One night, as they cuddled after Clayton had finished rubbing his cock between Nadejda’s breasts, he told her about the article. A friend of his mom’s had emailed his mom, and his mom had forwarded to him, an article about the discovery in Laos of cave art that depicted an infant abandoned in the wilderness and subsequently adopted by the tribe who rescued it. “Families like yours go back to the beginning of time,” his mom’s friend had written. The article went on to say that the ancient Greeks and Romans also practiced adoption. Emperor Augustus himself had been an adopted child. Nadejda responded by kissing Clayton on the cheek and murmuring, “That is beautiful,” but Clayton thought her reaction was fatuous. It was the first time he had felt his erection, and his affection, wilt a little in her presence. When Clayton told Rex about the article, however, Rex had shrugged and said, “If you ask me, adoption is pretty nice. Why do you feel unwanted? You were intentionally selected out of thousands. They could have picked someone else, but they chose you. Sometimes your real family doesn’t have to give you up to not want you. My brothers and my dad constantly let me know what a piece of trash I am, so maybe you should start counting your blessings.” At first Clayton thought that was the remark of a tool, but after a while Rex’s insight was kind of comforting. His adopted parents could have asked for another, but they went with him. And he was their first baby, before the addition of Eleanora from Niger or Gil from Ecuador.

Clay sought out the lobster bisque shooters and crunchy spring rolls favored by the bridesmaids. Maybe the problem was that nowadays the world was filled with too many godforsaken people. When we were living in nomadic tribal hut societies like the cave art guys in Laos, everybody knew everybody else by name. That meant if you were sick or needed extra boar meat that month, your tribesmen would chip in to help a buddy out, but if you were a dickhead, they’d bang a gong and gather around and stone you to death. It was intimate. Corporate jack-offs couldn’t waltz in, swindle you out of hearth and hut, then not have to look you in the eye. Trolls couldn’t Photoshop a hot dog in your mouth with impunity or tweet that you were a dead ringer for Rob Reiner from All in the Family and keep mentioning you in their threads about Rob Reiner from All in the Family. You belonged somewhere. On the flip side, you were also stuck with those people. In the modern world, you might be easily forgotten, but you could also carve out your own niche. You could find where you belonged. His interest in archaeology stemmed from that very reason. Outside of Varna, assisting in hauling up femurs and copper needles from the earth, he knew as much history of these long dead as he did his biological parents. There was something elegant, familiar even, about an anonymous set of bones. He guessed that was ultimately why he tagged along to go get Rex. “Thanks, man,” was what Clayton owed to Rex. “You helped me keep things in perspective,” he would say nonsarcastically, then add, “And your dad and brothers are jerks. Don’t let anyone tell you that you’re trash. No way is blood thicker than water.”