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Gabby’s smile freezes. “Oh. I didn’t—”
“Additionally,” August continues, warming to his topic, “referring to me as ‘little boy’ is reductive and developmentally inaccurate given my cognitive abilities and emotional maturity.”
Hayes steps forward, placing a hand on August’s shoulder. “Buddy, remember what we talked about? Sometimes we can just say ‘No, thank you.’”
August considers this. “No thank you,” he says to Gabby with exaggerated politeness. “But I appreciate the gesture despite its potentially lethal consequences.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. Beside me, Luna doesn’t bother hiding her snort of amusement.
Gabby retreats, her face a fascinating study in humiliation masked as condescension. “Wow, he’s special, all right,” she tells no one in particular.
We reset ourselves again, and then Skye is calling my name. My turn. My palms suddenly feel slick with sweat.
“You’ve got this,” Serena whispers. “Just be yourself.”
Easier said than done when “myself” is a socially awkward writer who spent most of her childhood talking to fictional characters instead of real people. But I square my shoulders and approach August’s chess kingdom, determined to make a genuine connection.
Up close, his resemblance to Hayes is even more striking—the same thoughtful eyes, the same way of tilting his head slightly when considering something. But where Hayes’s features are softened by charm and ease, August’s hold a wary intelligence that recognizes the world as a place not designed for minds like his.
“Hi August.” I deliberately avoid the condescending tone some of the others used. “I’m Brielle.”
He studies me, assessing. “You write for television.”
Wow, an acknowledgment of my professional identity. I feel a surge of respect for both August and Hayes.
“That’s right. I work on a show calledHallucination AI. About a real phenomenon that impacts people in a supernatural way.”
His eyebrows lift slightly. “Supernatural as in scientifically implausible phenomena attributed to magical or paranormal forces?”
“Definitely paranormal.” I settle into the chair across from him. “Though we try to give scientific-adjacent explanations for the magic where we can.”
He considers this, his expression serious. “An acceptable narrative compromise. Fiction requires suspension of disbelief.”
“It does.” I smile, relieved we’ve established some common ground. “Though I still try to get the real science right when it appears in the scripts. Last season I consulted with an actual quantum physicist for an episode about parallel dimensions.”
A flicker of genuine interest crosses his face. “Did you incorporate the Many-Worlds Interpretation or the Copenhagen Interpretation?”
“Actually, we created a hybrid theory drawing elements from both.” I watch his eyes light up. “Our main character had to travel between quantum realities where different versions of herself had made different choices.”
“LikeThe City on the Edge of Forever.” August references the Star Trekepisode. “Where Captain Kirk has to let someone he loves die to preserve the timeline.”
“Actually, that episode was an inspiration of mine.” I’m impressed.
He nods enthusiastically. “Dad and I watch episodes together on Saturdays. It’s our tradition.”
The mention of this father-son ritual softens something in me. I can picture them—Hayes and his brilliant, serious son—curled up together, finding connection through shared stories about space exploration and ethical dilemmas. “Respect for that. Good choice.”
“What’s your favorite ice cream?” August asks suddenly, consulting what appears to be a prepared list of questions.
The abrupt topic change throws me momentarily, but I roll with it. “I have to have part chocolate, part Oreo, with chocolate sprinkles on top in a waffle cone,” I say. “It’s a very specific order, but I’ve optimized it through years of rigorous testing.”
August’s eyes pop. “Chocolate is my favorite, too! I’ve never tried it with Oreo, though. That’s an additional 14.3 grams of sugar per serving.”
“Worth every gram,” I assure him. “The textural contrast between the smooth ice cream and the crunchy cookie pieces creates what I call the optimal dessert mouthfeel matrix.”
He laughs—a genuine, unguarded sound. “Optimal dessert mouthfeel matrix,” he repeats. “That’s funny. And scientifically descriptive.”
“Science and humor aren’t mutually exclusive,” I say. “Some of the best jokes are based on logical incongruities and unexpected cognitive pattern disruptions.”