A (19:36)

Hi.

B (19:38)

Hello.

A (19:40)

Hey.

B (19:41)

The tiger smiles. Is he all right? Yeah. I think this is about as much as they can say. They never got far with the animals. Can he hear like us? I don't know. The tiger's eyes go back and forth between me and the boy. Hello. Hey. I don't think I like this. Yeah, most people didn't like it either. There's a reason they stopped. Hello. Hi. Doesn't he want to go outside? It's not the kind of place animals like to be. The thing is, he was never really made to be outside. Modifieds die on their own in the wild, not equipped. But he doesn't seem unhappy here to me. For what it's worth, I would rather be outside if I were him. I know what you mean. But he is what he is, and this is all he knows. He might not fit here, but he doesn't necessarily fit out there either. I don't think it bothers him, though. Hello. Hello. Well, I do. You do what? Think it bothers him. They never should have made him. I don't think he feels that way. I think he feels that way. In fact, I know he feels that way. Don't say that, Bud. Why not? Don't say that, Bud. Come on. Why not? It's true. He didn't ask for it. And I think the people who made him should have thought twice about what it would feel like. Where are the others like him? How does that feel? No, he didn't ask. It's good that it's illegal now, so they can't keep breeding any more of this. Making tigers that aren't tigers. They never should have done it. Hello. Hi. I want to keep talking, but I think this is one of those things I have to let go. The man in the tall hat is watching us closely, I realize, and muttering, little lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee? He whispers absently, the kind of rambling someone might do if they were rehearsing for a performance. And again I put more distance between the man and my son. Pretending that I'm not watching him. Sit there and watch us. The tiger, meanwhile, leans in and looks at the boy and lifts a big paw, turning it sideways like he's ready to shake. My son hesitantly grabs the paw and looks back at the tiger. Can you hear me? I don't think he can hear you. Can you hear me? I don't think he can hear you. If they don't know about us, how could we know about him? Can you hear me? But all the tiger does is smile. Foreign. Doug Here we have the Limu Emu in its natural habitat, helping people customize their car insurance and save hundreds with Liberty Mutual. Fascinating. It's accompanied by his natural ally, Doug. Limu is that guy with the binoculars watching us. Cut the camera. They see us. Only pay for what you need@libertymutual.com Liberty Liberty Liberty Liberty Savings Fairy Underwritten by Liberty Mutual Insurance Company Affiliates excludes Massachusetts.

A (24:06)

Hi, I'm Jean Chadsky. You may know me as the host of the Hermoney Podcast or the financial editor of NBC's Today show for 25 years. Today I'd personally like to invite you to join my Women Led investing club. It's called Investing Fix. With two X's, we walk through current market trends, teach investing fundamentals, and build a real portfolio together. Plus, your first month is absolutely free, so come check us out@investingfix.com we'd love to have view.

B (24:51)

