Advice to children from a future old man who probably won't have kids.

"Pops, why do both of us have weird names?"

Pops sighed and reached for a cigarette. Son and daughter, sallow in the lamplight, knew that their old man was going to do a lot of thinking and talking, mostly talking, in the next few minutes. He never smoked inside anymore, unless someone got him going and he was too wrapped up to move to the porch.

"First," Pops said, looking at the boy, "what's weird about being named after possibly the greatest American writer ever?" He screwed the cigarette into the corner of his mouth and turned to the girl. "Or about one of the only decent concepts left to mankind?"

"Well-"

"I-"

"The answer," pops said, "is nothing at all. Five to one some idiot classmate of yours said something, and you were embarrassed. Right?"

"Yeah."

"No. Mel just brought it up and I got to thinking."

"Thanks, Libby." The boy blushed, and his father winced. He hadn't meant to make him feel bad for getting embarrassed; the kid's emotions were his own, and yes, Pops knew he'd taken a risk when he'd christened his kids what he had, barely overcoming the objections of their mother, who'd picked good names herself, but found them swept aside by the hand of disuse.

"I'm only going to say this once," Pops said slowly, tapping ashes into an empty glass. "Whoever the miserable little creatures were that thought Melville was a poor, mockable, ridiculous name- and the same goes for your name too, Liberty- aren't worth worrying about.

"Fuck 'em, kids. Fuck 'em all."