Jackson works hard for a smile when he sees my reaction to my story, though he kind of fails at it. “I take it,” he murmurs, “that you have parents? And you like them?”
“Well, yeah, Jacks!” I reply, staring wide-eyed into his face. “They’re kind of great!”
Jackson laughs a little, tightening his arms around me. “Well, if you don’t know that parents are a thing, you don’t really notice them missing, do you?”
I tilt my head, considering this, as Jackson goes on with his story, telling me about being a little boy growing up in a Community and sleeping in what was essentially a bunkhouse full of little boys just like him. The youngest babies, he knew, were raised in a nursery, and every year a new batch of boys was brought to the bunk house when they were very young.
And from that you