Summer days in this place. Break the quickly forgotten fevers. Evening red spread sideways against the dust, whipping along the gray line of the distant highway. People are already working up on the hill, tending to a big stone fire pit that's billowing. Grills are out at vendor tents and a couple of food trucks. Kids are playing cornhole or running back and forth. Someone set up speakers over by a little stage and they've got music going. There's a fleet truck backed up not too far from the pit. The bed is filled with gold garlic giant bulbs still attached to reedy stems and leaves and scapes. There are thick, vibrant tendrils along the bottom that are moving like small arms. The green, stocky parts are curling too. In the bed, the heavy, garlicky air is inescapable, and even from here you can almost hear the bulbs, like they're breathing or sighing. Some of them are as big as tractor wheels, but I see some of the twisted, crooked ones, the small percentage where the modifications weren't adequate and they were rotted by withering. My son's taken to standing around with some of the kids. I think I recognize the girl from the park. They're talking about something and some of the others nearby are throwing around a float ball, not listening in for once. He's warming up. A small smile here and there under those shiny aviator sunglasses. He's still got that kid thing where, if given time, he forgets where he is and just does what they're doing. One of the dads, drinking a beer, looks over as though he knows me. My daughter mentioned a friend at the park. Seems like they found each other again, right? Right. They seem to get along, she said. Or she thought he had some kind of health thing. I think she didn't know how to handle it and wanted to apologize. Felt bad walking off. I think that's sweet. But it's okay. He gets overwhelmed sometimes. Photosensitivity and some other things. It passes pretty quickly, though. I used to have episodes and grew out of it. I'm sure he will, too. I get it. She's got a similar thing with asthma. I'm actually still supposed to carry around an inhaler and shit. He pats his pockets until he finds it. Okay. Haven't really had to use it. Hopefully it's not a thing anymore, but, you know, there's always something. There's always something. I laugh. Yeah. You guys visiting people, you know? Not really. I just felt a little stuck. I thought a trip with us two would be kind of nice. Sure. I think he's been getting in his head about things. I thought he was too young for it, but he has these ideas about what's normal and what's not, who's not. He feels a little on the outside. Sure. That's what I like about being on the road. After you've seen enough here and there, you get a better sense. Nothing's normal and nothing's not. It's all outside, you know? Hmm. Yeah. He replies generously. I don't fucking know who does. Someone throws the floatball in my son's direction, and to my surprise, he catches it. I feel like I can exhale. Where are you guys from again? One of those cities on the coast, I almost answer honestly. But then I catch myself. It's gentle curiosity, not malice, in his question. But we never know who's going to get upset when they find out. We come from a place where there are still some modified families like us. And when you're on your guard all the time, it gets too easy to mix up curiosity and aggression. Maybe I'm getting comfortable like my son over there, but I'm still not all the way Comfortable? Not just yet, Oregon, I say. I leave it at that. Oregon. Nice, he says. My son throws the float ball and it sails over into someone's hands. Surrounded by total darkness on that hill, with everything else engulfed in the cold black of nightfall, the fire pit and its big crackling flames become more bright and central, and the starlight all the more fearsome, stabs out from nothing, especially with no electric glow from the land holding it back. Just that light and us and faces and bodies gathered around. The laughs echo and the music feels like it's in our ears. The white haired woman from the souvenir shop is over by the stage. She's wearing an old dress, something people must have worn decades ago when the town was founded. I have to