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When Karen was six years old, her father stuck little plastic stars to the ceiling over her bed. He got a stepstool and thick, white sticky-tack and carefully pressed each little star into the plaster. Her brothers helped, yelling and laughing, pressing sticky-tack to each other's cheeks and throwing stars around the tiny bedroom Karen didn't have to share. They put them up in a rough circle, with no discernible pattern. Karen asked if they were the same as the stars outside at night, but her dad had just laughed and told her no. These were in a constellation just for her. Then he'd turned out the light and they'd lit up in electric green. Karen gasped, delighted, as they glowed in the dark, just like real stars.
Every night when she went to bed she would stare up at those stars, at the too-symmetrical pattern swirling above her. She stared until the shape fixed itself in her mind, until the stars burned into her eyelids when she shut her eyes. One day, she thought, she'd know the real stars that well, too.
-.-.-
The big dipper was one of the constellations Karen's father did know, and he'd sit out in their yard with her in his lap and point it out in the sky. He'd trace between the stars with one big finger, and Karen followed along, rapt, as a shape in the velvety sky began to form. The stars and outer space in general was quickly becoming her most significant interest—there was an allure there, out among the stars, that she'd felt for two years, ever since she started staring up at her ceiling.
This interest had split her friends and family into two camps. The first—and where Karen would comfortably put herself—was the more scientific-minded. She had a telescope, and a guide to the night sky, and every book about space she could find. She'd even gotten a model kit of the Apollo 11 Saturn V rocket. The other group when they heard of Karen's interest, most of the more creative members of her family, had wanted to talk about the cosmic mysteries of outer space: and things like aliens, and the stories people told about the stars. It wasn't that Karen didn't care about constellations or the mythologies that had inspired them, but those were stories. She wanted fact.
She'd gotten a book about constellations as a gift and her mother had made her write a thank you card about it to her aunt. She'd only flipped through it casually, since most of the things about the actual stars she was pretty sure she already knew. There were some myths and stories, though, and some of those were interesting. She read the stories of Orion, Cassiopeia, and now she was looking for—
"Ahh, one of our favorites. The Big Dipper," her father said, sitting down beside her. She could hear the rest of the family shouting, even with the door shut, but the little space outside in their yard was just hers. Well, hers and her father's now. He looked down at her book and tapped two fingers on the page. "I know that story."
"Hmm. You do?" Karen glanced up into her father's kind face. He smiled. The story was in the book, but reading about it didn't have quite the same flair as hearing it told in her father's voice, in his carefully chosen words. He was a born storyteller. Karen scrunched her nose and said "Well, what is it?"
He laughed. "Impatient, aren't you? Well. Like a lot of these stories, it's not a happy one. This one comes from the ancient Greeks. Once, a long time ago, there was a beautiful young woman named Callisto, who followed the goddess Artemis. She was the goddess of the hunt, and maidens, and Callisto was one of her most devoted followers. They'd all promised to, well—"
"I know what maiden means, Dad."
"You do, huh?"
She blushed. "Yeah, it means no boyfriends."
Her father laughed. "Right, sure, no boyfriends." Karen, who had very strong opinions on the necessity of boyfriends, thought that at least on that point Artemis had it right. "But then, because she was with Artemis, Callisto would occasionally come into contact with the other gods. And Zeus, the king of the gods and the ruler of Mount Olympus, saw Callisto and thought she was very, very beautiful."
Karen groaned. "Why is everyone so terrible in these stories? What was going on in Greece? He's going to hurt her, isn't he? He's going to hurt Callisto and take her away from Artemis."
With a quiet sigh, her father put on arm around her shoulders and held his daughter tight. "Yes. He knew Callisto would never break her vows to Artemis, so he disguised himself and found Callisto when she was alone. Callisto didn't suspect it was a trap, and she trusted and loved Artemis, so she came to Zeus in his disguise." He was silent for a long, significant moment. "And later, Callisto realized that she was going to have a baby." It wouldn't be until many years later that Karen would realize the implications of that, what that really meant. But that night, sitting underneath the stars with her father, she hated Zeus more than she'd ever hated anyone before. "She tried to hide it for as long as she could, but one day Artemis found out. And, angry that Callisto had broken her vow, she transformed her into a bear." He pointed up to the sky. "Ursa major. And Callisto's son is up there, too."
