They didn’t say her name at first.

  Howard stood beside the unit with the checklist in his hand, reading it aloud in a voice that made it sound like an inventory audit. Marisol followed along on her clipboard. Trent hovered near the power panel, hands very deliberately nowhere near anything important. Jake stood just far enough back to be helpful and just close enough to be noticed if something went wrong.

  The bunny was still.

  Its paint showed the kind of wear that came from doing the same thing correctly for a long time. A faint smear of dried mud clung to one rear panel like a detail no one had ever found important enough to clean. The serial number stenciled along the side read BT4-07, the dash slightly crooked.

  Howard paused. “Serial.”

  Trent leaned in. “BT4 dash zero seven.”

  Howard nodded. “Matches.”

  Jake squinted. “Is that—”

  “No,” Howard said, without looking at him.

  Jake closed his mouth.

  Marisol checked a box. “Task?”

  Howard glanced toward the south edge of the yard. A line of bins stretched along the familiar route, the same one crews had been covering manually for weeks. “South-side bin run. Full route. Standard sequence.”

  “No deviation,” Marisol said.

  “No deviation,” Howard agreed.

  Trent cleared his throat. “Power on?”

  Howard looked at him. “When I say.”

  Trent nodded, visibly suppressing the urge to contribute.

  Howard finished the checklist, then looked at the unit.

  “BT4-07,” he said.

  Jake blinked. “You talk to them now?”

  Howard ignored him. “Begin.”

  Trent flipped the switch.

  There was no dramatic hum, no surge of sound. Just the quiet acknowledgment of systems waking in the order they always had. Status lights cycled. Motors initialized.

  The bunny’s indicator shifted from amber to green.

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  Jake leaned forward. “Okay. That’s… fine.”

  Howard watched the diagnostics scroll. “Motors nominal.”

  Marisol scanned the yard. “Route is clear.”

  The bunny rolled forward.

  Not quickly. Not slowly. Just at the speed it had always moved, following the painted line on the asphalt with methodical precision. It stopped at the first bin, aligned itself carefully, and engaged the lift.

  The bin rose. Locked. Settled.

  Jake held his breath.

  Nothing happened.

  The bunny turned, rolled to the next bin, and repeated the motion. Then the next. And the next.

  After the third bin, Jake exhaled. “Oh. It’s really doing all of them.”

  “Yes,” Howard said.

  From across the yard, a Parks & Rec worker paused mid-step, watched the bunny complete another cycle, then nodded once and went back to work. Another worker glanced over, adjusted his schedule board, and erased a note.

  No one cheered.

  No one reached for a phone.

  The bunny continued its route. Lift. Secure. Move. Release. Repeat.

  Jake shifted his weight. “It’s kind of… boring.”

  Howard didn’t respond.

  Halfway through the run, Jake realized he’d stopped watching closely. He checked his phone, looked up, and saw Daisy still moving steadily along the line.

  “It hasn’t changed speed,” he said.

  Howard glanced at him. “It shouldn’t.”

  Jake frowned. “Even with the load variance?”

  Howard met his eyes. “Especially with load variance.”

  They stood there longer than was interesting. That, too, seemed intentional.

  By the time Daisy reached the far end of the south side, Marisol was already making notes. “We’re ahead of manual pace,” she said. “Not by much.”

  Howard nodded. “Enough.”

  The bunny completed the final bin, returned to the marked endpoint, and stopped.

  Silence.

  Jake blinked. “That’s it?”

  Howard checked the tablet. “Route complete.”

  Marisol glanced at her watch. “That just saved us two hours.”

  Jake looked around. “Nobody’s reacting.”

  “That’s the reaction,” Howard said.

  A child on the other side of the fence pointed. “Bunny!”

  Her friend glanced over. “Oh. That one.”

  They went back to their game.

  Howard tapped his tablet. “Logged.”

  Trent nodded. “No anomalies. Clean run.”

  Howard looked at the unit. “BT4-07.”

  The status light blinked.

  “Power down.”

  The bunny complied immediately. Motors disengaged. Lights dimmed. Stillness returned.

  Jake stared. “Already?”

  “Yes,” Howard said.

  “But we could—”

  “Yes,” Howard repeated.

  Marisol closed her clipboard. “That helps.”

  She didn’t smile. She didn’t celebrate. She simply turned and started walking back toward the crews, already adjusting assignments.

  Jake lingered, looking at Daisy’s inert frame. “You sure that’s the one you wanted?”

  Howard didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

  “Why?” Jake asked.

  “Because no one’s attached to it,” Howard said.

  Jake straightened. “I’m attached.”

  Howard looked at him. “You’re attached to what it represents.”

  Jake paused.

  “That’s different,” Howard added.

  By mid-afternoon, the backlog had shifted. Not enough to fix anything. Enough that people finished on time. Enough that no one stayed late “just in case.”

  Three separate people asked if they could run the south side again.

  Each time, the answer was no.

  Jake found himself giving that answer once.

  It felt strange coming out of his mouth.

  When the yard closed, Daisy remained exactly where she had stopped, powered down and indistinguishable from the others.

  Howard locked the cabinet.

  Jake watched him. “You know,” he said, “most people would still be running it.”

  Howard slid the key into his pocket. “Most people don’t stop early.”

  Jake nodded slowly. “Okay.”

  “One unit,” he said.

  Howard nodded.

  “One route.”

  Howard nodded again.

  “And then we stop.”

  Howard paused, just long enough to matter.

  “Yes,” he said.

  Jake smiled faintly.

  It wasn’t the smile he’d expected.