The rain beats down on the tent, every stupid drop of it grating my nerves. It started right after lunch, and it’s now four o’clock.
Outside, my parents are playing cards under the tarp, and I hear them speaking softly about us kids. That’s all they ever talk about, it seems. They sit around and daydream about our futures.
I’m lying on my stomach, trying to write a poem about Alistair. I want it to be an homage to Blake’s “Auguries of Innocence,” but it’s coming out more like a syrupy Bon Jovi song.
Beside me, the girls are napping. They lie side by side, sucking on their pacifiers. I watch them sleep for a moment, wondering what they’ll be like later.
Alistair says something in his sleep and I look over at him. He still has his earphones on, but the batteries in his Walkman died a few