Karen looked down at her book to make sure she knew the shape of it and then peered back up at the sky. "There," she said. "Ursa minor."
"That's right," her father said. "In the sky with his mother forever."
There was something about the story that stuck with Karen. She doesn't know quite how she feels—angry, mostly, that Zeus, or men like Zeus, exist at all. Angry that the person Callisto loved most in the world, Artemis, didn't let her explain. She wouldn't be like Callisto, she would be too smart to fall for something like that, but she felt a certain kinship. Devoted to Artemis. A strong, beautiful hunter she could follow. Maybe one day she could be an Artemis. But if not, maybe she could find one—a better one—all of her own. She traces the shapes in her book, the big bear and the little one. Callisto and her son. And she thinks of another figure, too, someone for Callisto to share her life with, so she wouldn't be so lonely up in the stars. Someone strong, and smart, and beautiful, too—a woman just as good as Artemis. Better, even.
Karen copied the names of the stars from her guide into her constellation book: Merak and Dubhe, pointing towards the north star. Always aimed right at Polaris, at the star that would guide you true north—and Callisto, who's always aimed right at her son.
-.-.-
It was a morning not long after that when Karen's mother shook her awake. "Baby, wake up," she said, her soft hand gentle on Karen's shoulder.
Karen yawned and sat up, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. "Mom," she said. "What is it? Is it—" Her mother just smiled and nodded, and held her hand and led her into their living room and sat her down on the couch right in front of the TV.
That morning, Sally Ride was the first American woman to go up in space. Nothing she'd ever seen had ever made Karen feel like that—like it was possible, like maybe one day it was something she could do, too. That day stuck with her for the rest of her life. Somehow, she decided, some way. She would do it. Sitting beside her parents on their couch early that June, Karen knew what she wanted to do with her life.
All she had to do was find a way to do it.
-.-.-
Jasmine had been a mistake, Karen could admit that now. Beautiful? Yes, she was gorgeous. And funny, and charming, with a great smile. She was fun. And maybe that should have been the first sign of trouble, because Karen didn't really have time for fun. Karen had time for her career. For science. For the important work of aerospace engineering. Jas wanted to go dancing, out drinking with her large group of friends, or shopping with money she probably didn't have. They'd fought more than they hadn't—which wasn't Karen's fault, she had a strong personality and she wasn't going to apologize for that—but it was always soothed and the relationship massaged back into stasis by the make-up sex after. And it had been really, really good make-up sex.
But that didn't matter when Karen came home to her apartment ransacked and every pair of shoes she owned missing.
"My running shoes, Jas, really?" she muttered, aggressively steaming her blouses. She'd picked up a handheld steamer because it wasn't a crime to want to look sharp and put together—another thing they'd fought about—and it was certainly coming in handy now, wasn't it. "And my Jimmy Choos. And!" Karen growled to herself, walking around in a pair of old socks. "Even my slippers! You couldn't even let me have those."
Dating was nice, really, and Karen did want to start a family one day. But maybe, just for a little while, she was swearing off women.
-.-.-
"You sure you're still off the market?" Howie asked. "It's been months, there's gotta be other fish in the sea. So Jasmine was a bitch? So what!"
Karen scowled. "Howie."
He scoffed. "What? She was. What kind of person steals all your shoes, anyway."
Karen put her head down on the table and groaned. She pushed the bottle of tequila away from her. "I should have known it wouldn't work. I told you, Jas was fun. I don't do fun."
"Oh come on, you're fun! You can be fun." Karen squeezed her eyes shut and waited. "Well." There it is, she thought. "Look, I'm fun and I like you, so that counts for something, right? And with this tequila? Karen, you're a riot!"
"You're a good neighbor, Howie," she said, lifting her head and giving him the most pathetic look she could, "but I'm going to draw the line at wingman."
He shook his head and grabbed the bottle of tequila. He poured himself another shot. Already they'd drank a lot, and his eyes were red-rimmed and his cheeks were flushed. Karen wasn't sure that he had much better luck than she did in the romance department, but it felt rude to point that out. Howie downed his shot and then took a deep breath. He rolled his shoulders and pointed at her. "What if…" he started. "I had the perfect woman for you."
Karen rolled her eyes. "What, you're pulling single lesbians out of trees the same way you do cats?"
"That's a stereotype," he said, "normally the cats refuse to be pulled out." Karen snorted even though the joke was bad, and Howie grinned. "Come on… let me set you up! A blind date. Just one evening. I know someone I think you'll really like."
