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I wonder if Adam here, Mr. Eyeballs, would object to being called Adam on those same grounds. It feels hypocritical of me to acquiesce to “Adam” just because my unimaginative mother came up with “Eve.”
I could call him Ad for short. Or Dam.
Or Steve, for that matter.
“What do you—”
“Ahhh!” I jump about an inch out of my wheelchair. I brace for the wave of pain that should come from such a sudden movement, but my leg does not cry out in protest.
Thank God for the pain meds.
It’s Solo, pushing some kind of cart. How long has he been standing behind me?
“Hey,” I mutter. “Don’t you knock?”
“No door,” he points out accurately.
“Well, give me some sign that you’re sneaking up on me! Clear your throat or something!”
“Ahem,” he says, clearing his throat. He pushes the cart close to me. “Eyes, huh?” he asks, looking past me at the disembodied eyeballs.
“Yes.” I want to follow up with something sarcastic, but I draw a blank because I’ve turned to look at him and I notice now, how could I not notice, that the eyes I’ve created from scratch are Solo’s eyes.
“What’s that color called?” he asks.
“Just … I … I’m changing it. I was trying for blue.”
“You like blue eyes, huh?”
“Yes. I do. I like blue eyes.”
“I thought you might want something to eat.” He takes a paper sack off the cart.
“Kind of late for lunch, isn’t it?” The clock in the corner of the display reads 03:17 P.M. “How do you know I didn’t already eat lunch?” I ask, just as my stomach growls loudly.
“Intuiti
on,” he says with a straight face.
I save my work on Adam and log out.
“Come on, we don’t want to eat in here,” Solo says. Without waiting for my approval, he plops the bag of food on my lap and takes the grips of my wheelchair.
“What about your cart?”
He shrugs. “What about it?”
We go down a level, through a hallway, across yet another open space full of grown-up toys for the Big Brains, and out onto a vast deck overlooking the bay. It’s not the million-dollar view you might get in Tiburon, which faces the city, but it’s not bad. The fog has lifted, and we have a good view of the Richmond–San Rafael Bridge. There’s a tanker riding low, slowly cutting through the water like a migrating whale. If I could somehow look around the corner past Angel Island, I’d be able to see the city. And it bugs me that I can’t. I miss my home, my school, my city.
There’s a group of four, kind of glum, munching at a table twenty yards away, too far for us to overhear them. We spread the food out on a picnic table. Sandwiches, chips, two puddings, one chocolate, one vanilla.
“From the cafeteria?” I ask, pulling one of the sandwiches apart to find turkey and Brie.
“They’re good,” Solo says. “Say one thing for your mom: She takes care of her employees.”
“Yes, I noticed. You know what they don’t have? Double-double, animal style.”
He nods. “You’re an In-N-Out fan?”
