The microchips have taken control!

Why have the microchips in Deacon’s neighborhood—chips in traffic signals, ATM machines, mobile phones, and cars---started to communicate with Deacon?    Do they want to help him out, to get free ice cream, good grades, or the occasional day off from school?  No, the Chip Network wants much more from Deacon and many other children in Silicon Valley whose parents work for high-tech companies.

     Chapter 1

       "Good afternoon, Deacon.”
            Deacon turned. He looked left and right, but he stood alone on the street corner.
            “Cross now, Deacon,” called a second voice.
            “Take your time,” another voice said from overhead. “We’ll hold the light as long as you wish.”
            Deacon stepped into the crosswalk, looking in all directions. “Hello?” he called out. “Where are you? Who are you?”
            Halfway across the street, Deacon heard still another voice. This one came from a blue compact car stopped at the intersection. “How was your day at school, Deacon?”
            “Fine, I guess,” Deacon said, and he hurried to the far curb.
            On the corner stood a bank with an ATM out front. Words on the ATM screen stopped Deacon in his tracks:

FREE CASH, DEACON. TAKE ALL YOU WANT.

            Another digital sign in the window of Ozzie’s Ice Cream Parlor read:

Have a double-fudge chocolate chip sundae on us, Deacon!

            “What’s going on? Who are you?” Deacon shouted.
            He took off down College Avenue in a fast walk. Along the sidewalk, more voices called to him.
            “We’re saving this spot for you,” a parking meter called.
            “Hey, Deacon, come in and play!” a voice said outside Leo’s Hobby Shop.
            “How about a new wardrobe, Deacon?” someone cried from a clothing store.
            Deacon shook his head. Kids at school mocked the green shorts and green T-shirt he wore every day, even on cold days. But they suited him fine.
            He spun in a circle. “Where are you? Stop following me!”
            “No need to shout, Deacon,” said the earbuds of a passing woman.
            “Relax, kid!” said a jogger’s watch.
            “Care for a ride, Deacon?” called an electric scooter.
            From Cafe Roma came a chorus of voices.
            “Let’s have a chat, Deacon.”
            “Hola, mi amigo!”
            “How’s it going, old buddy?”
            Outside the café, a woman sat in a wheelchair. Had she called to him? Probably not. Her head, covered by the hood of a black hoodie, was bowed. Most likely she was asleep.
            Deacon took off again. He turned up Russell Street where more voices hailed him.
            “Don’t pass gas, Deacon!” called a gas pump.
            “Lighten up, my boy,” a streetlight said.
            Deacon began to run. Even in his neighborhood, he heard the voices.
            “Go, Deacon! Go!” a leaf blower cried.
            “I’m singing in the rain!” sang a lawn sprinkler.
            When Deacon reached his house, he raced up the front walk.
            “You’re home early, Deacon,” said the security camera.
            “Home sweet home,” said the intercom.
            Deacon crammed his key into the door lock. He rushed into his house, slamming the door behind him. But the voices still came.
            “Let me know if you’re too hot, too cold, or just right, Deacon,” said the thermostat in the front hallway.
            “What tunes would you like to hear?” a smart speaker asked from the living room.
            “Your favorite show is on in an hour, Deacon,” the TV called out.
            Deacon ran to the foot of the stairs. From down the hall a voice called, “What’s the rush?”
            This voice he knew. His sixteen-year-old sister, Alexis, stood outside her bedroom.
            “Are you OK?” she asked. “You’re acting weird.”
            Deacon shrugged. “I’m all right,” he said. “I think.”
            Then he barreled up the stairs three at a time. He tore down the hallway to his bedroom. Once inside, he locked the door and bent over, breathing hard.
            “Safe,” he said. “No one can get me in here.”
            He grabbed his baseball bat just to be sure. But as he stood ready to clobber anyone who entered the room, a deep voice came from the laptop computer on his desk.
            “Batter up, Deacon.”

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