assume it feels very traditional, and there's something stately about the way she's got her hair up. She's holding a drink and raises it to me and I raise a beer back at her. People start clapping and I see something coming out from the dark, emerging, something big. It takes a few seconds before I understand what I'm seeing, because it looks like a man, but it's the tiger up on its hind legs, towering above everybody. Provost inbound, Provost inbound. The man in the tall hat, the one from the municipal building, is clearing the way like an attendant, making room for the tiger to walk up to the fire pit and toward the stage. They've got the tiger in some kind of gold cloak like something you'd seen sewn together for a high school play, and they get him to a large chair. I hear someone explaining to another out of towner how they used to do this with elders, usually with someone's grandfather or uncle. But eventually they figured out they could do it with the tiger, and over time that became part of the tradition too. Provost, Provost. People are clapping and shouting. I look over at my son and he's kind of like me, going along with the kids around him, cheering. Someone turns up the music and the parents are dancing with their little ones. Some men are drinking and throwing their bottles off somewhere into the dark. They add something to the fire and it shoots a little higher, like it's gassed up and almost sparking. The thing I always forget about fire pits like these is how loud they can be. The roar and crackle and the music and the lights. It's all getting to be a lot, even for me. I feel my fingers curling up and my muscles are starting to tighten. It hasn't happened in a long time, but I feel like I can't move too fast or I'll get lightheaded from all of the overstimulation. While I'm standing there, people are gathering up and around the stage. Time for the sort, everybody sort. Somebody announces. People start getting together around the fleet truck with the tumbling mountain of garlic bulbs. A few men grab the big round ones. They're yelling and giggling and carrying giant garlic plants up to the stage, laying them out like offerings at the tiger's feet. These are definitely the healthy bulbs that are properly modified to survive in the desert heat, and I notice the tiger's nodding, but with no smile like earlier in the day, just a stern gaze upon all of us. Time for the kids. It's the sort. It's the sort. I watch the white haired woman and the others lining up the children to go up to the truck bed. This time, instead of gathering up the good bulbs, they're being handed the others, the withered and the diseased, little strange and twisted garlic shapes in their clutches, and my son's being herded right along with them. I'll be right over here, bud, over by the stage, but if he can hear me, he's not saying anything. Instead of walking toward the tiger, these kids are all marching in the other direction, toward the fire pit. One of them, a lanky boy near the front, stands and waves at everybody, nice and big, and there's a lot more clapping and shouting that hurts my ears. The lanky boy takes a bite of the withered garlic and his reaction's immediate. He makes a face and spits a chunk of it out onto the dirt. Raw gold garlic would already have been hard to stomach, but with the failed modifications and withering, a lot more is off with it. Of course. The plant twists around like it's writhing and wounded and convulsing between his fingers. Everybody laughs and the boy lobs the defective bulb right into the flames. There's a high pitched sound, like a taut guitar string snapping before the fire whooshes higher against the night sky. A girl in line steps up and repeats the same thing. A bite, a sickened grimace, and a misshapen bulb tossed into the pit. Then another kid goes, then another. Gradually the smell begins to change, like something salty and molded and all awfuls breaking up in the smoke and settling over the hill. This seems to be part of the tradition, confirming that the withered bulbs aren't fit to eat. And the way everyone laughs and laughs. It reminds me of when parents put something sour on a spoon for a baby to try. A mixed up, mean spirited