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“What is this?” I snapped, turning to Zoe. “Electronic pencils? I was lucky if I even had a pencil as a kid!”

“Would you be quiet? We’re trying to get this on film!”

The whole thing was fucking ridiculous. What was I even supposed to learn from this if it wasn’t actually my life?

Melancholic music strummed through the air as Fox’s low voice belted out the lyrics of one of his favorite musicals.

“Poor Edu is dead. Poor Edu Markinson is daid.”

Sort of.

“All gather ‘round his living room now and cry!”

“Cut!” Zoe shouted, marching onto the set in a huff. “Fox, what are you doing?”

“You told me to have fun with it,” he grinned. “See, I figure right now, he’s contemplating suicide and⁠—”

“Contemplating suicide? Fox, he’s a kid. He’s not at that point yet!”

I spun on my heel, chuckling as I looked at Zoe. “Whoa, yet? Never have I thought of committing suicide.”

“It’s cute that you think that,” she grinned. “But we’re just touching on the very beginning of the story right now.”

Her words sent a shiver down my spine. What the hell did that mean?

“Fox, like I said, keep it relevant. He’s not considering suicide. He’s just a kid, wishing he could be like the other normal kids and celebrate Christmas.”

I didn’t remember that happening at all, but then again, I’d blocked out a lot of my childhood.

“But…there aren’t any sad Christmas show tunes!” Fox sighed.

“Where’s Lock?” I demanded. “Get me out of here!”

“Hey!” Zoe snapped. “We can’t move forward until we get through this, so cool your heels.”

“But—”

“Fox, pick a song. Any sad song and run with it. It doesn’t have to be a show tune.”

“Fine,” he grumbled. “But I’m not going to like it.”

“I’m sure you’ll be your typical self and make us all miserable with your complaining. Now, can we move on?”

Another melancholy tune filled the scene, but this time, Fox was not his usual chipper self. He muttered through the lyrics…something about a river and skating away. It was depressing as hell, and if he wanted me to feel horrible about myself, he was doing a bang-up job.

And the whole time, that kid on the floor kept coloring with his electronic pencil.

Then, shouting came from somewhere, echoing off the walls. A couple ran into the room, shooting light blasters at each other.

“What the hell is this?”

The woman— my mother— shot a light blast at my father, and he fell to the ground dramatically, crying out in agony.

“Are you serious?” I snapped, turning my rage on Zoe. “What the hell are you trying to get me to see here?”

“It’s a twist on reality. Think of it as an artistic way of recreating your memories.”

“By my parents fake hurting each other with light blasters?” I asked incredulously.