Idea in Stone by Hamish Macdonald

rejuvenating effect on him. Stefan liked being on the move, and enjoyed the idea that no one knew where he was. Shifting his recording schedule had been easy, too. The only disconcerting thing was this destination.
    Of all the parts of his makeup Stefan was uncomfortable about, this one—the “Indian” connection—was the most awkward. His opinions about the First Nations, the Indians, the Native Canadians, or whatever he was supposed to call them, whatever some fraction of him was supposed to be, were all received ones. His mother benefited from the association, as it added something exotic and quintessentially Canadian to her image. But the truth was that she left home in her teens to pursue her career and left behind everything about this world. She was only one-quarter Métis to begin with, hardly much of a claim. Stefan’s connection was even more tenuous.
    He’d heard too many one-sided, self-assured conversations about free tuition, gun running, tax exemption, cigarette smuggling, land claims, casinos, and suicide to want to have anything to do with it. It certainly had nothing to do with him.
    Yet here he was, Stefan J. Mackechnie, pulling up to the house of Thomas Jackrabbit, source of Stefan’s never-divulged middle name. The one-story house stood next to the school where Thomas taught until his retirement.
    Stefan pulled up the parking brake and got out of the car. An old German Shepherd made its way to him, its back haunches lowered by degenerated hips. It sniffed at him, then nuzzled its head familiarly under Stefan’s hand. Surely it didn’t remember him, he thought. They’d only visited twice, and those visits were a long time ago. Perhaps dogs don’t forget these things . His grandfather, though, was another matter, peering out between the living room curtains suspiciously. Stefan waved, but his grandfather clearly didn’t know who he was.
    Stefan went to the front door and rang the bell, an awkward formality, given that they both knew the other was there.
    “Yes?” asked Thomas, opening the inner door but not the screen door.
    “Hello,” said Stefan.
    Clearly Stefan wasn’t a government person, wearing such casual clothes and driving such a sporty car. But he was big city, certainly not from any of the towns nearby. Thomas was at a loss.
    “Grandpa, it’s me.”
    The man looked him up and down. Thomas’s mouth formed the name: Robert ? The surprise passed to Stefan: he hadn’t considered that he might look like his father.
    “Yeah, he was my dad. We visited you years ago. I’m Stefan.”
    Thomas’s face brightened. “Stefan! Come on in!” He opened both doors wide and put an arm around Stefan, leading him into the living room. The air smelled tired, rebreathed many times over. The space was a mix of eras—a battered, soft, and shapeless old orange couch sat next to a lamp with a handmade shade like a stretched scrapbook; then, opposite them, a giant television and a video game console. Thomas saw Stefan looking at this incredulously. “Oh, that. No, I’m no good at all those games. I keep getting my ass kicked. They’re for the kids.”
    “Kids?” asked Stefan.
    “Sit,” said Thomas. He walked with some difficulty, like an overstuffed pillow on spindly legs. His grey and black hair was neatly pulled back. His face was weathered and wrinkled, the kind of face, Stefan thought with some discomfort, you usually see in a casket. But the expression was all comfort and ease here at home. “Not my kids. My kids are all grown. I mean the children who come by after school. I teach them some extra French, and I try to cover things I think they should know but don’t get in the standard curriculum. In exchange, I get to learn from them about new things in the world I wouldn’t hear about otherwise, and I let them use that video thing. I tell them to show respect for their elders, but they’re forever blowing my head off.”
    Stefan laughed. He liked the man.
    “Would you like