July 15, 2090, Bainbridge Island, Washington

Parker Timothy Olstead II

The dog follows him down to the beach. The morning is a thick fog and he can barely see through to the water. The beach has no sand, just rocks and he sits cross-legged, searching out the bigger rocks around him and pitching them into the water. He pretends the world’s rock supply is out of balance—too many on land and not enough underwater. It’s his job to correct the problem, to even things out for the good of all Earth’s creatures. He likes when the rocks land too far out in the fog for him to see the splash. He just has to trust the sound. The dog lies by his side, waiting.

He believes the dog is his father. He believes the apple tree in the front yard is his mother. He has read that Buddhists say their parents are infinite. Plants, animals, rocks, air—these things are all parents. He does not actually take any comfort in the idea, but he wants to. He reads a lot, checking out as many books as he’s allowed from the molding public library. He is trying on different theories and concepts, looking to see what fits. He knows Catholics believe in one god split up into three parts. He knows sometimes Hindus burn their dead along the banks of the river Ganges. He knows at thirteen, a boy in the Jewish faith is considered a man. He wants very much to be a man. He feels like he’s ready for that. Not that he wants to be bigger, or stronger, or to live on his own. What he thinks of when he thinks of being a man is to be free of his childish needs: his squirming, nervous desire to be loved; his orphan’s remorse; his constant wondering about who his parents were, what were they like, and what would they think of him. He’s thirteen now, and he vows to be a man—to be done with all that. After all, his father is a dog. His mother is an apple tree. What more could a man need?

Behind him, he hears the crunch of sandals over rocks. He looks and it’s Camden, gnawing on a big chocolate chip cookie, the kind they sell at the coffee shop. He turns back to the water, half hoping she’ll pass by without stopping to talk to him, half hoping she won’t.

“Do you know what a blowjob is, Spud?” Camden asks. She has paused directly behind him, with one knee bent so it’s pressing between his shoulder blades.

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to give you one?”

“No.”

“Then you must not know what one is. If you knew what one was, you wouldn’t say ‘no.’ Everybody who knows what blowjobs are wants one. All the time, all anyone wants is blowjobs once they know. This is why you’re no good at school. Too dumb to admit when you don’t know something.”

“I’m just fine at school.”

“Your aunt told my mom you get terrible grades. And you have no friends.”

“My aunt and your mom can go fuck each other.”

At school, the kids call him Crater Head. They say, “Your daddy saw your ugly head and was so sad he drove his rocket into a black hole.” They ask, “Did your daddy die because he crashed into your giant face?” “When you were born, did your mother get sucked up your nose?” At home, his aunt says, “Don’t mind them, Spud, kids are always cruel,” then she goes next door to spend all her time with Twila. Once, he walked into her room to find the two of them on the bed, Caroline’s hand up Twila’s skirt. They’d panicked and scrambled apart, but he’d just closed the door. None of his concern what two grown women do.

“If you let me give you a blowjob, I’ll show you something about your dad,” Camden says, kneeling beside him. Sometimes Spud is certain she is the devil, come to waylay all his plans as soon as he makes them. He wants to stay strong in his resolve not to dwell on his parents any longer. He wants to tell her he doesn’t care in the slightest.

“What about my dad?”

“Your aunt’s got files in our house. One of the files has your dad’s name on it.”

“His name’s the same as my name.”

“Your name’s Lieutenant Colonel Olstead?”

He doesn’t say anything. He finds a flat rock under his knee and throws it into the water. Camden leans closer. He can smell the cookie on her breath. She should have at least offered to share it with him, he thinks. It’s his birthday, after all.

“It looks important,” she says. “A big important file. It might have your mom’s name in it, too.”

Camden’s got her hand on the fly of his jeans. She undoes the button and slips her fingers over the top of his boxer shorts. Her hand feels cold and damp, like she’s part of the fog.

“Show me the file, then we’ll do what you want,” he says.