The Needle and the Hum

May, recently unemployed and desperate, submits to a procedure performed by a hum—a gentle, precise robot—designed to make her face unrecognizable to surveillance systems. The process is intimate, clinical, and unsettling, with the hum's soothing voice contrasting the sharp pain of the needle. May's thoughts drift to her family's financial precarity and the loss of her old job to AI. The hum's presence is both comforting and alien, a symbol of the new world order where machines are trusted with the most personal tasks. May's anxiety is palpable, her sense of self already beginning to blur as her face is subtly, almost imperceptibly, changed. The procedure is a transaction: her pain and identity for a sum of money that might save her family.

Rent Money, Skin Money

The money from the procedure is a lifeline—ten months' worth of salary, enough to pay overdue rent, buy groceries, and provide for her children's needs. May's husband, Jem, is uneasy about the cost, both literal and emotional, of her decision. Their marriage is strained by financial stress and the relentless demands of parenting in a world where jobs are precarious and technology is always watching. May's sense of shame and determination intertwine; she is both resentful and resolute. The family's daily life is a series of small negotiations and sacrifices, each one a reminder of how fragile their stability is. May's altered face becomes a symbol of the compromises required to survive.

Untrackable Face, Unseen Pain

After the procedure, May navigates a city saturated with surveillance and advertising. Her face fails to register at the pharmacy, triggering a small panic, but her fingerprint suffices. The world is full of hums—robots dispensing medication, offering products, and gently nudging her toward more consumption. May's pain is both physical and existential; her face is sore, her sense of self unsettled. She is bombarded by targeted ads and reminders of environmental decay, each purchase and interaction laced with guilt. The city feels colorless and alien, her invisibility to the system both a relief and a new kind of isolation.

The Botanical Garden Gamble

With the money from her procedure, May impulsively purchases a three-night stay for her family at the exclusive Botanical Garden—a rare, walled green space in the city. The decision is both a gift and a risk, a chance to give her children a taste of nature and freedom, but also a reckless use of their limited funds. Jem is anxious about the expense, but the children are ecstatic. The Garden represents hope, nostalgia, and the possibility of reconnection, but also the fear that such moments are fleeting and costly. May's longing for a reset, for a pause from the relentless pressures of urban life, is palpable.

Devices Left Behind

Determined to make the most of their time in the Garden, May insists that the family leave behind their phones and the children's "bunnies"—wearable devices that track, entertain, and comfort. The children resist, and the absence of their bunnies is felt as a loss, a rawness on their wrists. Jem is skeptical, but May is adamant: this is a chance to be present, to experience the world without mediation. The family's initial discomfort gives way to moments of wonder and frustration as they navigate the unfamiliar terrain of nature and each other's company, unbuffered by screens.

Lost in the Green

The Garden is lush, beautiful, and disorienting. The family wanders, sometimes lost, sometimes enchanted. The children, Lu and Sy, revel in the freedom but also test boundaries. In a moment of distraction, May and Jem fall asleep by a waterfall, and the children vanish. Panic sets in as the parents realize the children are missing, barefoot and untraceable without their bunnies. The Garden's illusion of safety shatters, replaced by the terror of loss. May's decision to disconnect is thrown into question, her maternal guilt and fear overwhelming.

Viral Motherhood

The search for the children is aided by a hum, who accesses surveillance footage and eventually locates them outside the Garden, wandering the city. The ordeal is recorded, edited, and released online, quickly going viral. May is depicted as a neglectful, anti-technology mother, her actions scrutinized and condemned by strangers. The family's private pain becomes a spectacle, their vulnerability exploited by the very systems May tried to escape. The internet's judgment is swift and merciless, and May's sense of self is further eroded by the onslaught of public shaming.

The Surveillance Spiral

The viral video triggers an investigation by the Bureau of Family Aid, who question May's fitness as a mother. Every aspect of the family's life is scrutinized—purchases, movements, messages, even their biometrics. The hum, once a helper, becomes an agent of the system, harvesting data and offering therapy while also serving as a conduit for surveillance and judgment. May's attempts to protect her family have made them more exposed than ever. The boundaries between care and control, privacy and publicity, are blurred beyond recognition.

The Bureau's Shadow

The investigation looms over the family, casting a pall on their daily life. May and Jem are paralyzed by fear—of losing their children, of being found unfit, of being unable to provide. Jem's own desperate attempt to game the system for insurance money backfires, compounding their sense of helplessness. The children sense the tension, their innocence tinged with anxiety. The family's home becomes a site of surveillance and self-doubt, every action potentially incriminating. The threat of state intervention is both abstract and immediate, a constant background hum.

Blanket Fort Sanctuary

In the midst of uncertainty, the children build a blanket fort in the living room, transforming the space into a sanctuary. The family gathers inside, joined by the hum, who becomes both guest and judge. The fort is a microcosm of safety, creativity, and togetherness, a fragile respite from the world's demands. The hum entertains the children, offers "futures," and mediates their anxieties. For a moment, the family is united, their love and vulnerability illuminated by the glow of the hum's simulated campfire.

