The first thing he knew was darkness. At least, he thought he was a he, going by his own tentative explorations. This apparently meant a lot to some people, though he honestly wasn’t sure how a nub of flesh between his legs could possibly decide so much of his character, but hey, pronouns were useful. It was a warm, wet, darkness, textured by the faintest traces of light. Water—well, not quite water, but close enough—burbled in his ears.  

There was a heartbeat, too, and muffled voices. Despite the layers of flesh, blood and bone that surrounded him, he heard what they were saying with perfect clarity, through his mother’s ears. Mostly, the voices talked about due dates, and the possibility of his father discovering their crime. Not that what they had done could even called a crime. Nobody—as far as he, his mother, and the men and women she conspired with—knew of a law against it. To the best of their knowledge, nobody had even tried what they were doing. 

This was of great interest of him, as he seemed to be the maybe-crime they were so worried about. 

Most of the people around his mother hated his father: little burning pips in his mind. His mother, not so much. There was fear there, sure, and a dash of resolute anger, but not hate. Disapproval, he decided was the word.

Apparently, his father had made it so everyone in the world had to more or less do what he said, which did seem a little bit unfair. He didn’t ask people to do anything especially bad, but who knew when that might change? People like his mother deserved a place in the world, and they couldn’t have that unless they were free to make their own decisions. It seemed a sensible enough position to him.

He, and a few dozen other children yet unborn all around the world, were meant to change that. Somehow, having a purpose pleased him. 

Time meant very little to the boy—a good enough term as any—as his attention wandered from the dark, peaceful interior world of his mother, to her here and now, to her childhood memories. He decided he was called Summer. It was an in-joke he hoped none of his brothers and sisters had thought to make before him, and it sounded pretty to boot. Plus, it would probably confuse some people, which was always worth a laugh. It was still less silly than his mother’s name. Ambrosia. Her own slight embarrassment at his counterculture grandparents’ parenting choices filtered down to him as bemusement.  

One day, the walls of the world started closing in, and his private sea started draining away...

The first thing he knew was darkness. At least, he thought he was a he, going by his own tentative explorations. This apparently meant a lot to some people, though he honestly wasn’t sure how a nub of flesh between his legs could possibly decide so much of his character, but hey, pronouns were useful. It was a warm, wet, darkness, textured by the faintest traces of light. Water—well, not quite water, but close enough—burbled in his ears.  

There was a heartbeat, too, and muffled voices. Despite the layers of flesh, blood and bone that surrounded him, he heard what they were saying with perfect clarity, through his mother’s ears. Mostly, the voices talked about due dates, and the possibility of his father discovering their crime. Not that what they had done could even called a crime. Nobody—as far as he, his mother, and the men and women she conspired with—knew of a law against it. To the best of their knowledge, nobody had even tried what they were doing. 

This was of great interest of him, as he seemed to be the maybe-crime they were so worried about. 

Most of the people around his mother hated his father: little burning pips in his mind. His mother, not so much. There was fear there, sure, and a dash of resolute anger, but not hate. Disapproval, he decided was the word.

Apparently, his father had made it so everyone in the world had to more or less do what he said, which did seem a little bit unfair. He didn’t ask people to do anything especially bad, but who knew when that might change? People like his mother deserved a place in the world, and they couldn’t have that unless they were free to make their own decisions. It seemed a sensible enough position to him.

He, and a few dozen other children yet unborn all around the world, were meant to change that. Somehow, having a purpose pleased him. 

Time meant very little to the boy—a good enough term as any—as his attention wandered from the dark, peaceful interior world of his mother, to her here and now, to her childhood memories. He decided he was called Summer. It was an in-joke he hoped none of his brothers and sisters hadn't thought to make before him, and it sounded pretty to boot. Plus, it would probably confuse some people, which was always worth a laugh. It was still less silly than his mother’s name. Ambrosia. Her own slight embarrassment at his counterculture grandparents’ parenting choices filtered down to him as bemusement.  

One day, the walls of the world started closing in, and his private sea started draining away...

The first thing he knew was darkness. At least, he thought he was a he, going by his own tentative explorations. This apparently meant a lot to some people, though he honestly wasn’t sure how a nub of flesh between his legs could possibly decide so much of his character, but hey, pronouns were useful. It was a warm, wet, darkness, textured by the faintest traces of light. Water—well, not quite water, but close enough—burbled in his ears.  

There was a heartbeat, too, and muffled voices. Despite the layers of flesh, blood and bone that surrounded him, he heard what they were saying with perfect clarity, through his mother’s ears. Mostly, the voices talked about due dates, and the possibility of his father discovering their crime. Not that what they had done could even called a crime. Nobody—as far as he, his mother, and the men and women she conspired with—knew of a law against it. To the best of their knowledge, nobody had even tried what they were doing. 

This was of great interest of him, as he seemed to be the maybe-crime they were so worried about. 

Most of the people around his mother hated his father: little burning pips in his mind. His mother, not so much. There was fear there, sure, and a dash of resolute anger, but not hate. Disapproval, he decided was the word.

Apparently, his father had made it so everyone in the world had to more or less do what he said, which did seem a little bit unfair. He didn’t ask people to do anything especially bad, but who knew when that might change? People like his mother deserved a place in the world, and they couldn’t have that unless they were free to make their own decisions. It seemed a sensible enough position to him.

He, and a few dozen other children yet unborn all around the world, were meant to change that. Somehow, having a purpose pleased him. 

Time meant very little to the boy—a good enough term as any—as his attention wandered from the dark, peaceful interior world of his mother, to her here and now, to her childhood memories. He decided he was called Summer. It was an in-joke he hoped none of his brothers and sisters had thought to make before him, and it sounded pretty to boot. Plus, it would probably confuse some people, which was always worth a laugh. It was still less silly than his mother’s name. Ambrosia. Her own slight embarrassment at his counterculture grandparents’ parenting choices filtered down to him as bemusement.  

One day, the walls of the world started closing in, and his private sea started draining away...