Donald Tiver

Harvard Smith and the Sleep Machine

Harvard Smith only half remembered what the embrace of a human being felt like. It was a distant memory, the glow of a fire across the tundra at night, with no way of approximating its distance. He was certain he had once had two parents but only remembered the man. Sometimes he thought all the old films he spent all day with had merely seeded those archetypes of the nuclear family in his head, though he wasn’t sure.