So my sixteenth birthday was a rather restrained affair. Doris, my foster mom, had recently died of cancer. But my foster sister, Deborah, made me a cake and Harry gave me a new fishing rod. I blew out the candles, we ate the cake, and then Harry took me into the backyard of our modest Coconut Grove house. He sat at the redwood picnic table that he had built by the brick barbecue oven and motioned me to sit, too.

Well, Dex, he said. Sixteen. You’re almost a man.

I wasn’t sure what that was supposed to mean—me? a man? as in human?—and I did not know what sort of response was expected of me. But I did know that it was usually best not to make clever remarks with Harry, so I just nodded. And Harry gave me a blue-eyed X-ray. Are you interested in girls at all? he asked me.

Um—in what way? I said.

Kissing. Making out. You know. Sex.

My head whirled at the thought as though a cold dark foot were kicking at the inside of my forehead. Not, uh, no. I, um, I said, silver-tongued even then. Not like that.

Harry nodded as if that made sense. Not boys, though, he said, and I just shook my head. Harry looked at the table, then back at the house. When I turned sixteen my father took me to a whore. He shook his head and a very small smile flickered across his face. It took me ten years to get over that. I could think of absolutely nothing to say to that. The idea of sex was completely alien to me, and to think of paying for it, especially for your child, and when that child was Harry—well really. It was all too much. I looked at Harry with something close to panic and he smiled.

No, said Harry. I wasn’t going to offer. I expect you’ll get more use out of that fishing rod. He shook his head slowly and looked away, far out over the picnic table, across the yard, down the street. Or a fillet knife.

Yes, I said, trying not to sound too eager.

No, he said again, we both know what you want. But you’re not ready.

Since the first time Harry had talked to me about what I was, on a memorable camping trip a couple of years ago, we had been getting me ready. Getting me, in Harry’s words, squared away. As a muttonheaded young artificial human I was eager to get started on my happy career, but Harry held me back, because Harry always knew.

I can be careful, I said.

But not perfect, he said. There are rules, Dexter. There have to be. That’s what separates you from the other ones.

Blend in, I said. Clean up, don’t take chances, um . . .