Page 3 of Shift Happens
I couldn’t help but smile at that. “Exactly.”
The morning continued with me walking Milo through basic store operations. He struggled with almost everything technological but showed surprising aptitude for remembering our inventory. He could tell me exactly how many copies we had of obscure titles without checking the system—when I verified, he was always correct.
“Lunch break,” I announced at noon, flipping our door sign to “Back in 30 Minutes.” “There’s a deli down the street if you want to grab something.”
Milo looked suddenly panicked. “Can I… eat here instead? I brought food.”
“Sure,” I shrugged. “The break room’s through that door.”
“Could I maybe eat with you?” he asked hesitantly. “I have questions about human—about store operations.”
That odd phrasing again. I was beginning to think English might not be his first language, which would explain some of his quirks.
“Fine by me.”
In the cramped break room, I unwrapped my turkey sandwich while Milo pulled out a container filled with what appeared to be raw steak cut into cubes.
“That’s… an interesting lunch,” I commented, watching as he popped a piece of completely uncooked meat into his mouth.
“Protein,” he explained between bites. “Good for muscles.”
“And food poisoning.”
“Oh, I don’t get sick from meat,” he said with absolute certainty. “My system is designed for it.”
Before I could question that bizarre statement, he continued: “What’s your favorite comic?”
The sudden topic change threw me. “That’s like asking a parent to name their favorite child.”
“You have children?” His eyes widened in alarm.
“No, it’s just an expression.” I took a bite of my sandwich, considering the question. “If I had to choose… probably Sandman. Neil Gaiman’s work in general.”
“The dream stories!” He nodded vigorously. “I read those yesterday after closing. The pictures are beautiful, but the Corinthian is disturbing. Eye-mouths.” He shuddered.
“Wait, you read the entire Sandman collection overnight?”
“I’m a fast reader,” he said, suddenly interested in his meat cubes. “And I don’t sleep much.”
I was impressed despite myself. “What did you think of it?”
His face lit up at the question, and for the next twenty minutes, I found myself engaged in one of the most insightful conversations about Gaiman’s mythology I’d ever had. Behind Milo’s awkward exterior was a surprisingly sharp mind, making connections I’d never considered.
“…and that’s why I think Dream’s imprisonment reflects humanity’s attempt to control the uncontrollable aspects of existence,” he concluded, gesturing with a piece of raw steak speared on his fork.
I stared at him, momentarily speechless. “That’s… actually brilliant.”
A blush spread across his cheeks, and he ducked his head. “Just thoughts.”
“Really good thoughts.” I found myself smiling. “You know, for someone who claims to need practice with ‘human things,’ you have an excellent grasp of literary themes.”
“I understand stories,” he said softly. “It’s the other stuff that’s hard. The rules. The clothes. The technology.” He glanced down at his oversized hoodie, which I now noticed had a coffee stain shaped remarkably like Australia. “Being the right kind of person in the right kind of way.”
Something about his vulnerability in that moment reached inside me and squeezed. I recognized that feeling—the outsider looking in, never quite fitting. I’d felt it throughout my childhood as the quiet kid who preferred fantasy worlds to real ones.
“For what it’s worth,” I said, “I think you’re doing okay. The coffee machine might disagree, but I don’t.”
His smile could have powered a small city.
