Rob Fine is feeling positive.  It’s 3 p.m. on a Tuesday and he’s fully awake and dressed, albeit in the sweats he’d slept in. A year of missed deadlines, a squandered advance, but now Rob is ready to write. He’s all set up, drawing pad on the kitchen table, in case his creativity propels him in that direction, laptop open on the low table in front of him. On his right, a torn bag of Cheeze Dangles leaks napalm-orange caterpillars; on his left, he’s fortified by yesterday’s half-empty bottle of lager and his vape pen. Cold March afternoon light sneaks between the grey concrete buildings opposite Rob's apartment and sidles into the room. It glances off the bookshelf, with its row of Space Dad books, the children’s series he’d co-authored with his ex, Penny, and, in a place of prominence, his more recent graphic novel for adults; all are cozily swaddled in a downy coverlet of dust.  

There’s noise out in the hallway, a shuffling. Rob tenses. No one he’s expecting, no one he wants to see, least of all his landlord.  

It’s not that Rob has been irresponsible. For months he'd been busy with opportunities, mostly social, generated by the graphic novel. Then the world moved on. He’s been trying to generate his next project but he’s been stuck. And yet, here, at last, he is. He takes a hit from the vape and opens a fresh page. He waits, fingers poised.  

Again, a noise out in the hall.  

Rob? A voice, female, from the other side of the door, soft, musical, a little catch of hesitation. He opens. A six-foot-tall purple hippopotamus fills the doorway. She has on a pink tutu over bleached skin-tight jeans, fashionably shredded at the knees, and a striped red and yellow crop top, beneath which lurks the swell of breasts. Rob quickly raises his gaze. Large eyes, long-lashed, and heavily lined in black, pouty lips, stained Goth puce. She flounces in, takes in Rob’s expression, and says, Great. Do you even remember who I am? 

A shuffle outside. Thomas! she calls. Come on in! and opens the door to a shaggy panda, dressed in his signature striped overalls and deerstalker cap.  

Sophia? Thomas?  

Duh, says the panda. 

Wow, it’s...amazing to see you guys! Is he hallucinating? Rob stares at one, then the other and finally gives each of them a clumsy one-armed hug. They certainly feel corporeal.  

It’s been what… 

For us, eight years, Sophia says, strolling into the living room and helping herself to a swig of Rob’s beer. No clue what your timing has been. 

Rob takes the bottle out of her hand. You’ve turned into teenagers! Also, you used to be fictional, he adds, under his breath. 

Sophia’s outfit is the same one he’d drawn in all three Space Dad books. What is now a crop top had been a long t-shirt at the time, as (he quickly did the math) she’d been seven then, her brother, five. Thomas, he must be thirteen or so, has grown too; his overalls flap about his calves as he pinballs around the room. He used to be the cutest little panda, but now there’s something off center about him. His fur is overly long and looks synthetic. His upper lip is smudged with a downy mustache.  

Eight years! It doesn’t make sense. Penny, his ex-girlfriend, has been gone less than three years. Thomas and Sophia had last been around then as well. Time must move differently for them. 

After the third Space Dad book was published, Penny created an app based on the series. Purist that he’d been, Rob hadn’t loved the idea at the time, although this past year, he’s been grateful for the trickle of royalties. The app had done well, which led to her being offered her dream job in San Francisco. When she'd floated the idea of a move together, maybe even kids, Rob couldn't bring himself to leave New York. The lit scene! The art world! But really, he couldn’t take that next step with Penny. That acknowledged, there had been no question of a long-distance thing. They were done.  

He missed her, but it was too late. She loved it out there. She’d gotten involved with another techie; they ate vegan and hiked. That must have been when Rob had lost Thomas and Sophia, as well, though they were the last thing on his mind at the time. When he finally tried to conjure them, they were nowhere to be found. He’d made some feeble attempts to get in touch, but he didn’t have a clue of how to reach them and after a while gave up. 

