The morning light pours into my room, making it impossible to sleep, no matter how hard I try. 35 has been up for a while, but lets me keep trying. Eventually, I give up. I head to the kitchen, where Delilah is eating her breakfast.

As soon as she hears me enter, she turns to face me. Her eyes go wide, and she puts her plate in the sink and goes to her room without saying a word.

“What exactly did you tell her last night?” I ask 35.

“Everything I could without burdening her too much.”

I would like to know what that entails, but at this point, I’ve given up.

I head to the pantry, pull out a couple of Pop Tarts, throw them in the toaster, then enjoy them in silence. Even 35 stays quiet. It doesn’t take me long to finish up. I go to my room, only to hear a knock almost immediately. Mom enters before I can answer.

“Hi Sweetie, are you feeling okay this morning?”

I don’t feel anything. I never do. So I answer…

“I don’t know.”

With 35 sitting in my chair, she just accepts that answer. She normally wouldn’t.

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry. I feel like I’ve abandoned you to…”

She gestures towards 35.

“It definitely was not the best course of action, but I get it; I don’t exactly look all that friendly,” they comment. “But like we discussed before, my appearance will be more and more revealed as progress is made.”

“Right…and what exactly did Brock do to make your eyes visible?”

“That is not my story to share.”

“Then who’s is it?”

They silently point right at me.

Come on! Why does this fall on me?

“Well, what did you do?”

Oh no. Do I tell her? I don’t want to! It’s stupid, embarrassing! But if I don’t, she’ll yell at me and take my phone away. I don’t want that either. Ugh! I guess I have to.

“You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to,” 35 thinks to me.

I hesitate. “Do I have to answer that?” I ask out loud.

“Yes Sweetie.”

“I don’t want to…”

She grows stern. “Why?”

“It’s embarrassing.”

“I brought you into this world, I can take you out of it.”

Ughhh…

“Did you just threaten to kill your kid?” 35 asks sharply.

“Wha-No?” Mom stumbles.

“I’m confused then. You said you can take your kid out of this world, and claim it’s not a death threat. I’m lost. Could you explain why taking your kid out of this world isn’t a death threat?”

“It’s an expression that moms say to their kids,” she defends. “In any case, he’s the child, I’m the parent. He has to do what I say.”

“And that entitles you to aspects and details your kid wants private? I believe the word used was ‘embarrassing.’”

“I’m his mom.”

“So? Imagine if someone demanded you talk about all the men you fantasize running off to Montana with.”

Mom is shocked at this. She almost gasps.

“I do not fantasize running off with any men!” she shrieks.

“You’re married to that chump and you don’t fantasize about other men? You poor, poor woman.”

“It’s my duty as a wife and mother! They only thing I might fantasize about is going on a long vacation with my girlfriends!”

35 goes silent. It looks like they’re analyzing something.

Mom takes a second to breathe, then turns towards me. “Moving on. I wanted to apologize for abandoning you with 35. I was scared.”

Okay, whatever.

“You can eat with us again, once Dad leaves for work tomorrow.”

Oh, okay.

“Has Brownie kept you company?”

“Yes,” I say, hugging him.

“Good. I’ll go back to tucking you in, maybe tonight.”

Whatever.

“Anyways, could you finish your homework, since you didn’t do it last night? Love you.”

She turns around to exit, but then 35 calls out.

“Ma’am…”

She stops and turns around. She gives 35 a frown.

“Yes?”

“I really do believe you deserve better. If your husband doesn’t make you happy, there are plenty of people out there in the world who would. Don’t tie yourself down to misery for a possibly misguided sense of obligation to him.”

Mom’s face softens. She doesn’t say a word before leaving my room.

“What was that about?” I ask as soon as she’s gone.

“You’ve seen them argue, right?”

“Yeah, but isn’t that what couples do?”

“Not like that, typically, no.”

A tear falls down 35’s face.

“Are you crying?”

“Yeah. Sorry, it just pains me to think that someone would do that to themselves, and those around them they claim to care about.”

They wipe away the tear.

“Let’s get going on your homework.”

Without saying much else, I get to it. Mostly. As much as I can while also inserting YouTube videos into my time. Yeah, of course it’s going slowly. I’m also getting antsy from having gone an entire week without playing with myself. That’s not helping either.

