I break away from the simple, dry kiss. He exhales slowly, then inhales. I do the same.

Then I take a deep breath, breaking the silence, "This doesn't change a thing." No matter how much I want it to. He's just not for me.

"Everything is the same," he admits, stepping backward. "Just a little brighter, maybe."

I smile and look at the sky, at the stars, no moon. Then I sigh, happily, and turn to go. "See you Monday."

Mom is awake inside reading the comics in yesterday's newspaper. When I come in she jumps from the dining room table. "Timber, where have you been."

"I just... Churner invited me to dinner. It was Dawnette's birthday. I meant to tell you this morning."

"Well, I'm glad you’re ok." She backs off a bit, "did you have fun?"

"Yeah, there was cornbread and applesauce, someone made shepherd's pie. I kind of felt bad for not bringing something, but she said it was fine." I start walking through the kitchen to my bedroom, which is downstairs. Underground. It's the cellar. The house was built for dad and his two brothers. Since there are four of us, and nopony wants to share, I was volunteered for moving to the cellar. There's plenty of room, it's not uncomfortable, just dark. I only have one window and an electric lamp.

"Be sure to send them both a thank you letter," she insists.

I was going to just tell them personally, "That sounds like a great idea."

I go to bed first.

I dream about the black circle again, only now it's broken, no longer a complete circle. Looking forward, all around, there's nothing anywhere. Then I look up, and a little quill falls from nowhere. It lands on the end of the line in front of me and begins drawing forward, but instead of completing the circle, it goes down, below the other end of the line. I look backward and see my school, every student I've ever known, only they're dressed in uncomfortable-looking leather, collars around their necks and leashes that drag on the ground, yet they smile.

Afraid, I turn back to the line and follow it, walking the only path I see. I hear Churner, singing. He's singing the Sunrise song, but a part I've never heard before;

—End of the road, sunset
End of the road, sunset
Kiss me, sweet
Hold me, dear
Remember, love
Lead me coming home
Take my hoof, oh take my hoof
Lead me home, sunset...—

I see him as I walk the line, listen to him sing, but his song ends, and as I continue following the quill on its winding path, I hear him humming behind me, and laughing also. It's a fun laugh, though: he's happy.

The sound fades as I follow the quill. And I see a lantern, hanging on the edge of darkness, no hook. Below the lantern looks like a roll of paper, maybe a newspaper, but I can't stop looking at the lantern. The light blinds me, but I can't look away. Then I wake up.

I came to write it down, and now I can't sleep again. So I think I'll write those thank-you letters to Dawnette and Churner.

Dawnette's letter will be fairly generic, but I will make it heart-felt. She did a lot for me, and in writing I don't need to worry about a secret code.

Churner's letter will be... different. Sorry, I'm thinking about the fantasy I had. I wanted to feel so new, so oblivious to these sensations. I know anatomy, reproduction, pleasure, all that. I've even enjoyed a little stimulation and even… a little, penetration. Very little. I never climaxed, though, only read books, which was where most of the fantasy came from. Banned books, hidden in the abandoned museum above the library. I want my first time to be an experience I'll never forget, better than any of those books. Better because no words can describe it.

And I guess I can forget about Churner. But I can still thank him, for helping me move on.

I'll keep it subtle; I've always been skeptical of our new mail pony, afraid that she reads my letters. She can't keep a secret, either. If she found out I was gay, or that I kissed the butter pony, everypony would find out. I'd have to kill myself, if my father or the town didn't do it for me.

I know, I'm probably overreacting, but whatever. Nopony can know. Once I'm done with the letters I'm going back to bed.

The letters were everything I said they'd be. I mailed Dawnette's without question, but hold on to Churner's. I feel like I should give it to him myself. It might feel more important that way. Looking at the letter I get the feeling I don't want to be with him while he reads a letter from me. He'll probably get this weird look, like, "Why didn't I just say all these things?" I would never be able to talk to him the way I wrote a letter. I doubt he knows that, though.

Somewhere on my journey to the post office I take a glimpse at my flank and think, maybe, the swirl has gotten a little larger, deeper. I shrug it off until I get home.

In the bathroom, I strain to get a look in the mirror above the vanity. It's a big mirror, but set up pretty high. I stop trying when I can't comfortably set half my rump on the countertop. I end up heading to my brother Dale's room, which is Mill Jr's old room. There's a big mirror on the inside of his closet door. The closet's pretty new, Jr put it in himself before he moved out. This is the only room that has one, and Dale put a nice, tall mirror inside. He's having breakfast, but he won't mind as long as I don't take anything.

I do take a long look in the mirror though. My cutie mark is the same shape, same colors, but I swear the end of the spiral is offset just a bit, like it's gotten longer. I almost hurt my neck trying to get such a close look at it. I guess I look pretty strange because Picker sees me as he walks by and has to know what I'm doing.

"Do you think my cutie mark got bigger?" I ask, a little too bluntly.

He leans his head down to my flank, getting closer, and closer. I don't mind, he and I have had no barriers: just about everything's fair game between us, but we obviously know the limits of decency. After a long, hard stare, and his ragged mane tickling me a bit, he says, "Yes, your butt has gotten bigger."

I sigh and roll my eyes, "That's not what I mean."

"Pssh, cutie marks don't change, Timber."

"Well sure they do," I clarify, "they change from not being there to being there!"

He sticks his tongue out at me, then turns and leaves. What's his problem? His cutie mark is a rather delicious-looking, star-shaped cream tart. He loves baking pastries, and really I'm surprised he didn't make breakfast. Not to mention he seems to handle dad's resentment a lot better. Maybe that's because dad can actually get something good out of a son who can bake, whereas I can't offer anything but a well written apology as to why I even exist. Too bad that won't even work.

I'm looking for a magnifying glass in mom's room when she calls me downstairs. When I get there she asks, "What were you doing up there?"

Picker answers for me, "Measuring his butt!"

"Picker," mom hisses.

"Yeah, I wasn't measuring it," I say, "couldn't find the tape-measure."

"Timber!" She squawks.

"What?" She gives me a harsh look, like “you know what.” I take a breath and sit down at the table. Dale pushes a plate to me. She's still giving me that look. "I had a dream about my cutie mark, I wanted to make sure it was still the same."

"Was it?" She asks, pulling the orange juice over to her.

I've begun buttering toast, and so have a knife in my mouth when I respond, "Can't tell." I put the knife down, "Should've measured it before bed." I take a bite out of the toast.

Mom just nods. Then she pours her drink, clears her throat twice and says, "Mill, isn't there something you'd like to tell your son?"

He takes a weary breath from his seat at the table, like the Sunday paper is the only thing he actually cares about. "Timber, my boy—"

Oh boy, I think.

"You're grandmother has contacted us with a plan to take you to the city."

My mouth drops open. Dale casually reaches over and closes it before my chewed-up toast falls out.

"She, and your mother, will be taking you to visit Manehatten next weekend. She has a big plan for you all, I'm sure you'll have quite a fun time."

That's not at all how he actually said it, more like "She'll pick you up Saturday, your mom's going too," or something blunt like that. Regardless of the delivery, the news is astonishing.