After several months of wallowing, Rob had met one Art Rattigan, and teamed up with him on a graphic novel for adults. The Rat Pack was a moody noir about a lonely guy befriended by a rat. No one was more surprised by the magnitude of the success of it than Rob. He reveled in the TV appearances, the book signings, the award dinners, the endless stream of parties. But Rob had overdone the nightlife, the extracurriculars; he’d played the bad-boy-author too long, like a cartoon character out beyond the cliff edge, running on air. Although they never had a formal falling out, Art claimed to be unavailable to collaborate on a sequel, and Rob was abandoned yet again. “That rodent,” he still calls Rattigan, but secretly misses the connection of their partnership, the high when they were firing on all cylinders. The past year has been barren, and Rob, who had considered himself a creative, has a sneaking fear it was Art who’d had the talent.  

The kids must be here to save him; Rob’s always been lucky that way. Hadn’t Penny rescued him, when they first met? He’d been out of work, having quit the job from hell at an ad agency (his brother had pulled in a favor to get him hired) and Penny supported him until the first Space Dad book was published. And Art had saved him after Penny left. This is just luck that was due him. A little late, but here now. 

Thomas marauds around the living room, panda-handling all the toys Rob had invested in during his brief heyday: the vintage hifi, the Sixties sunbeam clock, the bunny statue, the pricey state-of-the-art headphones. Usually, Rob studiously ignores them, sensitive to their reproach. He’s a disappointment to the Strat, for failing to progress beyond the first five chords, to the stone bunny, supposed to have been the foundation of a cool art collection, to the hifi, untouched, the vinyls, unplayed.  

Cheeze Dangle, anyone? asks Rob, partly to distract Thomas from his stuff. So, what have you guys been up to? 

Sophia rolls her eyes.  

What do you care, says Thomas. Huh, Space Dad? 

The Green Pea Pod Planet, The Cosmos Caper, Quest to A Frozen Volcano. Each book had started and ended with the same frame, Space Dad at the helm, Sophia on his left and Thomas on his right. In front of them, the console, and beyond it, all of black and twinkling space awaiting only Space Dad’s touch of the button to propel them out toward the next adventure. Those books had practically written themselves; they'd flowed so freely. 

Rob thinks fast. He pats the area on his right. Thomas, my boy, have a seat. Thomas plops onto the sofa. Sophia perches on the other side.  

So, what now? Thomas asks.  

Well, it looks like we’ve got ourselves an adventure to plan, Rob says, pulling the laptop toward him. Where are we off to this time, crew? Sophia picks an invisible piece of lint off her jeans. Thomas is killing aliens on his phone. Rob gazes at his blank screen, puts his hands on the keyboard, waits for it, wait for it... nothing. Okay, how about some pizza, he says, opening an app to order. 

Having scrounged up enough to pay the delivery guy, which required diving into the couch cushions for coins for a tip, having watched the kids scarf down most of the pizza, Rob is ready for action. He’s gotten over the shock of seeing them again, in the flesh, no less, or whatever facsimile of flesh they were, and he wants to get going, and come up with some kind of plot. Sophia and Thomas are sprawled in front of the TV watching “Action Man.”  

Guys, the story? They ignore him, eyes on the screen. 

Action Man, an alligator with a crimson A on his chest, is receiving a trophy for saving the city. The mayor, a camel, is droning on, lauding him in a rumbling monotone, when Action Man interrupts. This is bull crap. I need ACTION, man!  Sophia and Thomas chorus the catch phrase with him. Action Man grabs the trophy and chucks it at a gopher waiter, who crashes to the floor in an explosion of champagne glasses and strawberry scones.  

Now that’s what I call action, crows Action Man. Sophia and Thomas let out snorts of laughter. Action Man! What an asshole, thinks Rob. 

