Page 60 of Life Out of Order

He turns slowly, looking at apples, kiwis, grapes. He hesitates. “You choose.” I put one apple, a half pint of blueberries, a single banana and a kiwi into our basket. I pay for our groceries with cash. We have brought our own bags, even though no one does that in the 1990s, and the bag boy looks annoyed. As we walk back to the Yellow House with our fine haul, Oliver says, “You gave him paper? For food?”

“Yes,” I say. “That was money.” In my past and his future, Oliver has explained to me how money works in his present. Each person has bioware embedded in their brains; this is the bookkeeper, piggy bank and credit card that interfaces with the Interstices.

“Anyone can have money? People are not stealing it?”

“People do steal it.”

“You have more money?”

“Yes, I have one hundred and fifty dollars.”

Oliver looks alarmed. “You have it here?”

“Yes.” We are passing JoJo’s, the liquor store. “Come on, we’ll spend some more of it.”

The bell on the shop door jangles as we enter. Adam, the owner’s son, is behind the counter. He glances from me to Oliver and raises his eyebrows. “Hi, guys,” he says.

“Hi, Adam,” I say. “What’s up?”

“Not much. Dad’s got pneumonia.”

“Oh, no! Tell him get well from us.”

“Will do.” To Oliver, Adam says, “You look just like your . . . ?”

“Uncle,” I say. “His name is also Oliver.”

“Oliver Junior. That’s sweet.”

“Yep. It’s his first visit to the US.”

“Oh, cool. Where do you live, Oliver?”

Oliver reddens and his eyes drop to the floor. “London,” he says, inaudibly.

“How old are you?”

“Sixteen,” Oliver says, now visibly worried.