aside. Was it dead, then? Was the threat gone?
There was a sudden sound of footsteps. Sombrero froze and rolled onto his side.
“Where’s the John? Thought you said this was a short cut.”
“Must have gotten turned around,” another voice said. “Look! Cell phone,”
“Wait—wait,” the first cautioned.
Sombrero squinted up at them, shifting the tiniest bit to get a better view. They wore bright-colored suits, uniforms of some kind.
“Think it could be our bomb?”
"Not likely, out in the woods like this. But you can’t be too careful.” A large, gloved hand picked up the object.
Carefully the back of the object was removed, revealing a battery and circuitry. “Nope. Just a cell. Someone must have dropped it. Shame—got wet. Battery’s dead now.”
“We’ll drop it by the lost and found on our way out.”
“Boss say we can go?”
“Threat was a fake. Said it was supposed to go off last night.”
“Ah. And what’s this?" Another large hand picked up the sombrero.
“Trash. People leaving garbage all over the place—really gets me riled.”
The hand lowered the sombrero back to the ground.
“Well, don’t leave it there—that’s just as bad. Take it to the dumpster. There’s one just inside the gate over here.”
“OK.”
The men in yellow jackets walked back toward the entrance gates of the Kiowa County Fair.