The Boy: Washington, D.C., 1977

His name. He couldn’t stand it. Didn’t fit right, made him feel lonely. No one else in school had that name. Why couldn’t he be Brendan or Andy? It was biblical (the guy who took over for Moses), but his mom insisted she’d been inspired by a detective on the BBC. It didn’t help that his last name was weird-sounding, too. He would never get used to it, always having to repeat it, to spell it out. At least he wasn’t born a girl. Then he would have been Cordelia. His older sister sometimes called him Tut, which he liked better. He was obsessed with the Egyptian Boy King who made a swing through the National Gallery of Art that summer. A teenager with a golden beard. That’s who the boy really was, because that’s who the boy dreamed of being. Other times, he dreamed of being a cat. A cat with no name.