"Uh-huh. No way, Howie. I'm not interested."
"Please?" He tried to give her puppy dog eyes, but he was too close to drunk.
"Nope." Karen shook her head, firm. "Not. Interested."
-.-.-
It probably should have been embarrassing how quickly Howie wore her down. But it was just one blind date, he'd promised, and even if Howie's taste in romantic partners was questionable, it wasn't like Karen had done any better for herself. If he was that sure they'd work out, then maybe it was worth a chance. She'd try it, she told herself. She'd just go in and maybe have a drink and see how things worked out—if they were even compatible.
She maybe didn't make the best impression, sitting down and telling a woman she'd never met that Karen was giving her twenty minutes to make it worth her time, but they'd smoothed that out. And it had only taken a few minutes for her to see that it was very much worth hers.
Karen still remembered the story of Artemis and Callisto from when she was a little girl. She hated Zeus more than ever for what he did to Callisto, and she was far less likely to let Artemis off the hook, too. But that feeling, of looking in the sky and seeing a mother and her son? That she remembered. That, she still wanted. If she was honest, Karen would admit that the person she pictured as the second mama bear looked a little bit like Nichelle Nichols. But then she met Henrietta Wilson, and she thought maybe she looked a little bit like her, too.
-.-.-
She'd been looking forward to seeing Hen again ever since they scheduled their date. She'd made a quick dinner, had dressed to the nines and she knew she looked good, and everything was going to be perfect. At least that's what she told herself leading up to the date.
It's fine that Hen wasn't early, Karen told herself, trying to keep from compulsively checking the time again. Not everyone had to be early. It was polite, sure, maybe more considerate to be early, but if they'd agreed upon a time then she couldn't fault her for sticking to that time. Except then that time came and went.
And five minutes late wasn't great, but it wasn't a deal breaker either. But then it was ten minutes. And then fifteen. And at that point she was pretty sure that she'd actually been stood up.
"Okay," she said to herself, smoothing her hands down her skirt. "It's fine. It's fine. We'll give it a solid half an hour, there's no reason to assume the worst yet." Besides, they were both friends with Howie. Surely Hen must realize that things could get awkward if she didn't even call.
Karen hadn't been counting down the minutes one by one, but she was aware that Hen was twenty-six minutes late. And she would have accepted Hen's excuse about traffic—even if, okay, she didn't really believe it—but then Hen had been honest. About sitting in her car, about her hesitance, about not wanting serious. Karen knew she was a lot, but she didn't have to be serious. She didn't need serious. She just needed, well.
Need was maybe a strong word. But with Hen? Right now? She'd take what she could get.
-.-.-
The next morning, Karen woke up in Hen's arms, strong and sleek and beautiful. She rolled onto her side and got to see a slow smile dawn on her face as Hen stirred, as she blinked fully into consciousness. "Mmm, good morning," Karen said. Hen laughed, and then moaned, pushing her face into the pillow.
"Morning?" she said with a sigh, turning back to face Karen. "Already? Hmm." She put a hand to Karen's cheek. "Guess it is a good one." And then she leaned in for a quick kiss. It turned from one, into two, and then Karen felt her smiling against her mouth. "I would say you look even better waking up beside me, but. I'm going to be honest, I can't see a thing." She twisted to reach the nightstand on her side of the bed and grabbed her glasses. When she slipped them on, Karen was vividly reminded of getting to take them off. She wanted the chance to do that again and again. "There we go," Hen said, her voice low and warm. It slipped over Karen as easily as her silk sheets. She leaned in for another kiss. One hand pressed to her waist, fingers tracing along the dips of her ribs. Her hand slid up, and she cupped Karen's breast.
"Don't you have to be at work soon? I thought you had a shift this morning."
"Not trying to start anything," Hen said. She nuzzled their noses together.
"Well that's a shame." They laughed and then pressed together in another kiss.
It went on, syrupy and slow, a low banked heat that both felt but neither tried to ignite. Then Hen pulled away with a groan. "I wasn't kidding about work," she said. "I really do need to go."
"So go," Karen said. She wriggled closer. "I'm not stopping you."
