“Martin, how’d you get so…weird?”

Martin gave her a playful look and wiped the mud from his cheek with his shirtsleeve, “I’m sure I have no idea what you mean.”

“Pffft,” she scoffed, “Come on. You’re the only ten year old I know who listens to big band jazz, enjoys Faulkner, and…”

Her voice froze as the boy lit up a cigarette.

She collected herself, “And I notice you smoke Lucky Strikes, filterless, like my grandpa.”

He hesitated, letting a white puff ascend into the Autumn breeze. The thin slice of tobacco heaven flitted this way and that before disappearing altogether.

“I suppose,” he drawled, “you wouldn’t be much of a babysitter if you didn’t notice.”

“Suppose I toss you in the creek for being a smart mouthed babysittee? And you still haven’t answered the question.”

Martin smiled, “Firstly, I don’t think that’s a word. Secondly, consider the mountain, capped in snow, reaching into the ether, born of the earth’s hot ire. Some things my dear, are quite simply and self-evidently timeless.”