holo-screen? He must be , the boy thinks, closing his mouth. His heart is still racing and he almost feels like he’s watching the screen from above, hovering slightly, the way he sometimes feels when he’s sick and everything gets really hot one minute and freezing the next.
His father is an important man.
He knows it, has always known it, and for a moment—just a few seconds—his smile stretches from ear to ear.
And then the newswoman begins speaking:
“The successful operation was overseen by Pop Con boss, Michael Kelly, the recent subject of much criticism due to decreased Slip termination rates. However, after today’s performance, it’s likely his job is safe for the foreseeable future.”
Pop Con boss. Slip termination. Criticism. Safe. Each word marches across the boy’s brain, which, thankfully, remains in his skull. He raises a hand to his chest and breathes deeply as his heart thuds against his palm.
“Michael Kelly.” The boy doesn’t realize he’s said the words out loud until his father stirs on the couch.
“Son?” his father says, blinking the sleep away with reluctant eyelids. “What are you doing up?” He starts to stretch but stops with his arms raised above his head when he sees his face on the screen. “Dammit,” he mutters.
His father marches him straight to bed, but the boy doesn’t sleep a wink. There are too many thoughts pushing for space in his mind. He has so many questions for his father that he’s afraid he might forget one. Although he tried to ask a few already, his father said, “Not now,” and closed the door.
He waits and waits and waits for his father to get him up for swimming, but he never comes, even when the rising sun spills light through the window.
Even when he hears Janice arrive, his father doesn’t come. Is he being punished for sneaking out of his room?
Finally, what seems like hours later, Janice taps twice on his door and pushes inside. The boy’s eyes are burning from lack of sleep and his throat is dry, his water glass empty many hours earlier.
“Hi, child,” she says. She scratches her arm absently, her nails painting white lines on her skin.
“Hi,” he says.
Neither of them smile, as if it’s too much work.
“Your father...he had to rush to work. Some emergency. He said he’s sorry for not saying goodbye.” Her voice sounds strange, distant, like she’s talking to him through a long tube.
The boy says nothing. He can’t feel the parts of his body below the blanket, so he wiggles his toes just to make sure they’re still there.
“You want breakfast?” Janice asks. The white scratch-lines on her skin have turned pink.
The boy nods, pretending not to notice.
“Your father told me what you saw,” she says.
The boy says nothing, although hundreds of questions push against the inside of his closed lips, fighting to get out. He knows she won’t answer them anyway. No one cares if he knows anything.
“I’ll bring you breakfast in bed,” Janice says, smiling. “A special treat. And double holo-screen time for you today. And no lessons. I need to sleep anyway.”
The boy swallows the questions he really wants to ask. “Can I play with the other kids today?” he asks instead. He can’t hide the edge in his voice.
Janice’s smile fades. “It’s not saf—”
“Stop!” the boy cries. “I see the kids playing outside. Why are they safe but I’m not? Why am I stuck in here and they get to run around? Why does Father only take me out at night when everyone’s sleeping?” He sees her flinch at the last question. Evidently she didn’t know about that, but he doesn’t care, and it doesn’t stop the questions from pouring from his mouth—an endless stream. “Why do they terminate the Slips? What is Pop Con and why does Father work there? Why was Father’s face on the holo-screen last night and why was he drinking his special drink and why does he have two names when I have none and why did he cry twice ?”
He
His father is an important man.
He knows it, has always known it, and for a moment—just a few seconds—his smile stretches from ear to ear.
And then the newswoman begins speaking:
“The successful operation was overseen by Pop Con boss, Michael Kelly, the recent subject of much criticism due to decreased Slip termination rates. However, after today’s performance, it’s likely his job is safe for the foreseeable future.”
Pop Con boss. Slip termination. Criticism. Safe. Each word marches across the boy’s brain, which, thankfully, remains in his skull. He raises a hand to his chest and breathes deeply as his heart thuds against his palm.
“Michael Kelly.” The boy doesn’t realize he’s said the words out loud until his father stirs on the couch.
“Son?” his father says, blinking the sleep away with reluctant eyelids. “What are you doing up?” He starts to stretch but stops with his arms raised above his head when he sees his face on the screen. “Dammit,” he mutters.
His father marches him straight to bed, but the boy doesn’t sleep a wink. There are too many thoughts pushing for space in his mind. He has so many questions for his father that he’s afraid he might forget one. Although he tried to ask a few already, his father said, “Not now,” and closed the door.
He waits and waits and waits for his father to get him up for swimming, but he never comes, even when the rising sun spills light through the window.
Even when he hears Janice arrive, his father doesn’t come. Is he being punished for sneaking out of his room?
Finally, what seems like hours later, Janice taps twice on his door and pushes inside. The boy’s eyes are burning from lack of sleep and his throat is dry, his water glass empty many hours earlier.
“Hi, child,” she says. She scratches her arm absently, her nails painting white lines on her skin.
“Hi,” he says.
Neither of them smile, as if it’s too much work.
“Your father...he had to rush to work. Some emergency. He said he’s sorry for not saying goodbye.” Her voice sounds strange, distant, like she’s talking to him through a long tube.
The boy says nothing. He can’t feel the parts of his body below the blanket, so he wiggles his toes just to make sure they’re still there.
“You want breakfast?” Janice asks. The white scratch-lines on her skin have turned pink.
The boy nods, pretending not to notice.
“Your father told me what you saw,” she says.
The boy says nothing, although hundreds of questions push against the inside of his closed lips, fighting to get out. He knows she won’t answer them anyway. No one cares if he knows anything.
“I’ll bring you breakfast in bed,” Janice says, smiling. “A special treat. And double holo-screen time for you today. And no lessons. I need to sleep anyway.”
The boy swallows the questions he really wants to ask. “Can I play with the other kids today?” he asks instead. He can’t hide the edge in his voice.
Janice’s smile fades. “It’s not saf—”
“Stop!” the boy cries. “I see the kids playing outside. Why are they safe but I’m not? Why am I stuck in here and they get to run around? Why does Father only take me out at night when everyone’s sleeping?” He sees her flinch at the last question. Evidently she didn’t know about that, but he doesn’t care, and it doesn’t stop the questions from pouring from his mouth—an endless stream. “Why do they terminate the Slips? What is Pop Con and why does Father work there? Why was Father’s face on the holo-screen last night and why was he drinking his special drink and why does he have two names when I have none and why did he cry twice ?”
He
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