Burying the Dead

Prologue

Prologue

The ball is a moon, a yellow-green orb that I imagine serving across the net, past you, my newest rival, into the universe, where it is a billion years ago. There the Earth is still a babe really, still young and new, and none of this—none of us—has happened or can even be imagined.

Time is space, and space is the past. But, of course, this is real time, Earth time, and you hit a sharp return—a reflex, boom-boom—that wakes me from my reverie. I cannot let that happen again. I will not let that happen again.

This is the biggest tournament of my life, and, though I like you, admire you, love you even as a member of the court, the brotherhood of the net, I cannot let you in. I in particular cannot let anyone in.

I must be as cold as Pluto, my favorite celestial body, forever a planet to me. I must hurl my moon to the corners of the court with pinpoint accuracy, more billiards player than rocket man. Like a dancer, I must keep changing direction and, in so doing, keep changing the pace, the rhythm of the game, to keep you off balance.

You are good. I am better. I cannot let you forget that. I must control the match, no, dominate it, dominate you.

The ball is a moon, I think—so large and luminous—as I serve for the first set…