We meet at a diner near Dundas, the type that calls itself Southeast Asian-inspired without being specific or authentic. White Singaporean coffee, roti john, laksa, fishball noodle soup, egg tarts, and pineapple buns share the menu with chilli fries and sambar.

Father wanted a son in his image, one who would carry on his legacy. He insisted that we—I mean, you—follow his footsteps and study mechanical engineering.

Atlas A, fourteen years old, is sitting alone in his bedroom reading a comic. Beside him is a box labelled Easy Hobby-Games for Little Engineers, unopened.

“I think that I shall never see a poem lovely as a tree,” Atlas hummed softly, as xe did the dishes, glancing over xir shoulder to where xir mother, Mrs Adhikari, sat nursing an after-dinner drink and eyeing her child with an appraising eye.

From her usual corner booth, Atlas Adhiambo took it all in, her gaze sharp and focused like a hawk on the hunt. But she wasn’t hunting, not exactly; she was piecing things together.