The God Patent by Ransom Stephens

the book?”
    She curled her lip. “The math book?”
    “Yeah, the
math
book. Math books make great reading.” He picked up the text and took it to a tired couch he’d pilfered from Skate-n-Shred. “It’s story time, children!”
    She rolled her eyes and stayed at the desk, but the corners of her lips sneaked up into a smile.
    Ryan held it out like a picture book, pointing to the equations as he read the text, emphasizing the
if-thens
and
if-and-only-ifs
, the way kindergarten teachers emphasize the morals of fables.
    Katarina said, “That’s not human speech.” There was ridicule in her voice, but he noticed that those bright green eyes didn’t leave the book. A few seconds later, she reached over and turned the page.

I t took a couple of weeks of self-pity, but Ryan’s goodwill reasserted itself, and he pushed forward. He added more off-the-books work, safe from the OCSE. He got a job watering the potted plants that decorated Petaluma’s sidewalks. Most days, he also joined the Central American migrant laborers who stood in front of the mini-mart hoping for an honest day of work at a decent off-the-books wage. At first his freckled arms, auburn hair, and inability to speak Spanish kept him on the fringe of the day-labor subculture, but soon his easy wisecracks and disarming smile were welcomed by his comrades. He kept pushing—picking grapes, fixing fences, and laying concrete—kept stashing his pay, kept his confidence that the money would accumulate. He made sure he was home twice a week for Katarina after school. Watching Katarina reformulate algebra and geometry and helping her address questions in set theory and topology provided the intellectual stimulation that Ryan had always gotten from solving high-tech puzzles.
    Then the rains came and drowned the day-labor work. It rained through December and January. He had to dip into his savings to make rent. He made some money during a rain-free week in February clearing vineyards of brush, but that was it. The storms blew through the rest of February and into March.His funds deteriorated, and reality clashed with his drive to succeed. He had too much time to himself, too much time to think.
    On the first day of spring, he got an e-mail from his old neighbor, Ward. It included a link to a newspaper story. Sean, who was in his first year of high school, had hit the game-winning home run on opening day.
    Wind-driven rain pummeled the copper turret, and Ryan stared into the storm. As the hours passed, any joy he’d felt for his son’s accomplishment faded behind a great screaming message: your boy doesn’t need you!
    He stood and his bones felt heavy. There was no bounce left in him. He slumped under his coat and trudged out the door. He was halfway downstairs when he realized what he was doing. That same old desire—would it ever go away?
    He was going to score some meth.
    He stopped and shook like a wet dog, turned around, went back to his apartment, and grabbed a beer from the refrigerator. As he took a swig, beer for breakfast, he smiled at the irony. He looked around the apartment, from the frumpy couch to the pile of foam he called a bed. It sure didn’t look as though he’d made any progress. Time was wasting. As long as his child support was pegged to an executive income, it would be impossible to get forward on the wages of a working man. As frustration engulfed him, he felt something in his spine. Gently, from deep inside, Grandma spoke to him: “What sort of man would you be then?”
    “Not the kind who sits around waiting to win the lottery,” he said to himself.
    He paced back and forth in front of the rain-streaked window. The valley was fogged in. He could barely see across the street.
    There were only two ways that he could reclaim his life, and they both sucked. He trotted out the idea of suing CreationEnergy. Fighting had tremendous appeal, but fighting Foster—well, Foster wasn’t his enemy. He finished the beer and tossed the bottle