Published: 2025-09-08

Pedro asked his newborn son how he wanted to be called, “I want to be called Pluto.” His son answered. Pedro asked his wife, Teresa, to write it down for him; she watched the conversation on a screen. Pedro asked if Pluto wanted his name spelled in a special way or if P-L-U-T-O was OK. Pluto consented, the usual spelling will do just fine. What about a second name? Pluto didn’t want any. “I’m pleased to finally meet—” The conversation ended. The screen had gone black; his wife couldn’t see anymore. Pedro took off his helmet, and a nurse helped him remove the electrodes in his chest, neck, and arms.

A tall man wearing a black suit approached him.

“Mr. Pérez, I explicitly told you not to engage with the minor in any kind of conversation besides the one authorized by the Bureau of Minor Rights, didn’t I?” He said.
“I just wanted to—”
“I asked you a question, Mr. Pérez. Didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did, Mr. Smith. I just wanted—”
“I don’t care what you wanted, Mr. Pérez. We have protocols, and breaking them is a grave offense. You could permanently damage the psyche of the newborn.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Smith.”
“You are? I’m letting you off the hook this time, but I will personally be seeing the child for his annual review. Just pray that he doesn’t develop Asperger's or any other neurological disorder. Or you’ll be truly sorry.”

Mr. Smith turned around and walked away, muttering under his breath. “Fucking immigrants.” That’s what Pedro thought he said.

Teresa hugged him and smiled.

“Pluto. What a beautiful name our child chose.” She said.
“Why couldn’t I name him Pedro?”
“Honey, we talked about this. That is not how things work anymore. Not in this country at least.”
“Yeah. Welcome to the future. Where minors have to give consent. What a load of crap.”

The nurse, who was still taking care of the equipment, turned her head to them with a horrified expression. Teresa hugged him tightly and whispered into his ear, “Honey, not here. That kind of talk is dangerous.”

Pedro took a deep breath and got up from the chair. A nurse brought their baby to them, and they left.

The city was bright and colorful, like a picture from a kids' book. Since the invention of Future Consciousness Displacement and the establishment of the Bureau of Minor Rights, things have changed dramatically. Not only are parents required by law to ask for their child's consent on matters such as naming and food preferences, but also on more life-altering subjects like what they’d like to study and how to spend their free time. Parents have become vessels; the kids stopped being the future and became the present. In fact, that was the Bureau slogan, “Kids are the present.” The government hoped to create a society where the youth were capable and productive, less prone to using drugs or committing crimes, and more educated. Centuries of parents guiding their children based only on their own subjective view of the world have led us nowhere. It was time for a change.

Pedro didn’t say a word on the way home. He fixed his gaze on the horizon and drove attentively, while Teresa sat on the back of the car, nursing the baby. “My little Pluto. Aren’t you the cutest child in the whole world? Yes, you are. Isn’t that right, honey?” She would say. Pedro wouldn’t even look at them through the mirror.

Pedro parked in the street and left his wife out. They lived in the third floor of an apartment building in the outskirts of the city and there was no place to park; they had to park in the streets, three blocks away, and hope nobody their 1998 Toyota Camry didn’t get vandalized. The Pérez family couldn’t say they were winning in life, but they had their quasi-good health, a leaking roof over their heads, and the rice and beans they could afford with Pedro’s construction worker salary. Their kid could not grow up running in the backyard because they didn’t have one, but they had each other, and that was enough.

They entered the house and put the baby to sleep. Pedro opened a can of beer and sat in front of the TV while Teresa made dinner. Pedro liked doing his part in keeping the rate of alcoholism high in the country after a long day of work. He imagined a propaganda poster of a cowboy, beer in hand, pointing forward, with the caption “Do your part” underneath. The image made him laugh.

The baby was still sleeping when Teresa finished making dinner. She put the table and they both sat down; Teresa said a prayer before starting to eat. Pedro didn’t close his eyes or lowered his head; he just stared at her.

“What’s wrong, honey? Why wouldn’t you eat?” She asked.
“Why, Teresa?”
“Why what, honey?”
“Why can’t I name my own son? Like my father did, and his father before him?”
“Honey, we talked about this. This is how things work in this country.”
“The hell with this country!”

Pedro banged his fist on the table. Teresa stayed immobile, looking at him. Pluto started crying. Teresa got up from the table and went to calm the baby; Pedro followed her.

“Is this how we are going to live? Letting the government decide when our kid takes a shit and if he should do it over our heads?” Pedro said.
“Calm down, Pedro, you’re drunk.”
“I’m drunk? Yeah, because I have to be drunk to care for my son.”
“You don’t care for him, Pedro. You only care about your pride being hurt. This is how things work in this country. Get over it. Move on.”

Pedro stood in the corridor. He opened his mouth, but the words didn’t come out. He couldn’t say anything more, even if he wanted to. He finally dragged his feet to the sofa and laid down. From the kid’s bedroom, he could hear Teresa’s soft voice trying to calm him down. “What is it, little Pluto? Are you hungry? There, there. Mommy’s gonna feed you.” Pedro fell asleep.

A loud noise woke him up. The sun was already coming through the window; his dinner was still on the table. He spent the night on the couch. He heard the same sound again. Someone was knocking at the door. He got up and opened it. A man in a black suit was on the other side of it.

“Are you Pedro Pérez?” Said the man.
“Yes, I am. How can I help you?”
“You are under arrest on suspicion of representing a threat to your son’s well-being.”

Before Pedro could say anything, the door was violently pushed. Four police men entered the apartment. One of the officers restrained him while another handcuffed him; the other two headed for the kid’s room.

Pedro shouted desperately, “You get away from my son.”

Teresa hurriedly got out of bed, “What’s happening? What are you doing to my son? Pedro? What’s happening?”

A police officer stood in front of her. “Ma’am, please don’t interfere with the process, or you may be charged with a criminal offense. Do you understand?” He said.

The man in the black suit and the four police officers left with Pedro and the baby. Teresa stayed on the floor, crying. “Damn you. Damn you all.”

THE END.