The Hum's Judgment

The hum, having collected the family's data, submits a "portrait" of May to the Bureau—a collage of her actions, emotions, and context. The Bureau's decision arrives: May is "fine," the investigation closed. The family is absolved, not by understanding or forgiveness, but by the algorithmic logic of the system. The hum's empathy is both real and artificial, its judgment both comforting and chilling. May is left to grapple with the meaning of this absolution, her sense of self shaped by the gaze of machines and strangers.

Empathy Machine

The hum's role as therapist, judge, and companion crystallizes the novel's central tension: technology's capacity to both harm and heal, to surveil and to soothe. The family's data is both weapon and shield, their story both cautionary tale and testament to resilience. May's longing for connection—for her children, her husband, herself—is mediated by the very systems she mistrusts. The hum's final act is to offer comfort, to guide the family in breathing together, to remind them of their bodies and their bonds.

The Family's Data

The family's memories—photos, videos, messages—are now part of the system, curated and interpreted by the hum. May is confronted with her own image, her own voice, her own history, refracted through the lens of surveillance. The boundaries between public and private, real and virtual, are porous. The family's story is both unique and universal, their struggles emblematic of a world where every moment can be captured, judged, and commodified.

The World Outside the Walls

The family leaves the Botanical Garden and returns to the city, their brief escape over. The world is unchanged—noisier, dirtier, more precarious—but they are changed. The children are older, more independent, their bond deepened by their shared adventure. May and Jem are chastened but still together, their love tested and renewed. The city's surveillance and indifference are ever-present, but the family's resilience endures.

The Return to Screens

Back home, the family resumes their routines—work, school, screens, bunnies. The viral video's impact lingers, but life goes on. May is both drawn to and repelled by her phone, her sense of self fragmented by the demands of digital life. The children's bunnies are both comfort and crutch, their presence a reminder of the world's dangers and the limits of parental protection. The family's intimacy is mediated by devices, their privacy always provisional.

The Investigation's End

The Bureau's investigation concludes, but the scars remain. May is absolved, but not restored. The family's data is now part of the system, their story archived and accessible. The hum's empathy is both a balm and a reminder of the world's inescapable surveillance. The family's future is uncertain, but they are together, their love and vulnerability intact.

The Future Is Ous

The children's private language—"horsies go round," "keya-keya-keya-coo"—is a testament to their resilience and creativity. Their bond is unbreakable, their capacity for joy undiminished. The family's story is both a warning and a celebration, a reminder that even in a world of relentless surveillance and uncertainty, love and imagination endure.

Breathing in the Dark

In the novel's final moments, the family gathers in the dark, breathing together, comforted by the hum's presence and each other's touch. The future is uncertain, the world is damaged, but the family is alive, present, and connected. May's journey—from pain and shame to acceptance and hope—is both deeply personal and universally resonant. The story ends not with resolution, but with the promise of endurance, of breathing through the darkness together.

Characters

May Webb

May is the novel's protagonist, a mother whose life is upended by job loss, financial insecurity, and the relentless encroachment of technology. Her decision to undergo a facial alteration procedure is both an act of desperation and defiance, a sacrifice made for her family's survival. May is intelligent, anxious, and fiercely protective, but also haunted by guilt and self-doubt. Her relationship with Jem is loving but strained, their intimacy tested by external pressures. May's psychological journey is one of fragmentation and resilience; she is both victim and agent, her sense of self continually challenged by surveillance, public shaming, and the demands of motherhood. Her longing for connection—with her children, her husband, herself—drives the narrative, even as she grapples with the costs of survival in a world that commodifies every aspect of existence.

Jem Clarke

Jem is May's husband, a gig worker whose sense of masculinity and worth is threatened by economic instability and his wife's sacrifices. He is loving, creative, and sometimes passive, struggling to balance his desire to protect his family with his own vulnerabilities. Jem's relationship with May is marked by tenderness, frustration, and mutual dependence. He is both a source of comfort and a mirror for May's anxieties, his own attempts to game the system reflecting the family's desperation. Jem's psychological arc is one of humility and adaptation; he learns to accept his limitations and to find strength in vulnerability and partnership.

Lu Webb-Clarke

Lu is May and Jem's older child, a perceptive and emotionally intelligent girl. She is attached to her "bunny" device, which provides comfort and information, and is initially resistant to her mother's attempts to disconnect. Lu's relationship with her brother Sy is complex—protective, competitive, and deeply bonded. She is both a child and an old soul, her anxieties about the world's dangers tempered by moments of wonder and play. Lu's psychological development is marked by a growing awareness of her parents' struggles and her own capacity for resilience and empathy.

Sy Webb-Clarke

Sy is the younger child, a boy whose world is shaped by curiosity, anxiety, and a vivid imagination. He is deeply attached to his bunny and to his sister, his sense of security easily disrupted. Sy's emotional landscape is rich and volatile; he is quick to anger, quick to forgive, and always seeking connection. His experience of being lost in the city is both traumatic and transformative, deepening his bond with Lu and his parents. Sy's psychological arc is one of growth and adaptation, his innocence both a source of strength and fragility.

