Page 8 of Fallout (Crank 3)

many of whom have forgotten

the Golden Rule, if they ever knew

it to begin with. Inside, the window

shades are cracked enough so light

filters through. A thin beam

splashes against the hallway mirror,

lures my attention. When I turn

to find it, the eyes reflected

in the glass are completely unique.

“Piebald,” Mom calls them.

Green-dappled gray. Definitely

not Kristina’s eyes. What I want

to know now, as always, is whose?

I’VE ASKED THE QUESTION BEFORE

“If Kristina is my biological

mother, who fathered me?”

Who

was her man of the month?

I’ve been told she slept

with more than a few,

but which

was

the one whose lucky

sperm connected with

the proper egg? Whose

genes sculpted the relief of

my

cheekbones, the stack

of my shoulders, the stretch

of my legs? Do the eyes staring

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