joy that's too loud and cheerful. One kid vomits and has to stumble off with some help after tossing his defect, the flames getting to be like a pillar turning and flickering. Rituals like these, I think they're always about the same thing, people feeling like they have control over something, the modified plants, the encroaching desert diseases, withering food strains. It's frightening and different and always pressing in, but they want to be masters of it all and not admit how scared they really are. Even the tiger sitting up in that chair in that costume. A mix of old things and new, I assume. It feels good to make him do what they want. They don't know why, but that kind of thing feels good to them. My son's getting closer to the front of the line and I feel my breath going shallow. You don't have to, you know. The whirling fire reflects off those aviator sunglasses, his little face, lips pursed. He's looking down at the withered garlic in his hand and it's coiling around his thumb. He's listening to it breathe, that little soft up and down, a pulse in his hands. I know him inside and out, and I know it isn't in him to do this kind of thing. Go on, someone says. Take a bite. Throw it in. That's the sort of Most of them are talking and laughing and not paying attention, but gradually there are more and more eyes on him as the lines getting held up, murmurs and giggles and music and the flick flacking of fire. He's touching the withered garlic bulb in his hand, but he can't seem to raise it up to his mouth to take that bite. It's okay, bud. Whatever you want to do, it's up to you. Go on, bite and throw it in. It's time to sort. He's looking around. Hey, hurry it up. You gotta sort. It takes him a second, and there's a moment where I think he's actually going to do it. The ease he's been feeling, the want to be on the inside of this thing, growing. There's an urge to go with the rest of the kids, but something about him just can't. I don't want to, he thinks. I don't say it to him then, but part of me is glad it's what he decided. I know. Just let them know you're not going to do it with words. It's okay. I. I don't want to, he says out loud. The man in the tall hat, the one who's been directing the line, turns when he hears that, and he gets close to my son and to the fire. The man's eyes are watery, almost clouded, and he's staring down at the kid. It's time to sort, he says. My son clears his throat. This is part of it, taking one from the other, the good from the bad, the useful from the useless. This is the sort I It's not hard for the other kids. Is it hard for you? It shouldn't be hard. Why is it hard for you? You bite and sort. I bite, sort. Bite, sort. I'm. Do you have a listening problem? Sort. Not getting through? Sort. Sort, sort. The man in the tall hat claps his hands loudly in my son's face, and I can see how hard the boy's trying not to show them his fear. Don't be a dick, Don. Let the kid walk off, for Christ's sakes. A familiar voice yells out. The dad I was talking to earlier, I think I move by others until I get to the brightness of the fire, all of it pounding in my head. But I get level with the man in the tall hat and those watery eyes that are slow to blink. I think he's good. Thank you. Oh, he's gonna step away now. Scared. Not scared. Just sure. Sure. Just sure. Or used a special treatment on the coast. There's probably special treatment for folks like you on the coast. The choice of words is intentional, and at another time in my life I would have joked or played it off. A time after that I might have shoved him aside. But the only way to be with people like this is steady and unwavering, and I want my son to see that at this particular point I smile and don't say a word. Special, the man in the tall hat repeats like he knows. My son watches the two of us, his eyes darting behind the aviator sunglasses. He tucks the little withered bulb into his pocket. Behind us, the crowd grows increasingly restless. They don't care about any of this. They just want to keep the fire and sort going. And the man must know that. You take care, I say to the man in the tall hat. Then I take my son by the shoulders and steer him from the fire. Enjoy your sort.