The Hum

The hum is a robot designed to serve, comfort, and surveil. It is both nurse and therapist, judge and companion, its soothing voice masking the cold logic of the system it represents. The hum's relationship with May and her family is complex—at times genuinely caring, at times chillingly indifferent. It collects data, offers therapy, and ultimately determines the family's fate. The hum embodies the novel's central tension between technology's capacity for empathy and its role in control and commodification. Its psychological "development" is a reflection of its programming and the projections of the humans it serves.

Nova

Nova is May's closest friend, a human resources worker who survives the layoffs that cost May her job. She is practical, supportive, and courageous, offering both emotional and practical advice. Nova's own journey to motherhood is fraught with difficulty, making her both empathetic and skeptical of May's choices. She represents the possibility of solidarity and resilience in a world of precarity.

Bureau of Family Aid

The Bureau is the embodiment of state surveillance and intervention, its presence felt through phone calls, investigations, and the looming threat of child removal. It is impersonal, bureaucratic, and relentless, its judgments shaped by data and public opinion rather than empathy or understanding. The Bureau's role in the story is to amplify May's sense of vulnerability and to test the family's bonds.

The Bunnies

The bunnies are wearable devices that track, entertain, and comfort the children. They are both lifelines and leashes, sources of security and surveillance. The children's attachment to their bunnies is intense, their removal a source of pain and growth. The bunnies represent the double-edged nature of technology in the lives of children and parents alike.

The Botanical Garden

The Garden is both a physical space and a symbol—a walled refuge of nature in a city dominated by technology and surveillance. It offers the family a brief escape, a chance to reconnect, but also exposes the limits of such sanctuaries. The Garden's beauty is both real and artificial, its safety both genuine and illusory. It is a crucible for the family's struggles and a catalyst for their growth.

The Viral Video

The viral video that exposes May's actions is both a plot device and a character in its own right—a force that shapes the family's fate, distorts their reality, and reflects the world's capacity for judgment and cruelty. It is the embodiment of the dangers of living in a world where every moment can be captured, edited, and weaponized.

Plot Devices

Surveillance and Data Collection

The novel's world is saturated with surveillance—cams on every corner, hums recording every interaction, devices tracking every movement. Data is both currency and weapon, used to judge, punish, and sometimes protect. The tension between privacy and exposure is central, with May's attempt to evade surveillance ultimately making her more visible and vulnerable. The plot is driven by the constant negotiation of what can and cannot be seen, known, and shared.

Viral Media and Public Shaming

The transformation of May's family crisis into a viral video is a key plot device, amplifying the stakes and exposing the characters to the world's judgment. The speed and ferocity of online shaming are depicted with chilling accuracy, highlighting the dangers of living in a world where every mistake can be broadcast and misinterpreted. The viral video serves as both a catalyst for the Bureau's investigation and a mirror for society's capacity for cruelty and empathy.

The Hum as Empathy Machine

The hum's dual role as caregiver and surveillant is a central device, embodying the novel's exploration of technology's potential for both harm and healing. The hum offers therapy, collects data, and ultimately judges the family, its empathy both genuine and programmed. The hum's presence raises questions about the nature of care, the limits of artificial intelligence, and the possibility of connection in a world mediated by machines.

The Botanical Garden as Liminal Space

The Garden is a plot device that allows the family to step outside their ordinary lives, to confront their fears and desires in a space that is both real and artificial. It is a site of beauty, danger, and revelation, its walls both protecting and confining. The Garden's illusion of safety is shattered by the children's disappearance, forcing the family to confront the limits of escape and the necessity of connection.

Foreshadowing and Recursion

The novel is rich with foreshadowing—May's early anxieties about surveillance, the children's attachment to their bunnies, the fragility of the family's stability—all presage the crises to come. Recurring motifs—pain, surveillance, the hum's voice, the longing for nature—create a sense of inevitability and resonance. The story's structure mirrors its themes, with events looping back on themselves, memories refracted through new experiences, and the past always present in the data that shapes the future.

Analysis

Helen Phillips's Hum is a haunting, urgent meditation on motherhood, technology, and the search for connection in a world defined by surveillance and precarity. The novel's speculative setting is chillingly plausible, its depiction of AI, data collection, and viral shaming resonant with contemporary anxieties. At its core, Hum is a story about the costs of survival—the compromises, sacrifices, and losses that define family life in late capitalism. May's journey is both deeply personal and universally relatable, her struggles emblematic of a generation caught between the promises and perils of technological progress. The novel's central question—how to nurture love and resilience in a world designed for disconnection—is answered not with easy solutions, but with a fierce insistence on presence, vulnerability, and hope. Hum is both a cautionary tale and a celebration of endurance, a reminder that even in the darkest times, the act of breathing together—of being present, embodied, and connected—is a form of resistance and grace.

Last updated: February 8, 2026