“Nope. I’m not doing anything. My job hunting’s gone on summer vacation.” “Vacation? Sounds good. I think mine’s taking one too.” There was a high-school baseball game on TV. The players, four or five years younger than us, were being showered in cheers. Bottom of the seventh inning, and still no points for either team. “This is a weird question,” I began, “but when you were a kid, Shindo, what did you want to be?” “High school teacher. Told you that a bunch of times.” “Oh yeah, I guess you did.” “Now, though? Me shooting to be a teacher seems as implausible as a one- armed guy shooting to be a pianist.” Shindo spoke the truth; he definitely didn’t look like someone suited to be a teacher. Don’t ask me what kind of occupation he would be suited for, though. I guess he was already a teacher in the sense that he teaches people how you don’t want to end up, but as of now, “bad example” isn’t a valid job position. “There could be a one-armed pianist, though,” I supposed. “Eh, maybe. So what did you wanna be?” “I didn’t want to be anything.” “Liar,” he accused, prodding my shoulder. “Grown-ups will make kids think they have dreams, at least.” “It’s true, though.” Cheers came from the TV. The game was finally getting somewhere. The ball hit the fence, and the outfielder was desperate to get it. The second base runner had already made it to third, and the shortstop gave up on throwing to home plate. “We have a point!”, a commentator exclaimed. “Hey, weren’t you on the baseball team in middle school? Pretty well-known in the area for your pitching?”, Shindo asked. “Heard about it from a middle school friend. A southpaw by the name of Yugami, only a second-year, but