ywhere. The followee was
tormenting the follower, as usual, smacking him in the back of the head, then
calling him a baby, goading him into hitting back, dodging easily, and
retaliating viciously.

Chet thought that he understood some of what was going on. Maybe he'd be able to
explain it to The Amazing Robotron.

#

I never thought I'd say this, but I miss my exoskeleton. My feet ache, my legs
ache, my ass aches, and I'm hot and thirsty and my waterbottle is empty. I'm not
even past Bloor Street, not even a tenth of the way to the bat-house.

#

The Amazing Robotron seemed thoughtful as I ratted out my chums. "So, I think
they need each other. The big one needs the little one, to feel important. The
little one needs the big one, so that he can feel useful. Is that right?"

"It is ve-ry per-cep-tive, Chet. When I was young, I had a sim-i-lar friend-ship
with an-other. It -- no, _she_ -- was the lit-tle one, and I was the big one.
Her pa-rent died be-fore we came of age, and she left the Cen-ter, and when she
came back to visit, a long time la-ter, we were re-ver-sed -- I felt smal-ler
but good, and spec-ial be-cause she told me all a-bout the out-side."

Something clicked inside me then. I saw myself inside The Amazing Robotron's
exoskeleton, and he in my skin, our roles reversed. It lasted no longer than a
lightning flash, but in that flash, I suddenly knew that I could talk to The
Amazing Robotron, and that he would understand.

I felt so smart all of a sudden. I felt like The Amazing Robotron and I were
standing outside the bat-house, _in_ it but not _of_ it, and we shared a secret
insight into the poor, crazy bastards we were cooped up with.

"I don't really like anyone here. I don't like my Dad -- he's always shouting,
and I think he's the reason we ended up here. He's batshit -- he gets angry too
easy. And my Mom is batshit now, even if she wasn't batshit before, because of
him. I don't feel like their son. I feel like I just share an apt with these two
crazy people I don't like very much. And none of my mates are any good, either.
They're all either like my Dad -- loud and crazy, or like my Mom, quiet and
crazy. Everyone's crazy."

"That may be true, Chet. But you can still like cra-zy peo-ple."

"Do _you_ like 'em?"

The Amazing Robotron's idiot lights rippled. _Gotcha_, I thought.

"I do not like them, Chet. They are loud and cra-zy and they on-ly think of
them-selves."

I laughed. It was so refr