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Schroeder

Typing on the store’s touch screen is agonizing, one. Letter. At. A time, and even when he’s done they’ve got nothing in stock. “Barenaked?” No. “Barelaked?” No.

“Are you ready to go?” His mom shuffles CDs.

“Yeah,” Schroeder says. “Okay.”

“Listen, Schroeder.” She looks around, hunted, then mutters too loudly. “Can you get me this? Off the Internet.”

He winces. “No, Mom.”

“Why not?”

The sheer explanation required weakens him. “You can’t get music anymore, okay? TV maybe. Anyway–” He squints at it. “Jesus, Mom, he’s younger than me.”

“What?” She looks more hunted. “He has an–an excellent voice!”

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