“Seriously, why won’t you let me…”

“Let you what?”

“You know…uh…” I gesture towards my crotch.

“…right.”

Using my lungs, they take a deep breath.

“Uh, I’m not sure if there’s an easy way to say this.” They pause. “Let’s just start out by saying that since you don’t know my age, it’s best to just assume that I am an adult.”

“Okay?”

What's that got to do with anything?

They facepalm, then take a moment to calm themselves down.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“No, you didn’t,” they assure. “I’m just picking up that you’ve never had ‘the talk.’ I feel like I cannot ethically communicate the information I need to unless you have the talk with your parents.”

I almost jump at the sound of talking with my parents about that, but yeah, that’s true. I’ve never really had “the talk.” Most I ever got was when I was twelve, Dad told me I was old enough to get someone pregnant, after something that wasn’t pee came out. He also told me to ask Mom, since she’s the former paramedic. I never did. I felt like that’s something I have to keep between guys.

“So, can we please talk to your parents about this?”

I really don’t want to. It’s so awkward. Embarrassing, and I’m almost impossible to embarrass!

“No, please no!” I beg.

“Is it because you’re embarrassed?” they ask calmly.

“Y-yeah!”

“I understand.”

Wait, they do?

“I get it. You’re not exactly open with your parents. And with good reason. I mean, look how they’ve been treating you since I showed up. They’ve basically abandoned you to me.”

Yeah, they did. I feel a spike of anger. But then again…

“Well, what else would they do?” I ask rhetorically.

“Assure you that you’re not alone. That they’re there for you. Maybe even hold your hand a couple of times if it got scary.”

Ugh, gross.

“I’m too old for that,” I scowl as I turn away.

I feel a surge of sadness from 35.

“We’re never too old for our parents, kid.” The sadness deepens, and I catch a glimpse of I still wish my parents could have been good enough to accept me.

Uh, okay. I mean, it makes sense that their parents wouldn’t “accept” them if all they are is some dark ghost.

“In any case, I have a sneaking suspicion that you don’t do what you do in the shower to enjoy yourself; you’re doing it to escape a bad reality.”

What? No! Of course I enjoy it!

“You’re wrong!” I snap.

“I’m not going to argue, but let me ask this: do you ever do it cause you feel in the mood to do it, or because it’s the only way to feel even a sliver a real happiness?”

My mind goes blank.

“I also feel like you’re using video games the same way. Remember the second day I was here, you played and played until you couldn’t anymore? Again, it sounds like you were trying to escape something.”

I look down. I don’t have an answer. I don’t want it to be true! It can’t be true! But I can’t prove it’s false…

“Anyway, I can’t give you any aspect of ‘the talk,’ without your parents’ permission. So, unless you can go the rest of my existence without bringing it up again…”

I plop my head on my computer desk. No, it’s definitely going to come up.

“I can’t,” I quietly admit.

Fortunately, 35 understands so I don’t have to repeat myself.

“So, can we talk to your parents? It would be for the best if we’re going to arrange a way for you to have your ‘personal fun.’”

Wait, really?

I perk up a bit.

“You’d do that for me?”

“Of course. I get it. I wouldn’t want to be condemned to forced complete abstinence for over four years either. But first, parents.”

“Now?”

“No, just whenever you’re ready. Preferably a day when your dad is here.”

I slump back down.

“I’m scared of that.”

“It’s okay. I’ll always have your back whenever you’re scared. Especially if there’s good reason for your fears.”

I don’t know how to react. I just stare of into the distance, wondering if I should talk to them or not. Unable to answer myself I turn back towards my computer and get back to my homework. It’s not any more exciting now than it was a couple minutes ago. In fact, the decision to talk to my parents or not is distracting me even more than anything else was. I don’t know the next time Dad’s going to be back. Ugh.

“Let’s talk to them,” I crack.

“Alright, let’s go,” says 35.

I get up, head towards my door, and then the living room. Mom is folding the blankets on the couch. She sets a pillow up when she turns to notice me.

“Oh, hey Sweetie,” she says softly. She turns towards 35. “Did you two of you need something?”

