Sourdough

by Robin Sloan

Here’s a thing I believe about people my age: we are the children of Hogwarts, and more than anything, we just want to be sorted.

We were on a quest to end work. And it would involve: a shit ton of work.

My parents were far away, locked in the frame of a video chat window.

Four years in that cafeteria and I ate nothing but fries. The teenage body is a miracle.

“Here we are, all the same as ever. Of course, for some of us, that’s an achievement…”

I told them both I didn’t have time for this bullshit, and if anybody wanted to ask a lady out, he could do it via text message like a normal person.

I felt the disorientation of a generous offer that in no way lines up with anything you want to do: like a promotion to senior alligator wrestler, or an all-expenses-paid trip to Gary, Indiana.

He’s in that dangerous place where he will heed any suggestion. He is a prime candidate for cult membership.

It’s colder than he expected, and he has neglected to bring anything heavier than a T-shirt. He’s twenty-one. He’s from California. He doesn’t yet think of these things.

He has never in his life given a thought to fashion; for him, a garment has never changed the way he stood in a room. Brixi’s yellow coat does that now. It is the first of many cool coats that James Bascule will possess.