on her throat as well. She
didn’t think she’d ever noticed that sensation in that spe-
cific location.
“Bodies are funny, aren’t they?” she said.
“How so?” Charlie asked.
She stared at the sky. She was nervous. She didn’t want
him to laugh. “Just . . . are they us? Are we them?”
Charlie was silent long enough for Wren to regret her
words. Then he said, “Do we have souls, you mean?”
Relief pressed her deeper into the scratchy wool blan-
ket. “Yeah. I guess. Or are we just, you know, chemicals?
Brain cells talking to brain cells, talking to lung cells and
spine cells and thumb cells?”
“Like when Ms. Atkinson compared us to computers
with organic hard drives?” Charlie said. “A blow to the head
can create a system failure? A disease, like Alzheimer’s, is
a computer virus?”
Wren nodded. She didn’t like that concept, because if
it were true—if a human was a highly specialized com-
puter, but a computer nonetheless—where did that leave
the “human” part?
“My dad’s an atheist,” she said. He wanted Wren to share
his beliefs, but she didn’t.
“My foster mom teaches Sunday school,” Charlie
replied. “And during the church service, when it’s time
for ‘A Moment with the Kids,’ she plays ‘Jesus Loves Me.’”
“‘A Moment with the Kids’?”
“When the youth minister calls up all the kids and tells
them a story that has to do with the day’s Scripture.”
“Didn’t know,” Wren said. She rolled onto her side to
face him. “So, you go to church?”
She bent her knees slightly to get more comfortable, and her thigh touched Charlie’s. She inhaled sharply. Char-
lie didn’t move his leg. Neither did she.
What passed between them, even through the fabric of
their jeans—it felt like way more than computer circuitry.
“Sometimes,” Charlie said. “Pamela likes it when we
do, me and my brother. But Chris usually stays home and
works. When I can, I like to stay and help out.”
“In the wood shop?”
“The cabinet shop, yeah.” He raised his arms and clasped
his hands beneath his head, and she saw the hard slope of
his biceps. The expanse of skin stretching from his bicep to
his shoulder, paler than his forearm and more vulnerable,
disappearing into the shadow of his sleeve. Not an entirely
private place, but not a part of this boy— Charlie —that everyone had seen, either.
And, again, not just a part. More than.
“I think souls are real,” Wren said in a burst. “Maybe
they’re not things you can measure or hold or feel—”
“You can feel them,” Charlie said in a low voice. He
turned his head, and she saw his cheek meet his upper arm.
I would like to feel that arm, Wren thought. I would like
to touch that cheek.
She swallowed. “What about trees?”
His lips quirked. “Trees?”
“Do they have souls?” she asked, because at that moment
they seemed to. Leaves rustled, saying shushhhh, shushhh .
Branches formed a canopy high over their heads. Add in
the matted grass below them, and Wren and Charlie were
nestled in . . . a set of parentheses. They were in a moment
outside of time. Just the two of them. Their eyes locked.
Their bodies, as Charlie rolled onto his side, forming
parentheses within the parentheses, and within the paren-
theses, their souls reached out. Like roots. Like fingers.
Like wisps of clouds and slivers of radiant moonlight.
Wren shivered.
“They probably don’t,” she said. “That’s just in fairy tales,
right? Druids and dryads and alternate worlds?” She was
babbling, but her heart was fluttering, and she was helpless
to stop her string of words from issuing forth. “Anyway,
I’m a scientist. Or will be, probably, since doctors are sci-
entists. I know that’s silly—trees with souls—but I just . . .
I guess I just . . .”
She waited for Charlie to jump in and rescue her from
her stupidity. He didn’t, and when Wren checked his
expression,
didn’t think she’d ever noticed that sensation in that spe-
cific location.
“Bodies are funny, aren’t they?” she said.
“How so?” Charlie asked.
She stared at the sky. She was nervous. She didn’t want
him to laugh. “Just . . . are they us? Are we them?”
Charlie was silent long enough for Wren to regret her
words. Then he said, “Do we have souls, you mean?”
Relief pressed her deeper into the scratchy wool blan-
ket. “Yeah. I guess. Or are we just, you know, chemicals?
Brain cells talking to brain cells, talking to lung cells and
spine cells and thumb cells?”
“Like when Ms. Atkinson compared us to computers
with organic hard drives?” Charlie said. “A blow to the head
can create a system failure? A disease, like Alzheimer’s, is
a computer virus?”
Wren nodded. She didn’t like that concept, because if
it were true—if a human was a highly specialized com-
puter, but a computer nonetheless—where did that leave
the “human” part?
“My dad’s an atheist,” she said. He wanted Wren to share
his beliefs, but she didn’t.
“My foster mom teaches Sunday school,” Charlie
replied. “And during the church service, when it’s time
for ‘A Moment with the Kids,’ she plays ‘Jesus Loves Me.’”
“‘A Moment with the Kids’?”
“When the youth minister calls up all the kids and tells
them a story that has to do with the day’s Scripture.”
“Didn’t know,” Wren said. She rolled onto her side to
face him. “So, you go to church?”
She bent her knees slightly to get more comfortable, and her thigh touched Charlie’s. She inhaled sharply. Char-
lie didn’t move his leg. Neither did she.
What passed between them, even through the fabric of
their jeans—it felt like way more than computer circuitry.
“Sometimes,” Charlie said. “Pamela likes it when we
do, me and my brother. But Chris usually stays home and
works. When I can, I like to stay and help out.”
“In the wood shop?”
“The cabinet shop, yeah.” He raised his arms and clasped
his hands beneath his head, and she saw the hard slope of
his biceps. The expanse of skin stretching from his bicep to
his shoulder, paler than his forearm and more vulnerable,
disappearing into the shadow of his sleeve. Not an entirely
private place, but not a part of this boy— Charlie —that everyone had seen, either.
And, again, not just a part. More than.
“I think souls are real,” Wren said in a burst. “Maybe
they’re not things you can measure or hold or feel—”
“You can feel them,” Charlie said in a low voice. He
turned his head, and she saw his cheek meet his upper arm.
I would like to feel that arm, Wren thought. I would like
to touch that cheek.
She swallowed. “What about trees?”
His lips quirked. “Trees?”
“Do they have souls?” she asked, because at that moment
they seemed to. Leaves rustled, saying shushhhh, shushhh .
Branches formed a canopy high over their heads. Add in
the matted grass below them, and Wren and Charlie were
nestled in . . . a set of parentheses. They were in a moment
outside of time. Just the two of them. Their eyes locked.
Their bodies, as Charlie rolled onto his side, forming
parentheses within the parentheses, and within the paren-
theses, their souls reached out. Like roots. Like fingers.
Like wisps of clouds and slivers of radiant moonlight.
Wren shivered.
“They probably don’t,” she said. “That’s just in fairy tales,
right? Druids and dryads and alternate worlds?” She was
babbling, but her heart was fluttering, and she was helpless
to stop her string of words from issuing forth. “Anyway,
I’m a scientist. Or will be, probably, since doctors are sci-
entists. I know that’s silly—trees with souls—but I just . . .
I guess I just . . .”
She waited for Charlie to jump in and rescue her from
her stupidity. He didn’t, and when Wren checked his
expression,
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