“Y-Yeah,” I stutter. “35 wants to talk about something.”

“Oh? About what?”

“Uhhhh…” I look down. I am not making eye contact with her as I say this! “Remember when Dad gave…’the talk?’”

I can’t describe the look on her face, but I’m pretty sure she’s thinking “What the f-?” Not that she says that. She doesn’t say anything at all for fifteen seconds.

“Uhh, why?” She then glances at 35, and realizes what this is about. “Oh, uh. What exactly is it we would talk about?”

“Consent,” 35 answers for me.

What does that mean?

Mom puts down the pillow she’s holding.

“What does that have to do with anything?” asks Mom.

35 starts “Well, uh, how should I put this delicately?”

I cut to the chase. “They won’t let me masturbate.”

35 buries their face in their hand. Mom looks away, smirking, and snorts, clearly embarrassed.

And now I am too. I should not have said that.

“Well, I get that,” Mom starts. “But doesn’t that sound like a problem between you two? Can't you handle it the same way you handle going to the bathroom?"

No. That would not work. I know that for a fact, and I do not like it.

She continues. "And what does consent have to do with it?”

“It’s one of the reasons why I don’t allow it. You don’t know how mature I am, so it would be best to assume I am an adult. You wouldn’t want a kid and an adult mixing in those circumstances, would you?”

Mom’s eyes go wide with horrific realization. “Kitchen table, now. I’ll get your father.”

“Mind if I help you gather some stories online?” 35 offers.

“Uh, yeah, but let me get Alan first. Brock, go to the kitchen.”

I just give her an “okay” and sit at the table where I normal sit during family dinners. Which I haven’t had in a while. It’s kind of nice not having to eat with the three people I like the least.

While I’m waiting for Mom to show up, Dad sits down at the table. He’s sweaty from working around the house.

“Kemosabe,” he greets.

“Hey Dad,” I answer blankly.

“So, he’s finally left you alone for a bit?”

“Apparently, he can whenever someone else is around. They just hitch a ride.”

I realize how Dad referred to 35.

“You think 35 is a guy?” I ask.

“If he isn’t, then he’s very unladylike.” He pauses, then smirks. “Then again, you’d also be the luckiest bastard in this side of the country. Be able the skip the whole ‘marriage’ step!” He chuckles.

I frown and look away. Boy or girl, living with 35 isn’t something I call “lucky.”

“I’m kidding,” he quickly steps down. “Anyway. I wanted to talk to you about hunting this year.”

Right. Hunting.

“So, as far as I can tell, neither of us got mule deer tags, so the only animal that we can hunt this year is elk, since you can buy the tags without putting in for the draw. This wouldn’t be an issue if they weren’t so big.”

“What are you getting at?”

“Your 243 might not be enough. You might need to borrow my 338.”

Oh. OH.

“I don’t think I can handle the recoil,” I answer hopelessly.

I flinch at the 243, and the 338 is like three or four times as powerful! I’ll never be strong enough to handle it! I guess that means…

“So, I won’t be hunting this year?”

“Well, not necessarily. Besides, we’re getting ahead of ourselves here.”

“What do you mean?”

“The first part is to convince the Wildlife Department or whatever they’re called that it’s safe for you to handle a gun with your squatter on board.”

“Okay, and how do we do that?”

“Well, you can start by making sure that he stays on his best behavior.”

Before I could respond, Mom and 35 show up. Mom’s holding some papers in her hands. She places them on the table in front of herself. 35 stands next to me.

I retreat into my chair. This is not going to be good.

“So, Brock,” Mom starts. “We need to talk to you about…’consent,’ as 35 called it.”

“What about it?” I ask sharply. As if that would scare everyone off.

Mom’s voice turns soft. “Do you know what rape is?”

“Uh….”

I guess that’s one of those words that I thought I knew. I’ve seen it get used. Mostly in Social Studies classes. Like when they talked about the forces making people dig for gold, tungsten, tantalum, and tin. Also, when I was reading up on the concept of virginity. It’s debated if rape counts or not. In any case, I kinda know what it is, but I can’t put it into words.

“It’s when you have sex with someone and they don’t like it?” I answer, hoping I got it right.