Hen gave her a crooked smile. "No, but you're making it very, very tempting to stay." Karen grinned, gratified, and leaned in for another kiss. This time they both knew it was the last, and they let themselves melt into it quick and indulgent. When Hen pulled away next, it was to get out of bed. She looked at the time and cursed to herself, then hurriedly gathered up her clothes. "Slept in a little longer than I meant to," she said, pulling on her pants. "Sorry we didn't have time for breakfast. Or another round."
"It's all right," Karen said, watching Hen like a reverse striptease. "Maybe next time we can plan for a day off."
"Next time, huh?" Hen smirked.
"Well… Yeah," Karen said, shrugging, trying to look cool and collected. "If you want. Just… casual. When you're free."
Hen quickly finished dressing, and she looked almost as good as she had the night before. Only almost, though, Karen noted, pleased with herself—there was something a little rumpled about her, something that said she'd been too busy to be totally neat, that maybe she'd had to repeat the last day's outfit. Hen smirked and Karen leaned back into her pillows, covering her mouth—and her smile—with the back of her hand. "Okay," she said. "That sounds good to me. I'll call you later?"
She stepped up to the bed and gave Karen a quick kiss goodbye.
"Yeah," Karen said. "Later. That sounds good to me." And with a quick wave, Hen was gone—leaving for a walk that Karen hoped was of anything but shame. She sighed happily and let herself relax. The memory of the night before lingered. Hen's mouth, and her fingers. The softness of her skin, the curves of her body, the plush press of her weight on top of Karen. It had been… good. Really good. Karen pulled up the bed sheets and wiggled a little, getting more comfortable, deciding to allow herself a lazy morning.
"Casual," she said, already thinking of when she'd see Hen again. "Yeah. I don't need serious."
-.-.-
"Karen," Trey said, his voice loud over the phone. She winced. "Please tell me you did not buy a house with this woman."
"No," she said, irritated. "I'm in the process of buying a house. We haven't closed on it. Yet."
He let out a huff of frustration. "Karen, you're my sister and I love you but you have to see why this is a bad idea, right. How long have you even known her? I thought you said you'd just starting dating!"
"Well. Technically we had. But it wasn't like we hadn't been seeing each other for awhile."
"Oh, okay, and so the logical step when you make things official isn't meeting the family or going on vacation together, it's buying a house?"
"We know what we want!" Karen tapped her fingers on the table, where the half-packed box of her kitchen things sat next to a stack of documents from the realtor. "I know what I want. And it's… it's Hen."
"Sure. Hen. What kind of name is Hen, anyway. What is she, a chicken?"
"It's short for Henrietta, Trey."
"And that's supposed to be better? What sort of old-fashioned—"
"You know, I didn't call you to ask for permission. This is what's happening and, if you love me, then maybe you could try being happy for me."
A staticky moment of silence hung in the air. Karen wasn't going to be the one to break first. "Don't bring in the 'if you love me' thing. You know I do. You know I'm in your corner, Karen." And it was true. He was. She would never take for granted that her family was supportive of her—that her sexuality wasn't just something they swept aside, or dealt with, but something they'd accepted as part of her. It hadn't been easy, sometimes, but just like with everything else in her life, Karen knew who she was and what she wanted. She was proud of who she was. Her brothers had said a few shitty things the first time she'd brought a girlfriend home, and she hadn't let them forget it. Trey didn't really need to make up for anything, and Karen didn't expect him to—but she wasn't going to let him question her choices, either.
"So you're with me on this."
"Karen! For God's sake. Stop being so hard-headed, woman. Yes. I'm with you. I'll support you and your girlfriend with the dumb name, if that's what you want to hear. But I'm just saying—" She started to interrupt, but Trey cut her off. "Let me finish. I am just saying… Things are moving really quickly. This isn't a decision it'll be easy to back off from."
"And I'm insulted you'd think I want to." She let the moment linger and then sighed, and the anger and defensiveness sloughed away. "Look, I… I appreciate the concern, okay? I do. I know you just want what's best for me. But when have I ever made a decision without thinking it through? I have the pros and cons, and it isn't like we woke up one day and said 'oh, you know what might be fun? Let's buy a house!' We talked about it, Trey. We talked about it a lot. And we both want this."
Trey sighed. "It's going to get messy as hell if you break up."
She nodded, fighting back a smile when she knew she'd gotten through to him. "I know."
"And you really love her?"
"I do. I really, really do."
"Fine." He sighed again. "Fine. Then… well, congratulations, Karen. I'm happy for you. I can't wait to see your new place."
