Something masculine, I say.

But not too masculine, Ben says.

And unique.

But not weird.

Are we really doing this? I start to wonder. But waiting here for the two of us is more silence. I push through, speak.

Tycho?

He shakes his head: Tycho the Psycho.

I snort, which makes Ben snort, which makes us both spit coffee across the glass table.

Doug? he says.

Doug the slug. I hit the table with my fist. It jumps, and nearly topples.

Ronin?

Moanin Ronin.

The array of medical supplies we purchased—suction machines, feeding tubes, respiration therapy vests—has become a unified property, a sludge that moves out of the nursery and down the hall, across the living room and into the kitchen. It sits next to us now, like an excised organ—a heart or liver or pair of lungs—glistening and wet, pulsing with a life all its own.

I know, Ben says, Tucker.

TUCKER THE FUCKER! I yell. My voice is a siren that startles us both.

Then Ben yells it too: Tucker the Fucker!

We yell it together again and again: Tucker the Fucker! Tucker the Fucker!

After a while we stop and the room grows uncomfortably quiet. Through the windows, dawn lifts the sky from black to milky gray to cool blue.

What about Owen? he says.

Owen....

Owen it is!

Owen!

We shout this, both of us, shout the name, until the windows shatter, perhaps, and fresh morning air blows in.


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