Sophia reaches into the box on the coffee table and snags a congealed piece of pepperoni pizza, her fourth. Rob can’t help but glance at her thighs, in their snug jeans, spreading beneath the pink tutu, and swallows a remark. He had never imagined her as a teenager; in his books, she had been a little girl. But if he had, he would have pictured her as more of a Jessica Rabbit type than a Miss Piggy. She catches him looking. Do not even think it! she says, with a pointed glance at Rob’s stomach, comfortably slouched over the waistband of his slept-in sweats. 

Thomas chugs his third Mountain Dew; Rob realizes that the sugar wasn’t a great idea. The panda bounces on the couch, fiddles with his laptop, which Rob snatches away. Thomas grabs the remote and flicks through channels. He reminds Rob of nephew Skyler, another antsy kid. How was his brother Matt was so patient? Rob, not yet ready for even a houseplant, can just about handle his own role of ‘cool uncle.’  

Sophia elbows her brother. Hey, put it back on; the show isn’t over.  

Back at the cartoon channel, Action Man is being snide to a girl alligator about the thickness of her tail. The coffee table is a disaster—greasy pizza box, smeared and crumpled napkins, half-empty cans of soda and Rob’s stale beer. Rob spies and pockets his vape pen; not in front of the kids. Or did it even make sense to call them that anymore? He remembers Sophia, a sweet, slightly chubby little girl, the sparkle that used to live in Thomas’ now somewhat glazed eyes. Whether it’s been eight or only three years since he’d seen them, what a change.  

On TV, the scene shifts to a building, its neon "Roach Motel" sign fizzing erratically. Action Man lounges in his room, smoking a fat cigar.  Time for action, he says, and leaves, the butt still smoldering in the ashtray. As he heads out the door, the wind blows the curtain into the lit end; it flares.  

A cockroach in a bowler hat is trapped in the burning building. We need Action Man, he calls urgently. But Action Man is elsewhere. He finally wends his way back to the Roach Motel, with an armful of dynamite. Grinning, he lights the fuses. Kaboom. The kids crack up as the bowler-hatted insect and its charred cousins scuttle from the damaged hostelry. Stupid bastard, blowing up his own house, thinks Rob. Sad stupid bastard.   

Okay, you guys, Rob says, you can watch until this show is over. Then we’ve got to get to work. 

You don’t get to do that, Rob, says Sophia.  

Rob? What happened to Dad?  

Eight years is what happened. We’re not your little puppets. You can’t just go back to the way it was. We’ve changed.  

Thomas has picked up the Strat with his greasy paws, pretending to shred like a guitar idol. Rob grabs the guitar and sets it down out of the kid’s reach. Thomas throws himself back on the couch and moans, This sucks! Nothing to do.  

The kids seem to have suddenly succumbed to food coma, and are half crashed out on the couch. We need Action Man, a chorus from the TV wafts over them. The volume amps up for the commercials. Fine, says Rob, commandeering the remote to stifle it. I get it, I’m sorry. You guys just chill. I’ll work on the new story myself. Let’s see. Sophia. Sadly, you’ll be a shy loner. I guess Thomas will be targeted by bullies. 

Absolutely not, says Sophia. I’m going to engineer spaceships. Thomas will be a communications whiz. Thomas nods. Cool.  

Well, says Rob, I guess so, like he’s reluctant but they’ve convinced him. He starts typing. Okay. The Adventures of Sophia and Thomas. His voice does not betray his guilt at being a manipulative dick. Forgetting them all that time. Using them now.  But they are his characters, right?  

He changes tactics. So, how’d it happen? He indicates their three-dimensional selves. Zapped with gamma rays? Bitten by a bookworm? What did it? (Actually, this is great. He’s already thinking of plot possibilities). 

I’m not sure. There was this flash and a fizzle and a POP, and there I was, says Sophia. After I appeared or materialized, whatever, I was just standing there, trying to figure out what had happened and flash, fizz, and another POP and there’s Thomas. 

Pop, Thomas echoes, in a smaller voice.  

