Randall Park

The surgery was painless as promised.

A small handheld injector no larger than a pocket flashlight was pressed to our children's temples.

Count to three, the technician instructed.

One, two.

Our children winced, a couple tears appeared in the corner of their eyes, and then it was done.

They opened their eyes, looking slightly dazed, and we took them out for ice cream and told them they'd been brave and they'd done a good job.

At home, we let them rest in bed, watched for symptoms and feared the worst.

But they just lay there in the dark rooms, their eyes shining.

And finally, they yawned, stretched their arms, and blinked on their inner connections.

They talked so much in those first few weeks.

We couldn't stop them.

They talked upon waking, they talked in the shower, at breakfast, on the way to school, their small voices ringing out as if using their words for the last time.

They gave nonstop narration from back seats as they navigated the ethers between their brains and our world, interacting with the animated animals which floated invisibly in the air.

We grew tired of their ongoing laughter, their joy which excluded us.

Please, we said, we just want a moment with you.

They laughed and told us they'd placed filters over our faces.

We suddenly had giraffe ossicones, cat ears, and dog noses.

Now we had horse teeth, now fish lips.

Speech bubbles emerged from our mouths when we told our kids to please turn off their browsers.

It was time for dinner.