The installation didn't have a progress bar. Instead, a series of grainy images flickered across his screen: the Playtime Co. factory, but the colors were inverted, the yellow walls a bruised purple. A text box popped up, written in a font so thin it looked like scratches: “Are you sure you want to let him in?”

A heavy, fur-covered weight landed on Elias’s shoulders from behind. The smell of old plastic and copper filled the room. He didn't turn around. He didn't have to. The "highly compressed" version of the game had finally finished unpacking—right in his bedroom.

He looked back at the screen. Huggy Wuggy wasn't on the pedestal anymore. The screen was black, save for a small chat box at the bottom.

“I didn't compress the game, Elias. I compressed the distance.”