“But that’s just silly, right, son?” his Dad said.

This was a memory he loved and hated for the rest of his life. Loved it because Dad was the coolest man on earth, cooler even than the Doctor or Picard or Adama, and so many kids Simon knew didn’t even have dads. He hated it because Dad was dead a year and a day after he’d bought him the book.

Simon fingered the dark leather, the starship model forgotten.

“I think parts are in Greek. Guess you’ll need to learn Greek, huh, kiddo?”

“I know some Greek,” Simon said. And he did, he’d been learning it from an old chess-playing immigrant who hung out in the park. This was something else you didn’t tell Mom about. Creepy old men in the park were child molesters or worse.

His Dad just blinked at him when he said he knew Greek. His Dad was a believer at heart, and even though it seemed improbable, his Dad couldn’t help considering the possibility it was true. That’s why his Dad had bought the damned book.

“Well,” his Dad said at last, “don’t tell Mom, ‘kay?”