"Thank you, Trey," she said. And she meant it sincerely. She didn't need his permission, obviously, but it still felt good to have his support. "I think this is going to be the start of something… really, really great."
-.-.-
Denny happened… fast.
After they'd moved in to the new house, Karen had expected impending family to come up, and maybe sooner rather than later. They'd talked it over some, of course, and they both knew what they wanted, but Karen had thought it would happen with time, and a plan, and with a surety that this was the right moment, the right thing, that it was the right thing that both of them wanted. She hadn't ever imagined something happening so out of the blue.
She didn't think it was that out of pocket for her to be jealous of Eva. She had been Hen's first love, she had a part of Hen that Karen never would. And that was okay, that was fine, she accepted that—but it didn't mean she liked hearing about her, or liked her calling Hen, or liked her existing at all in the same hemisphere. (It's many, many years later that she gets to tell Eva how she feels, that the things she loves most belonged to Eva first. But she airs it. And she knows that no matter what happend before, they're Karen's now, and they're Karen's most.)
So they fought about Eva, and her wanting Hen to take the baby. How Karen had assumed automatically that Hen would say no. How she wasn't sure she wanted to. It was the biggest fight they'd ever had. The most serious.
And after, Karen left.
Even before Howie called, it was a decision that weighed on her. A part of her—the largest part of her, maybe—didn't want to go. She loved Hen, so much, and it wasn't as though she didn't want a family with her one day. But this? Eva's baby just thrust on them? Would that really have been what was going to make them happy?
She sat waiting for her flight to Houston, in a nice traveling dress and her make-up done. Even if there hadn't been anything waiting for her there, her mother had always taught her that she was better than sweats and an old t-shirt on a plane. She would have gotten on that plane, too, if she hadn't picked up the phone. If Howie hadn't meddled, exaggerating Hen's injuries so Karen had to believe, even if just for one heart-breaking moment, that she was living in a world where Hen was gone.
Karen had been chasing the stars her whole life, but in that moment, imagining a world that didn't have Hen in it, it was the first time she felt like earth didn't have anything for her at all.
No. She wasn't going to live like that. Karen knew what she wanted. And by god, she was going to go and get it. Even if it did mean she had to apologize, to beg, to eat the biggest slice of humble pie she'd ever been served.
Hen was hers.
And that little boy? Well. Karen straightened her back and she strut proudly out of the airport. Fuck Eva Mathis. He was going to be Karen's too.
-.-.-
"Are you sure we're ready?" Karen asked. She checked the bedroom they'd turned into a nursery again, one last time. They had diapers, blankets, picture books at a variety of age levels, plenty of clothes. The kitchen had bottles and formula. By anyone's standards, she thought, they were well-stocked.
"I don't know," Hen said dryly. "Don't want to run out and buy another store out of diapers? I think there's still time."
"Not helping," Karen said, shooting a quick glare her way.
Hen threw up her hands. "Baby, we are at zero hour now. Whether we have enough diapers or not, tomorrow that little boy is going to be ours. Why don't we go to bed. We can relax, try to get some sleep, and we can get ready to face whatever comes well-rested and ready to go."
Karen sighed and took Hen's hands in hers. She smiled as Hen gave her a little tug, and then let herself be pulled towards their bedroom.
"You really think we're ready? That we can do this?"
Hen hummed softly, and pressed a tender kiss to the corner of Karen's mouth. "Ready or not," she said, "there's no one else in the world I can imagine doing this with." Then she grinned, and wrapped Karen up in her arms. Karen put her arms around Hen's neck and pressed their bodies together as close as she could. "But yes," Hen said, her voice quiet in the soft, private little bubble they'd created. It was the last time their world would only be the two of them. "I do think we're ready. I really, really do."
-.-.-
There is an astronomical difference between regret and grief.
Denny is never something Karen could ever, ever regret. She fell in love with him the day they brought him home—when they stared at him in his carrier on their coffee table and wondered what in the world they were supposed to do with a whole, human child. It was maybe a little gratifying that Hen seemed as lost as she did. Lost enough that she suggested they call Karen's mother, which. Might have gotten them an easier source of free childcare but would have driven Karen crazy in the long run. She loved her mother. And she loved her even more when Karen was here, and her mother was over there.
But she did grieve. For the life she was giving up. She made her choice with the full knowledge of what she was sacrificing, the weight of her dream that she had to shed. It didn't make her feel any lighter. But she had a new dream now. And that was good, too.
