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squat, round massiveness balanced on a pedestal. A family heirloom for over 150 years and a horrible energy waster. I didn’t know we still had it. The morning sun sparkles off the silver surface.
    The sparkles fracture into a rustle of green leaves …
    The tree … an ancient, bent early snow apple, with the thick, forked limb sturdy enough to support a tree house.
    â€œStewart? You okay?”
    â€œI’m … the smell … my spaceship tree house.” A different birthday. A special present. “Who helped me build that?”
    â€œGosh, that was so long ago. We saved tinfoil for months to make the shiny skin. I’d almost forgotten that!”
    â€œBut who built it with me?”
    â€œMom did, of course.” Mark takes a platter of waffles out of the warmer and sets them on the table. “Happy birthday!”
    â€œHow come I don’t remember that?”
    â€œYou just did.” Mark flips a couple waffles onto my plate. “Come on. They’ll get cold.”
    I sit and butter them. Drizzle syrup into each little square. Eyes closed, I pretend the first bite is a PLV and slowly dock it in my mouth. I’m hoping something magic will happen—another memory. All I get is reminded that Mark’s a great cook.
    The disappointment makes me more determined than ever to get some answers from the Counselor.
    First thing when I get to school, I drop off my science project, then head for the Counselor’s office. The project’s not my best effort. I could barely concentrate once I decided to confront the Counselor with what the old spacer told me. I wish I could’ve talked to him again, but I couldn’t just run out on Mark’s birthday breakfast, and then there was no time left for a detour.
    I slip a hand into my pants pocket. Run my finger over the sharp corners of the Space Academy Camp application folded there.
    No harm in dreaming.
    As soon as I step into the Counselor’s office— bing —the sign changes to “ ENTER, PLEASE. ” No waiting today. I step up to the session room door. Hesitate with my thumb hovering over the latch plate. Draw in a deep, steadying breath. I am going to make it talk about what I want for once.
    I mash my thumb against the latch plate. The door slides open. The huge screen on the wall behind the empty desk declares:
    MRS. PHILLIPS REGRETS SHE CANNOT APPEAR IN PERSON, STEWART. AUTOMATED SIMULATION IS DOWNLOADING.
    When I sit on the stool in front of the desk, the holofield glitters, filling the chair with Mrs. Phillips’s image. Sensors whir behind the screen. The hologram leans toward me. “You have been in therapy for six years, Stewart. Suddenly you search for information about us. Why?”
    A frozen moment, like when someone walks in on you in the bathroom. I was all ready for a fight and now the Counselor practically admits it was watching me. “So you were monitoring my computer yesterday.”
    â€œYes. In certain special cases, TIA is authorized to inform us of your activities. If you have questions about us, you should ask them here.”
    â€œWhat about my rights? You can’t just spy on me! Don’t I have rights?”
    â€œYou do have rights, Stewart, but they are slightly reduced in special cases. Don’t worry.” The image smiles. “The information is used only to assist with your therapy.”
    â€œWhat’s special about my case?”
    â€œParental permission is required for me to answer that question.” The image folds its hands together. “There are many things we can speak of without your father’s permission, Stewart. Please, ask your questions.”
    â€œDid you make me forget things?”
    â€œWhy would you think we had done that?”
    â€œBecause I forget too many things I should remember, like how Mom and I built my spaceship tree house. How could an important memory like that just be gone?”
    The image sits up