Malia returned with the transmitter. A.K.A, my son. He looked so thin and fragile. Long, loose limbs, fresh skin on bone. A neck I could wrap my fingers around. Eyeglasses with inch-thick lenses. Greasy hair, hand combed and parted on the side. Cutest kid on earth, maybe the whole universe.

“Call my son a transmitter again, and I’ll fucking kill you,” I said. Me and my empty threats.

When Rox saw me he rushed forward. I squatted down and received him in open arms. Crushed him against my chest. Whenever I would hug him like this I heard all the things I wished I could say to him in my head and hoped he heard it in his. We couldn’t talk in a meaningful way, so I prayed for telepathy. I think his heart heard. Otherwise, why the hug? Why squeeze me like I’m the only thing floating miles from shore?

“You okay, buddy?” I whispered, and he shook his head against my neck. He’s not a liar like me.

“We’re going to go home. Soon, okay?” I hoped I wasn’t telling another lie, especially when he nodded his head and repeated that crucial word, “Home.”

“I can’t stop the talking,” he said. “All the words, all the talking. And then when it stops talking I hear all the talking come out of my mouth.”

I thought I knew what he was trying to say. “I’ll make it quiet again,” I said. I’d do anything in the world for the little dude, and that’s no lie. I’m a good person, damnit. A better father than I would have thought. I’d given up my life for him, and was now risking my soul.

“Quiet,” he said, and I pressed our heads together, sending ‘I love you I love you I love you’ to him through my brainwaves.

But I said it out loud for good measure, “I love you, Rox,” and he squeezed harder. Here’s a little-known secret: rock and rollers have big hearts. Just don’t tell anyone.

I could have stayed like that for the rest of eternity, but nothing ever lasts. I broke the hug and stood up. “Okay,” I said.