Mae Jemison went into space nine years after Sally Ride—right at the end of high school. She wasn't the first woman, but she was the first Black woman, and to a girl about to start off on the path she'd set for her life a decade before, seeing herself reflected in the space program like that meant something. To someone as driven and brilliant and ambition as Karen, someone who knew she was different, who wasn't just a woman, but a Black, queer woman, that meant a hell of a lot.
She'd already done a lot of grieving anyway, knowing that loving who she loved meant she was barred from the career she'd dreamed of. But it felt a little extra cruel that the universe—well, coincidence, really—had it so that "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" was repealed the same day that Denny came home to them.
It might have felt like an impossible choice. But she didn't really need to think about the choice at all.
Even if she never went into space herself, she would have the opportunity to help others there. She was still going to be as accomplished and badass and hard-working as ever.
She had a new dream now. And yeah. That was good, too.
-.-.-
There were a lot of sleepless nights those first few months, as Denny and his moms adjusted to their new status quo.
"Is he asleep?" Karen whispered.
Hen nodded. "Yeah."
Karen dared to take a peek in the crib for herself. "Do you think he's going to stay asleep?"
Hen let out a breathless little laugh—almost silent, a skill they'd had to perfect quickly. "Yeah," she said. "I think he's out."
"Thank goodness," Karen said, slumping against Hen. "I'm going to fall into bed and never get out again. At least, not until he wakes up again. Which hopefully won't be for the, say, six to eight weeks."
But despite her protestations, Karen wasn't quite ready to go to sleep. They lingered there together, for a long moment, watching the rise and fall of Denny's chest as he slept obliviously on.
"He's… so small," Hen said, taking her turn at peering into the crib.
Karen laughed, just a little sprinkle of sound, and put an arm around her waist. She knocked her head gently against Hen's shoulder and said "He hasn't gotten any smaller, Henrietta."
Hen pinched her playfully and Karen bit back a giggle, always mindful of the baby sleeping so fragile and so close. "I know that," she said, faux-sharp. She smirked, then gave Karen a long look out of the corner of her eye before turning back to the crib. "But I don't know that it hit me really. It's different, maybe, when he's in my arms. When I can feel the weight of him."
"He doesn't weigh much, either," Karen murmured, a hand rubbing soothing circles on her back.
"No, I know. But it's different. When he's in my arms, I… I know he's there. Seeing him here? So small? So helpless?"
Karen hummed softly. "So beautiful."
"Yeah, that, too. Our beautiful boy." Hen leaned in and touched his belly with the tips of her fingers. "But it's still hard to believe he's here. That he's really ours."
Karen felt something bloom in her chest. "He is," she said, fierce and loving. She wanted to gather them up careful and close, her own two constellations burned on her heart.
- . - . -
(When Denny's older, they get Howie, now Chimney, to help put up glow in the dark stars one evening while he's babysitting.
"They're just plastic stars. What's it matter where they go? Your mom gave me a constellation guide," he said, annoyed. "So that they're accurate."
"Uncle Chimney, why do they call you Chimney?"
"Would you believe it's because I used to smoke like one?"
Denny wrinkled his nose and handed him another pack of stars when Chim wiggled his fingers asking for it. "You don't smoke now."
Chimney popped his gum. "I don't. Smoking kills, kid. Don't start."
Denny was silent for a moment as he watched another few stars get stuck up. "Is it… because you're Santa? Without the beard, I mean." When Chim turned around, an incredulous expression on his face, Denny shrugged. "Because he comes down the chimney."
"No. No, uh…" He shook his head. "Not Santa." He put up another star and then said "Maybe one time I got stuck in a chimney. I'm quick, I'm wiry, maybe I thought I could fit."
"I don't believe you. Why would you be in a chimney?"
"Maybe that's where the fire was."
For a moment, Denny was silent, thinking. "Did mama ever go down a chimney?"
Chim laughed. "Hen? No, she's way too smart to do something like that. She'd just send me or one of the other meatheads we work with."
"Okay." Denny huffed and crossed his thin arms over his chest. "Well why do they call you Chimney, then?"
He winked and said "Because I'm such a smoke show."
"Huh?"
Chimney huffed and scrubbed at the back of his head. "Just... nevermind. It's okay, Denny, I'll tell you when you're older.")