Mom and Dad look at each other. I continue to scrunch up. I hate this! Anywhere but here!

“Not quite,” says 35. “It’s when you perform sexual-based activities with, or rather, to someone and they don’t consent to it. Though people do not like having that done to them.”

My eyes drop to the floor.

“Do you know what ‘consent’ is?” they ask.

“Uh…”

I do not. At least, I don’t think I do. Which I feel like I’m supposed to.

“No.”

“It’s another word for ‘permission,’ essentially,” Mom says. “You cannot have sex with someone without their permission.”

“O-kay.” That sounds rather obvious. Why would you ever do that with someone who doesn’t want to?

“It’s like boxing,” 35 adds. “If you don’t have consent from both parties, one of them is committing a crime.”

I think about it. Yeah, I guess. If one doesn’t give permission to fight, then the other is assaulting the other.

I look back up to see Mom’s eyes light up and shine wide at 35. She looks impressed. Dad gives a head shake and an expression that says “I guess.”

Mom continues. “So if a woman says ‘no,’ what do you do?”

“Not have sex with her?” Is this a trick question?

“Correct,” Mom replies. “And what if she says ‘stop?’”

“I…stop?”

“When do you stop?”

“As soon as I can?”

“Immediately, Brock. You stop immediately,” she says sternly.

Once again, my eyes drop to the floor. I curl up in my chair even tighter.

“It’s okay, kid.” 35 assures. “You haven’t done anything wrong. Just make sure that you heed what your mom is telling you.”

I’m still curled up in my chair. I’m shaking. 35 notices.

“Hey, it’s okay kid. You’re not in trouble. Right, Mom and Dad?”

“Yeah, Sweetie, it’s okay, you’re okay,” says Mom.

“Yeah, don’t worry kid,” adds Dad. “You’re not in trouble, we’re not here to punish you.”

“Can we try those breathing exercises I taught you?”

“Y-Yeah,” I stutter.

“Whenever you’re ready.”

I square breathe for four cycles. With each inhale, I feel myself slowing down. With each exhale, my muscles loosen. Eventually, my fear shrinks enough for me to bear it.

“Feeling better?” checks 35.

“Yeah,” I answer quietly.

“That’s good to hear. I’m glad.” They pause for a second. “But yeah, just remember that ‘no’ means ‘no,’ and ‘stop’ means ‘stop,’ and you’ll be safe.”

Dad snorts. “Back in my day, when a woman said no, it just meant you gotta chase her. Show you how much you care about her.”

Mom…cringes? Is that the word?

“No…” 35 groans. “Kid, don’t do that. Respect her agency.”

“Agency?”

“Autonomy. Self-determination. Women are not prizes to be won, nor items to be bought.”

Dad shrugs.

“Yeah son, don’t,” he concedes. “It’s a good way to end up in prison these days. And I will not have any kids of mine going to prison. Especially when they live under my roof.”

There’s an uncomfortable silence.

“Anyway,” Mom resumes. “We’re having this discussion because we love you, and we need you to understand something very important: You cannot consent to someone who has authority or power over you.”

Makes sense.

“That is why minors cannot consent to adults, and why students cannot consent to teachers.”

I guess?

“To put it simply,” 35 adds. “If you can’t say ‘no,’ you can’t say ‘yes.’”

Okay, okay.

Mom pushes the papers in front of me. They’re all news articles about teachers who slept with students.

“Not ‘slept with.’ Raped,” thinks 35.

Right, raped.

“Sex is not an achievement,” they say out loud.

“Well, it can be,” says Dad. “Especially for a young buck like you!” He chuckles.

35 glares. “That attitude causes cases like these to go underreported!”

“Hey, I was kidding. I would not be happy if I heard that this happened to Brock,” Dad retreats. “Then again, I suppose I don’t have to worry about that with you around.”

“So, what’s this got to do with what I do in the bathroom?” I interject.

“Since we don’t know how old 35 is, we have to assume they’re an adult,” Mom explains. “And since you’re using the same brain, any…’activity’ you feel would be felt by 35 as well.”

Okay, I kind of see it.

“Unless I really don’t feel what’s happening,” 35 quickly adds. “We can start by experimenting.”

