In the last days, the boy’s father left him alone in the tunnels beneath their house with many splendid inventions to take care of him. There was the Skin Farmer, who scrubbed and bathed the boy, and grew enough fresh protein from his sloughed-away cells to serve up a thin meat patty every other day. Two or three of the Firefly Bulbs always traveled with him in the dark, while the others were plugged into the gusty old Wind Turbine, recharging. There were the Silent Sentries who guarded the doors with long, air-cooled noses that they somewhat arrogantly claimed would shoot knives of red-hot light at any one from above, Alive or Not Alive, who tried to enter.
Read the rest at Intergalactic Medicine Show.