Wow is all Rob can say. You have no idea how? 

Well, we’ve thought about it. So, you know how with our books, with print, the story is, like, fixed? The beginning, the middle, and The End. The plot was set out, no surprises, I didn't have to think about it. But then Penny developed the app, the interactive version. Whole different story.  

In the digital version it’s more like a game, Sophia goes on. The reader—the player—has to make decisions every few seconds, everything from which hair bow I’ll wear to whether I’ll have to battle a giant squid. I’d do something and also do the complete opposite. I was a million things all at once. It was amazing! But kind of scary. I was actually glad when new games like Riverboat Raccoons and Potato Pie Girls came out and we became less popular.  

Maybe some kind of electrical disturbance, Rob is still guessing. Or random synergy among a hard drive, a 3D printer, and the universe. Her skin seems to be some man-made substance. When Rob had hugged her, she’d felt soft, like a foam stress ball covered with a thin skin of plastic.  

So, where’d you end up? 

It turns out, California. In front of Mom’s. 

Mom? 

Duh. Who do you think? Penny, said Thomas 

It makes sense that they’d think of her as a mom. Penny had, strictly speaking, actually conceived of Sophia and Thomas; she'd done the first basic sketches before Rob developed them into full-blown characters.  

So, how long have you been at Penny’s? 

Couple of years, says Thomas. 

What! It took you all that time to look me up?  

We didn’t know if you wanted to see us, Sophia says. After all, you disappeared.  

What are you talking about, Rob bursts out. You guys left me. I didn’t go anywhere. And when I was desperate, you were...gone. 

Circumstances beyond our control, says Sophia softly.  

But you were the grown-up, adds Thomas.  

Rob cannot think of a rejoinder to that. The three of them stare at each other. Rob is the first to flinch and look down. The poor kids. Wandering around without direction, without a plot. He'd hardly even thought of them, and weren't they his creations? Weren’t they his? 

So, what made you get in touch now? 

Well, to be honest, Sophia says, we kind of missed you. You were fun; took us on all these adventures. 

Plus, Mom's too strict about junk food, adds Thomas. 

Do I look like someone who enjoys kale and hiking? Sophia went on. So, when you finally tried to call us, we figured it was time. 

I tried to call you? I didn’t even know you existed. But Rob checks his phone and there's an outgoing call to a random string of numbers. Amazing. 

Hey, says Sophia, breaking the silence. I think my first spaceship is going to be solar-powered. I’ll have a greenhouse in there, maybe a processor that can provide water to parched planets. Thomas, you’ll be the communications officer. 

And I make contact with Pluto, Thomas adds. And we have to go out there and fight the evil orange worm aliens that are trying to take over. Pew pew, he mock-shoots the Cheeze Dangles. 

Rob has grabbed his laptop and is typing, a little smile on his face. They’re great kids, aren't they? Maybe he won't send them back to Penny. He can keep them here. Play ball with Thomas, get him outside. Mentor Sophia's studies, like a read dad. 

They’re flanking him, Sophia on his left, Thomas on the right, just like he used to draw them. He can feel their warm light bodies on either side of him. It’s nice, almost like old times. Now they’re squabbling, leaning in closer, reaching around him to poke each other. Thomas is cackling; Sophia whines, Dad! Tell him to stop. Both of them have taken off their sneakers, and a plastic-y version of adolescent foot aroma, a high pungent note, drifts up, like cartoon smoke in the shape of fingers, to assail Rob’s nostrils. Sophia looks up at him, expectantly. He’s supposed to respond.  And it dawns on him: this is real. It’s nothing like what he’d made up.  

Marjorie Tesser’s fiction has recently been published in Cutleaf, Sunspot Lit, Pure Slush’s Cows anthology, The Saturday Evening Post, and others. A recent MFA graduate of Sarah Lawrence College, she received an Academy of American Poets prize. She is the author of two poetry chapbooks and editor of MER - Mom Egg Review.