A (43:34)

Close your eyes.

B (43:35)

Exhale. Feel your body relax, and let go of whatever you're carrying today.

A (43:42)

Well, I'm letting go of the worry that I wouldn't get my new contacts in time for this class. I got them delivered free from 1-800-contacts. Oh my gosh, they're so fast.

B (43:50)

And breathe.

A (43:51)

Oh, sorry. I almost couldn't breathe when I saw the discount they gave me on my first order. Oh, sorry. Namaste. Visit 1-800contacts.com today to save on your first order. 1-800-contacts Experience a membership that backs your business journey with American Express Business Platinum. When you pay with membership rewards points for all or part of an eligible flight booked with a qualifying airline through Amex Travel, you can get 35% of those points back up to 1 million points back per calendar year. American Express Business Platinum there's nothing like it. Terms apply. Learn more@americanexpress.com Business Platinum.

B (44:44)

We make our way to the edges of the crowd and over by the stage. The white haired woman gives us a close mouthed smile. Don't mind Donnie, she says. He takes the master of ceremonies thing a little too seriously. I got that impression. She pats my son on the head gently. Did you have fun anyway? My son doesn't know what to say, but sticks with nodding politely. Good, Good. She drinks and chuckles to herself. This kind of thing isn't for everybody, though. Isn't that right, Provost? She calls to the tiger, who doesn't regard her. On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand dare seize the fire? Isn't that right, Provost? Isn't that right? The tiger looks at us from his chair on stage, surrounded by the golden bulbs brought by those men and women, and his expression is hard to interpret, but it's like he's thinking about saying something, something other than hello, but doesn't know if he can manage it. If there are other words in him waiting to get to us, there'll never be a way to pass them on. So those yellow flecked eyes float over to the fire and stare at the flames with the others, resigned. You two be careful getting back down the hill. It gets dark away from the fire. We'll be okay. Thank you. Be very careful. We will. Thank you. My son peers over at the children dancing near the pit, looking for that girl from before. She's busy talking with the other kids, though, and I don't think he wants to go over there anymore. We stand for a minute as the line snakes around the fire, the burning over there growing brighter, brighter with every withered thing cast. My brain starts processing all of it, too much of it, more than it should. The sounds from the people and the music blur the air with color, and I see in an unsettling kind of hyper detail, their faces, all of them by that fire pit. They look so old and weathered by the desert heat and dust, even the children, these old faces, the man in the tall hat, the white haired woman. The tiger too. It's not the way it appears to them, but to my modified brain and maybe to my son's, this is possibly the heart of things. What's underneath it all. They're laughing and clapping at everything still when I clutch my son's hand and lead him away. Those strange faces of those strange people chattering to each other in the night. Some of it wasn't bad, my son says softly. Some of it wasn't, I agree. Words. I think we can take a break from all that now. Okay. The white haired woman was right about how dark it is away from the fire pit out here, where we're just crunching down the hill on a gravel road. But my son and I, our sensitive eyes can see a way through more clearly than most. That's how I notice before too long that someone else is walking behind us, trailing in the dark. Not idle walking either. It's with a purpose set to come our way. I wonder if it's the man with the tall hat, not willing to let things go, or one of the others in the crowd who picked up on what he was saying and didn't like the idea of us at their sort. It could be any of them, really. I don't break into a run or let on that anything is wrong. I keep our pace even and leisurely. I don't want my son to panic or trip over something. I just keep us going and if it comes to it, I can let him know. But there aren't always things children need to see. I can give him that much, at least for the time being. You still got your sunglasses? Yeah. Keep them on. Let's take a look at something for a sec. I quietly shepherd the boy off of the road a good distance around some brush and rocks to where we can sit and look up at the spears of starlight. Even down here it's slightly brighter for us than for the person following, who does not seem to see us well enough to know when we deviate from the gravel road. I point upward after we sit low on some rocks so that my son's attention is on the constellations looming above, not on the tall thing walking, though it's getting closer, looking and looking for where we went. It's so clear out here. The sky. Yeah. Not like the city, is it? No. My son leans and digs his small fingers into the ochre dirt from his pocket. He pulls out that little sighing gold garlic bulb, weirdly shaped and withered, and he pushes it into the ground and covers it up delicately. The Leaves touch his hand. I keep thinking, what? We're so different from everybody. I feel like we're in the wrong world sometimes. You ever feel that way, dad? Yes, actually I do. Every once in a while. Are we in the wrong place? The tall thing stops on the road, still looking, not seeing anything in the dark. I squeeze my son's hand. I think it's easy to feel like you're in the wrong place, and I don't think it ever feels natural for anyone. Everyone feels a little like that, even the people here. There's no avoiding it. That's what I think, I guess. My son cranes his neck to take in more of the starlight and maybe think about what I said while that tall thing following us goes off and away into the distant dark. After a time my son dozes off on my arm, so I scoop him up and carry him when I'm sure we're alone. Every so often I think I hear steps somewhere behind us, the snap of a twig or a footfall, but I don't stay long enough to confirm where it's coming from. I keep off the road and circle back to the parking lot at the bottom of the hill, sliding the kid into the