“I’m with my father. He’s inside.” A berserk holo dances over the sidewalk.

I can tell by the look in her eyes-soft, sweet blue eyes-that she thinks Dad’s a virch-head, a gore junkie. I let her think it. Why not? It’s better than the shit that’s for real.

Suddenly I’m aware that she’s looking me over, from head to foot. Appraising me. I don’t know how she’s doing the judging, what I could do better, what mistakes I should cover up. So I try to stand taller, and wish that I didn’t have zits on my face.

Finally she says, “I bet you don’t have a pinger, right?”

I’ve failed. I feel the crushing weight of that. I mutter, “No.”

“Well,” Brett says, sliding a piece of paper into my hand, “if you’re near a pinger sometime and tap that number, you’ll get me. And we’ll go do something. Okay?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer, but strides on away.

I watch her as she goes, appreciating the curves of her body. I can’t think past the hot wonderful first shock of what’s happened. Only when Dad comes out of the parlor-no one chasing the butthead today-do I hurry to stuff the slip of paper into my coat pocket.

* * *

There are Handoutlets in this part of the city, which is different from the nicer, cleaner parts, like where we used to live before Mom started dying so expensively and Dad got so nuts his employers shitcanned him. Adalia, when she left us, said she was going to go get a job of her own, go straight, join “the system.” I remember being upset about it all, but mostly because I was too young to really understand what was happening. It seemed to me like the family was disappearing around me, one by one.

Once, Adalia told me what sex was. She was so worldly when she spoke about it, even though she was only a little older than I am now. Sex, according to Dad, is a sin-though that’s conditional. Married people can, and should, have sex. But that meant that Dad and Mom …

“That’s right, Ceddy,” Adalia told me on that occasion in her forthright way. She was, I think, always a little cold, though she tried to be sisterly to me. “Now, this is what people do.” And she explained it like it was mechanics. I blushed and blushed, and looked at my feet.

At the Handoutlet we get a free meal and, after, a five minute shower in one of the stalls. There are a lot fewer homeless than there used to be. Social services work better these days.

That’s what people say. But it doesn’t mean all that much if you’re one of the ones still on the street.

Dad’s got a sore on his left knee and asks if it can be looked at. The attendants take him behind a screen that’s printed with roses and thorns.

I use the opportunity. We’ve been to this ’Outlet before, of course; I know some of the personnel. I wheedle with a guy named Tony until he lets me use his phone. I ping Brett’s number, nervous, chewing my lip. It’s been a week since I last saw her. This time I can barely talk after she answers and I identify myself. But she takes charge. She tells me where, then asks me when.

“After my father goes to sleep.” I make a guess at the time.

She purrs me a goodbye, and I give Tony back his pinger. I feel like I’m floating. I also feel like I’m about to puke the rice and liver I just ate; but I don’t. When Dad reappears, I have to hide how giddy I am. For one sudden frightening moment I hate him, totally, indescribably.

Because I’m going to have to sneak around him. Because he would call what I’m-hopefully- going to do a sin.

But the hate passes, and he’s just asshole Dad again. We head out to the plaza.

* * *

She hands me a slice of pizza-out of a box, not out of the trash. I grin, and squeeze the five packets of ketchup I’m carrying in my coat pocket onto it. One of the others at the squat starts to say something sneery, but Brett whaps him on the head with an old flyswatter she’s playing with. Everything she does is beautiful.

It’s late, after midnight, but everybody’s acting like it’s the middle of the day. The room is “furnished” with junk, though the junk’s not bad. There are places to sit, to lie down. A lamp burns. Of the half dozen people gathered here, I know Brett-of course-and one other, from the group that was hanging out with her in front of the pharmacy. The rest are hoodlum types, but more or less friendly. They’ve got marijuana and beer. I’m the youngest.

Inevitably a cigarette gets offered to me. I’m sitting next to Brett, and I look to her. She does this easy roll of her shoulders. “If you want, Bright.”

But I think-or think I think-that she means I should take the toke. So I do. It’s not as bad as I expect it to be. It hurts my lungs and my eyes water, just a little, but I don’t embarrass myself.

Everything is more alive in a sleepy way after that. The room in this derelict building glows with warmth and safety. I can actually feel the soapy freshness of my skin from the shower at the Handoutlet earlier. My appetite comes surging back, but it’s just another interesting sensation, something to enjoy. I snuggle closer to Brett.

She puts her arm around me, and the world soars.

Later, we go outside together.

Even though I’ve imagined about sex a lot, and I’ve fantasized intensely about Brett, I’m so shivery and disconnected that I can’t get hard enough to get the condom on. We’re standing up in a recessed doorway. Visible over the half-collapsed wall of the building opposite is an actual rotting old-time billboard, not a holo. It says you’re born, you live, you die. so drink budweiser.

But again Brett is nice to me. Her skirt is up around her waist, and my pants are stretched between my knees. She says, “Just go ahead, cutie. I mean, there’s a cure now, right?”

I’m amazed at how long it takes me. Five minutes into it she clenches and lets out this babyish squeal. I think I’ve done something wrong-I think I’m doing the whole thing wrong-

but she smiles dreamily and encourages me with soft murmurs. Finally it happens. I like it. But what I like more is hanging in her arms afterward, with my face buried against her bare throat, breathing in her smell.

I sneak back to Dad and get back into my sleeping bag. He’s turned away; he doesn’t move; I can’t see his face. I’m sure he knows. I’m sure he’s watched me every second tonight, just the way it is in the stories he used to tell the family, and which he now tries to tell to strangers.

* * *

What Dad is doing is proselytizing, a word I learned when it was still an impossible mouthful for me. Anybody can believe whatever they want. Obviously. Any person can think any thought they like. Try and stop them. But to pray out loud in the presence of others is to commit assault. You can do serious jail time.

Even so, even though everybody knows how illegal it is, Dad has something of a following. As his staunch lookout, I’ve watched some people return deliberately to where he does his stuff. They’re seeking out his words. Maybe those words are familiar to some of them; others, maybe, are hearing them for the first time and are captivated. The words stopped making sense for me months and months ago. Dad might as well have been talking about faeries and mermaids. Crazy fucker.