“The show, Father. The documentary crew that follows us. Are you telling me you’ve never noticed the boom microphones?”
The whole family watches a fuzzy over-the-air rerun of Bonanza . Sheldon has his laptop closed.
“That’s because you have a photographic memory and a stubborn heart.” She pats his knee. “Now come down. Your brother set fire to the garage trying to make ‘smoked brisket popsicles.’”
Behind him, Missy shuffles in, hair a nest of static.
Mary sighs, sits on the ladder’s top rung. “Sheldon, honey, that’s a TV show. A pretend one. Based on you, but… not real.”
“It’s 2 a.m. Why are you downloading yourself?”
“Unacceptable,” Sheldon mutters. But he doesn’t close it.
“Semantics. The real question is why the episode is taking three hours. Our internet is provided by a cooperative of retired telephone linemen and a single, overworked squirrel.”