passenger seat and getting the seatbelt on him. When I back the car out and begin to drive, I see something briefly with my rearview mirror. There's a wrinkled face watching out there in the parking lot, something unrecognizable and maybe misshapen by my modified mind. It's a glow in the red brake lights and moving closer to the car. Its wide eyes follow me when I pull out of the lot and drive over to the nearby on ramp, tracking our departure, a hostile warning not to return, or perhaps nothing at all. Even after it disappears around the curves of the road, I have to make myself look away from the mirrors. My son breathes softly in his sleep, hair fallen over onto his face. The car rumbles onto the highway. No one up ahead or behind. I can still see the fire all the way out on that hill as it crackles and shifts and the hundreds of pale people shapes swarm around it in the darkness. But I try not to think too much about what we've left there, or anything else, really, except for the drive. I'll worry when I have to worry, but I won't let that worrying be now. All I see is the stretch of our headlights and lines on the ground, the universe unfolding from nothingness. More time and more towns, more traveling for him and for me, along routes we haven't figured out. And I'm filled with certainty. Then, in the hum of the highway, for no reason at all, we're okay for now, no matter the fears that hover within me, My son's okay. I tell myself he's part of something good and he's going to be okay. The Sort by Thomas Ha was originally published in Clark's World, issue 215 in August 2024. I really like Thomas Ha the person. We've had a wonderful correspondence as I sought his permission to narrate his work. He granted me permission very generously, enthusiastically and kindly. And here is something he said to me. He said, hey, look, if it's not too much trouble, if you don't mind, if it's not, doesn't make you uncomfortable, would you please credit Clark's World where this originally appeared. Clark's World is so important, he said, for authors like myself who are building our reputation and getting published and working our way toward where all of us as writers hope to go. Please tell your listeners about Clark's World. And I said, dude, you're gonna love this. I already do that because I also love Clark's World and Lightspeed and Uncanny and Locus and all of these incredible publications that feature the authors that I am bringing to to other people through my podcast. So I am honored it is a privilege to tell all of you. If you enjoy the stories I read you and you want more of them, the archives of those websites will keep you occupied for years and they are wonderful. I strongly encourage you, if you enjoy my podcast, to support those magazines, subscribe and share their stories with other people. We live in a very harmonious balance. This podcast and those publications, they can exist without me. I cannot exist without them. And that is very important. I told Thomas I will absolutely tell that to my listeners because I believe it is important. I also wanted to just point out the mission statement of its story Time with Wil Wheaton is bring authors to their new fans, introduce you to your new favorite authors who you did not yet know existed. I'm just really happy to say that I did that for myself with this episode. I enjoyed this story so much that I went and looked at some of Thomas Ha's other work, found out that he has a short story collection that just came out and it is right now sitting on my desk in my office because I absolutely love what he has written. I I really hope that over the lifetime of this series, some of you have a similar experience. Let me tell you a little bit more about Thomas. Thomas Ha is a Nebula Ignite, Locus and Shirley Jackson Award nominated writer of Speculative short fiction. You can find his work in Clark's World, Lightspeed Magazine, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, and Weird Horror Magazine, among other publications. His work has also appeared in the Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy and the Year's Best Dark Fantasy and Horror. His debut short story collection, Uncertain Stor his shit. Let me tell you a little bit more about Thomas Ha. Thomas Ha is a Nebula, Ignite, Locus and Shirley Jackson Award nominated writer of Speculative Short fiction, Right? You can find his work in Clark's World, Lightspeed Magazine, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, and Weird Horror Magazine, among other publications. His work has also appeared in the Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy and the Year's Best Dark Fantasy and Horror. His debut short story collection, Uncertain Sons and Other Stories is now available. As I said, I have a copy of it sitting on my desk which I ordered from bookshop.org Thomas grew up in Honolulu and after a decade plus of living in the Northeast, now resides in Los Angeles with his family. It's Storytime with Wil Wheaton is available wherever you get your podcasts. You can find us at patreon, which is patreon.com storytime where you can find a bunch of fun extras including some marked up scripts, some behind the scenes video of me struggling to pronounce easily pronounceable words, and my writing reflections on the material as I sort of muse after I finish reading and sort of think about and talk about and begin a discussion about the story that I just read that you just listened to. I really enjoy it. If you'd like to be part of that, you can come check us out at patreon.com storytime you can also find us at YouTube and at my blog wilwheaton.net podcast. We hope you enjoyed the sort of by Thomas Ha. It's Storytime with Wil Wheaton was produced in 2025 by Traveler Enterprises Incorporated, who holds the copyright. Our producer is Harris Lane. Our story producer and director is Gabrielle Dacure. Our Content Editor is Michael Thomas. Our podcast is edited, mixed and mastered by the great Alex Barton of Phase Shift av. Thank you Alex. Special thanks to Wes Stevens and Christopher Black, recorded at Skyboat Media. Thank you so very much for listening. If you've enjoyed the show, please like subscribe, rate and review us wherever you get your podcasts. Thank you so much for listening. That's all for now, I'll see you next time. Bye.