WHAT?

“With pain.”

OH

“Your mother and I go to another room, you cause yourself pain, then I try to guess how you’re doing it.”

“Alan, I need you to stay here,” Mom says to him. “I’m going to text you their guess.”

“Whatever you say, dear.”

“Ready, Sweetie?”

Might as well get this over with.

“Ready.”

Mom and 35 head out to the garage. As soon as the door closes, I bite my right hand. It doesn’t cause as much pain as I hoped, but it is there.

Dad receives a text.

“He says you’re doing something to your right hand.” He shows me the text.

Dang it!

Mom texts back, saying maybe it can be a distance-decay thing, so they will hop in her car and go to the end of the driveway. Dad and I patiently wait for them to get there. Eventually he gets a text, saying “now do something else.”

I bite my left hand. Same pain result. We wait for their answer. And wait. And wait. And wait. Then Dad gets another text.

“Are you doing anything yet? 35 says there’s a slight tingle in their left hand.”

I perk up. Could it be? Is this actually working!?!

“Tell them to drive a mile down the road!” I tell Dad.

He texts, we wait. Mom texts back. I bite the tip of my tongue. I keep doing so. We wait. We wait. We keep waiting. Until finally…

“He doesn’t feel anything,” Dad says, reading the text.

I switch to biting my right hand again, but this time, on the other side. I keep waiting. And waiting. And waiting.

“He still doesn’t feel anything,” Dad says, a little excitedly.

Yes. YES. YES!!!

I run to the bathroom.

“Could you wait til it’s not on our minds!?!?” Dad screams. “No one needs to know when you’re doing that!”

I stop.

“Also, since we’ve established that this is possible, we need to talk to the FBI. Maybe he doesn’t need to come with you to school anymore.”

Wow. Didn’t think about that.

“Look, you’ll get your chance, just let us handle this first.”

Right. I slump. 35 is suddenly next to me.

“How cool is that?!” They exclaim.

“Dad’s going to make you not come to school with me.” I say softly.

“What?!”

I hear Mom’s car pull up.

“Go talk to them about it,” I say.

“Go back to doing your homework, Brock,” Dad orders. “It might be best if you don’t have it on your mind during dinner.”

Can’t argue with that.

**** (One week and a couple days later…)

I slowly walk my way from the kitchen to get breakfast. I already have my clothes on, but I’m still groggy like I am every school morning.

This time, however, the TV is on, turned to the news. I stop to watch what they are saying.

“Good morning, everyone. It’s 7 am on Monday, August 20^th…”

Wow, it’s already been two weeks since this whole thing started? Maybe it won’t be so long after all.

…yesterday, an Earthquake measuring 6.6 on the Richter scale…”

Ugh! It’s not the Richter Scale! It’s the Moment Magnitude Scale!

“…killing four people…”

35 covers their face with both of their hands.

“That’s terrible!” They cry.

I continue towards the kitchen. Deli is eating cereal as usual.

“’Sup?” she says as I walk in.

“Nothin,” I reply with no energy.

I pull out a couple Pop-Tarts and stick them in the toaster.

“…Governor Deborah West continues to insist…”

“Governor who?” 35 asks, shocked.

“I don’t know,” I answer.

“Could you please watch the news? I need to see this.”

Fine, I don’t know what could be so fascinating.

I stand at the entrance to the kitchen, facing the TV. On screen is a blonde middle-aged woman. Her title on-screen is “Governor Deborah West.”

“…it’s in our best interests to get on friendly terms with this entity. It’s been two weeks, and they have shown no bad intentions towards the child or anyone else. In fact, their actions have…”

Ugh, they’re talking about me. I hate it. 35 seems to be…I can’t find the word. Surprised, I guess? Can’t tell if it’s a good thing or a bad thing.

“As of right now, the Weaver Family continues to decline to make any statements regarding...”

Yep. Every other day, another news van shows up, and only half of them make it to the front door before facing the wrath of Mom.

I hear a pop of the toaster and head over to gather my pastries. Nothing is going to stop me from eating them. Not even an angry spirit.

I don’t know what’s got 35 all worked up, but I do know that today’s the day I get to talk to my friends again.