Down below, near the back entrance of the Rec Barn, Laird then heard Clayton and Bev in cahoots, mocking him. “Carl Sagan is on fire tonight! And over yonder,” Clayton quipped, “you can spot the constellation Labia Minora.” Bev tittered. They had been partaking of Clayton’s marijuana, a nightly truant ritual. The jokes at his expense didn’t bother Laird, as he knew he would never fall in love with Beverly. By now he had memorized every crevice of her body: the stretch marks she begrudged under the larger of her breasts, the rosy scar on her upper thigh that fit exactly the length of his pinkie finger. He harbored an infinite tenderness toward her, but it was nothing like the explosive passion he once felt for his ex-wife. Well, perhaps this was natural—the tempering of emotion with age—so that at the end of one’s life, you might wander through the recollections of former loves as if through the graveyard of burned-out stars. It was a viable theory that he cared less about everything only because he was tired.

“We should ask the folks who run Vineyard Skin Tattoo Parlor, don’t you think?” Clayton gestured toward an awning. “Rex could be in there right now, getting new ink.”

“I don’t think Rex has any old ink,” replied Laird.

They had parked the car by a row of pastel gingerbread rental houses. Purportedly, a famous children’s poet who wrote a book about sidewalks and where they end had once resided in one of them, donning a kimono, popping LSD, and cursing on his balcony until he died. The three of them strolled toward the main drag of restaurants and ice-cream stalls.

“I’m aware of that, Professor Crick—or would you rather be Watson, out of those two? It was supposed to be funny. But while we’re on the subject,” Clayton continued, “what kind of tat do you suppose an internet troll would get on their bicep? I’m going with MOM in all capitals surrounded by a red heart.”

“Clay, just because somebody has done stuff they’re not proud of doesn’t mean they’re not human,” Beverly chided him.

“I didn’t imply he wasn’t human,” Clayton sniffed. “Why do you suppose he bolted? I heard it was because he got another anonymous message.”

Someone at Jabberwocky had found out Rex’s secret and had been leaving notes under his pillow or in his mail cubby. On each cardboard square was a crudely drawn poop emoji with a quotation bubble coming out of its mouth. Inside each bubble was written an incriminating phrase or sentence plucked from Rex’s perverse online contributions.

“I don’t think it is appropriate to speculate,” Laird replied. He crossed his arms in a manner he hoped would put an end to that line of questioning.

“Isn’t Rex here on Asshole Scholarship?” Clayton continued. “He’s the most deserving of the trolls.”

Laird penned a mental note to himself: Bring up camp nomenclature at the next counselor meeting. The reality was that Jabberwocky did have a fund for less affluent families, and Rex was one of those attending on what the staff had termed Asshole Scholarships. Okay, it was a form of gallows humor, Laird could acknowledge that, like how they used to quote gems from atrocious student papers in the faculty lounge. But how was he supposed to scold Clayton if every other adult used that colloquialism, too? Let’s all blow off steam and feel better about our lot in life, in the process killing our empathy receptors.