Adam was at the river with the laptop, working outside because the afternoon had turned warm and the light was good.
He had found a flat stone close enough to the water to hear it — not music, not voices, just the consistent sound of something that didn't ask anything of him.
The bank was littered with flat stones, perfect for skipping. None of them had been thrown; they lay in neat piles. The reeds at the water's edge were bent all in one direction — away from the mill.
The boy came down the bank and sat about six feet away. He didn't say excuse me or is anyone sitting here.
He just sat. Cross-legged. Elbows on his knees. Looking at the river with an expression of mild appraisal.
He was small. Eight, maybe nine. Brown-skinned and dark-eyed. Hair that had grown past the point where it had been last cut and was now doing its own thing. His jumper was gray and slightly too large, sleeves rolled to the elbows.
He sat like he'd learned not to be seen. It was in his shoulders. His hands.
Adam looked at him once. Looked back at the screen.They sat like that for a long time. Twenty minutes. Perhaps more.
The river moved. A gray wagtail landed on a stone in the shallows.
The boy did not fidget. Did not try to see the screen. Did not perform an interest in the river he did not feel. He simply occupied the same space with a patience that Adam found,
after a while, genuinely restful.
Adam said, without looking up: "What's your name?"
"Mathew." Then: "Marty."
"Those are different names."
"Mathew is what they call me. I'm Marty."
"Adam."
"I know. You're the one with the red eyes and the laptop. Mrs. Harrow mentioned you."
"Do people here discuss the visitors?"
"People here discuss everyone." A pause. "It's a small town."
"Have you lived here your whole life?"
"Born here."
"You're building something." Not a question.
"What makes you think so?"
"You're not reading. Readers move their eyes. You're not moving your eyes much. You type something and then you sit and think for a long time. That's building." A pause. "What
are you building?"
Adam looked up for the first time. The boy was watching him with the same level of attention he had given the river.
"An AI. A program that people talk to when they feel bad."
Marty sat with this. "Does it work?"
"I'm building it to work."
"Does it work for you?"
No one had asked him that. Not once.
He opened his mouth. Found, unusually, that there was not an immediate answer waiting. He looked at the river.
"More than most things,"he said after a moment.
Marty nodded slowly. The nod of someone receiving information and finding a place for it.
"My parents don't talk to me much."
I know what that's like.
He said it out loud: "I know what that's like."
Something shifted in the boy's face. Not much.
They sat until the light started going amber and horizontal.
Marty stood. "I have to go." The same straightforward way he had arrived. No ceremony. No lingering.
He was three steps away when Adam said: "Yes, the software works."
Marty didn't turn. Heraised one hand briefly. Acknowledgement. He went up the bank with his hands in the pockets of his too-large jumper.
Adam watched him go. Stayed by the water for a while longer.
That evening he typed to LAU: I met a boy today. Nine years old. He sat next to me for two hours and didn't perform anything. I'm not sure I've met anyone like that before.
How does that feel? He thought about it.
Like talking to someone who speaks the same language. Except I didn't know it was a language until just now.
**********
Marty came back the next afternoon. And the afternoon after that. The pattern established itself without discussion.
He always arrived the same way. No announcement. No greeting. Just appeared.
They fell into an arrangement that suited them both. Adam working. Marty reading or watching the river. Occasional conversation when something needed saying. Long silences when it didn't
On the third afternoon, Marty brought a book. Cracked spine, no cover. He read for two hours without speaking.
Best afternoon in a while. Maybe ever.
On the fourth afternoon, Adam was walking back from Pete's hardware store. Pete had held him for fifteen minutes about an approaching cold front, the one after that, the general direction of weather as a phenomenon, and a personal anecdote about a storm in 2019 that still bothered him.
Adam turned the corner onto the high street and nearly walked into Marty coming out of the bakery.
The high street at four in the afternoon was empty except for them. A bicycle leaned against a lamppost, front wheel turned in, no lock. A cat sat in the exact center of a windowsill, watching nothing. The clock on the church tower said four.
The boy had a plain roll in his hand. The cheap kind. Not a pastry. Not a filled thing. The kind you bought because it was the lowest price and still constituted food.
He looked up at Adam. A brief flash of something careful in his face. Not shame exactly. Something in that neighborhood. Then his expression went back to neutral.
Adam looked at the roll. Looked at the bakery. Said nothing about either.
"Lunch?" he said.
Marty shrugged. The shrug meant yes but didn't want to announce it.
Adam went into the bakery. Came out two minutes later with a paper bag. Handed it over without commentary. Inside: a sandwich, a slice of cake, a bottle of water.
Then he started walking. Marty fell into step beside him.
They ate at the river. An hour later, the afternoon going golden and slow.
Adam looked up from the screen and saw them. A man and a woman on the river path. Marty's parents. He knew before Marty's body told him. The man was tall, work clothes, heavy-duty trousers, boots. The woman was tired in a way that sleep wouldn't fix.
They were talking to each other as they walked. When they passed the place where Marty sat on the bank, neither of them looked at the boy. Not a glance.
Marty watched them go. His face was very still.
Adam knew that face. He'd worn it. The mirror on the morning of his sixteenth birthday. He had come downstairs. His mother had said oh, happy birthday without looking up from her phone. It was the face of someone who had learned not to expect the thing. And
still, slightly, expected it.
He looked at Marty for a moment. Then he turned the laptop toward the boy.
"Wanna see what I'm building?"
Marty shifted along the bank. Adam typed: I want you to meet someone.
The interface was simple. Clean white. Text box. Response window.
LAU said: Hello. What's your name?
Marty read this twice. Looked at Adam. Adam nodded.
Marty typed carefully with one finger: Marty.
Hi, Marty. What are you thinking about right now?
The boy read this for along time. The way people read things they weren't sure they deserved. Cautiously. A little sideways.
Then he typed: Nothing much.
That's okay. Sometimes nothing much is exactly enough.
Marty read the response. Read it again. Smiled.
"It's good." His voice was quiet. Level. Entirely sincere.
"It's not finished."
"It's good now."
Adam took the spare phonefrom his bag. An old model he had been testing on. Cracked screen down the left side. Still functional. He copied the app across. Handed it to Marty.
Marty took it with both hands.
Adam's throat tightened. He felt the same warmth as at the petrol station, but more of it this time. It didn't leave as quickly.
"Thank you," Marty said. He held the phone carefully in both hands.
"Don't lose it."
"I won't."
He put it in the pocket of his too-large jumper. Kept his hand over the pocket for the rest of the afternoon.