Martian Time-Slip

by Philip K. Dick

“Back Home,” Leo said, “when you were a young fellow, you always played around a lot. But I know you’re settled down, now.” “I am,” Jack said. “And I think you’re imagining things.” “You do seem withdrawn, Jack,” his father said. “I hope that old trouble of yours, you know what I mean, isn’t bothering you. I’m talking about—” “I know what you’re talking about.” Relentlessly, Leo went on, “When I was a boy there was no mental illness like there is now. It’s a sign of the times; too many people, too much overcrowding. I remember when you first got sick, and a long time before that, say from when you were seventeen on, you were cold toward other people, uninterested in them. Moody, too. Seems to me you’re like that, now.” Jack glared at his father. This was the trouble with having one’s folks visit; they could never resist the temptation to resume their old roles as the All-wise, the All-knowing. To Leo, Jack was not a grown man with a wife and child; he was simply his son Jack.