Helen Phillips is the author of six books, including, most recently, the novel Hum. Her novel The Need was a National Book Award nominee and a New York Times Notable Book. She is the recipient of a Guggenheim Foundation Fellowship, a Rona Jaffe Foundation Writers' Award, and the Calvino Prize in Fabulist Fiction. Her collection Some Possible Solutions received the John Gardner Fiction Book Award. Her novel The Beautiful Bureaucrat, a New York Times Notable Book, was a finalist for the New York Public Library’s Young Lions Award and the Los Angeles Times Book Prize. Her debut collection, And Yet They Were Happy, was re-released in 2023. Her work has appeared in The Atlantic and the New York Times, and on Selected Shorts. A professor at Brooklyn College, she lives in Brooklyn with artist/cartoonist Adam Douglas Thompson and their children.  

Below is an excerpt of  HUM, releasing August 6. HUM takes place in a city suffering the harsh effects of climate change where humans share the population with robots called hums. The reader follows May, who has lost her job to artificial intelligence & undergoes an experimental face surgery that makes people undetectable to surveillance in an effort to get out of debt and be financially secure for the following months. Shortly after, she buys passes for her and family to spend three nights at the Botanical Garden, which harnesses the beauty of the natural world that's been lost. However, when her children are threatened, May must put her trust in a hum as she tries to reinstate life and normalcy for her, her husband, and her kids.

Excerpted from Hum: A Novel by Helen Phillips. Copyright © 2024 by Helen Phillips. Reprinted by permission of Marysue Rucci Books,  an imprint of Simon & Schuster, LLC.

“Are you almost done?” she said to the hum.

“We are almost done, May,” the hum replied.

She could request therapy mode. Nova had tried hum therapy before and claimed to get something out of it. Said it wasn’t so different from therapy with a human. A little strange, at first, but once you got used to it, there was that same feeling of being listened to. And, cheaper. May, though, had no idea how she’d reply to the standard starter questions at this particular moment: What are you feeling? Where do you feel it in your body?

She could request music. But the thought of choosing a type of music, much less an artist, overwhelmed her. Birdsong, she thought, a lightbulb.

“Could you livestream birdsong?” she said.

“Tropical or forest, May?” the hum said.

She thought of the forest of her childhood. And of her parents, installed—after the fires, the scant insurance payments— in a sedate condominium on a perfectly paved cul-de-sac in a suburban subdivision thirty miles away from the burned forest, where they now tried to live an extraordinarily quiet life, apart from the world, off the internet, spending more than they should on birdseed in an attempt to lure birds to their small deck.

“Forest,” she said. Those paths she had walked daily from the time she could walk until she was eighteen years old. She hadn’t known the last time was the last time. “Rocky Mountains.”

The room filled with birdsong that was traveling, instant by instant, almost two thousand miles to arrive at her ear canals. The birdsong had a physiological effect on her, aching delight, her eardrums straining to hear all the layers.

“The number of birds in the northern part of the continent has declined by three billion, or twenty-nine percent, over the past fifty years, May,” the hum said.

“Stop,” she said.

“My apologies, May. This live stream is sponsored by the Society for the Preservation of Wildlife.”

The needle continued its journey around her left eye. The birds continued to sing. As the numbing gel wore off, she became acutely aware of the bright line of sheer pain moving slowly across her eyelid. For once, the hum did not seem attuned to her discomfort.

She was about to say something when the hum withdrew the needle and spoke: “We are done, May.”

The hum hinged forward at the hips so she could look up at her face on the torso screen.

It took a jolt of courage, hands in fists, for her to meet her own gaze.

Did she look different? Or did she only look different because she was expecting to look different?

The differences were subtle, even more subtle than she had anticipated, and her first reaction was relief—just faint shifts in shading, minuscule alterations to the known topography, her features wavering a bit between familiarity and unfamiliarity, the way she might look in a picture taken from a strange angle.

Entranced, she stared at herself, trying to understand her face. She couldn’t put her finger on what had changed in these intervening hours. All the minute deviations added up to some sort of transformation, undeniable but also undetectable.

What would Jem say.

“Beautiful, May,” the hum said. She sensed that the hum was not declaring her beautiful but rather was reacting to its own handiwork. “This will present an interesting challenge for the system.”

Her face felt sore, as though badly sunburned.

“It will feel raw for a few days, May,” the hum said. It placed its metal digits on her forehead, the coolness a balm.

Then the hum opened a drawer at the base of the operating chair and withdrew a gauzy gray scarf.

“Allow me, May,” the hum said, gingerly wrapping the fabric around the lower half of her face. “This will protect you while you heal. Certain facial expressions may strain you for a week or so. I input two prescriptions for you at the pharmacy down the street, an oral pain medication as well as a topical antibacterial cream. Do you want them delivered to your home today?”

“I’ll just pick them up.”

“I can arrange for them to be delivered to your home, May.” 

“I can pick them up.” She wondered how much they would cost. She had lost her prescription insurance when she lost her job.

“And, the—compensation?”

“Was direct-deposited into your account three minutes ago, May.”

She got up off the operating chair. Her legs, she discovered, unsteady.

“There is another rejuvenating face crème that might be of help to you. Rosehip and cucumber. Would you like me to order it for you now, May?”

“You mean another prescription?”

“Not exactly,” the hum said, “but it does have anti-aging properties. Do you approve this transaction, May?”

She kicked herself for not noticing when the hum switched into advertising. She had felt, after being enwrapped in the hum’s attentive care for these hours, after the odder moments in their conversation, a certain affinity with this hum.

“No,” she said.

“Did you know that people can tell how old a woman is by the way her hands look, even if she is otherwise well-preserved?” the hum said. “Could I interest you in a hand lotion tailored to your age group, May?”

“No,” she said, though her hands had in fact been chapped lately. Though the hum, denied, took on a slight wounded quality. She stepped toward the hook, removed her bag. “No thank you.”

“Those jeans would look better with slouchy boots, May,” the hum said.

She was still saying “No thank you” as she exited into the hallway, the metal door closing behind her, the hum offering her something else. She dug around in her bag for her phone, and couldn’t find it, and kept digging. When at last her fingers located it, she seized it, desperate to read Jem’s text.

You’ve been selected to try our new Premier Surprise Sweets service! 

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