Changeling
For October, The Sunday Morning Transport brings you sparkling new stories by William Alexander, A.D. Sui, Alan Smale, and John P. Murphy. As always, the first story of the month is free to read.
We are grateful to our paying subscribers, who allow us to keep rolling throughout the year. If you haven’t already, please consider signing up or giving a gift subscription.
In this month’s first, free, story, William Alexander brings us back to his Sunward universe! After “Changeling,” steals your heart, don’t hesitate to check out Will’s other stories in this universe at SMT, “A Body in Motion,” which inspired Sunward (2015, S&S) (yes we are proud book aunties!) and “The Phoenix-Feathered Hat”.
~ Julian and Fran, October 5, 2025
Changeling
by William Alexander
Isosceles and Zip shared a small cabin on Phoebe Station. The walls were covered with etchings and paint. The floor was littered with discarded pieces of robotic limbs. Isosceles was a visual artist. Zip’s chassis was his own medium of creative expression.
Isosceles held very still while watching patterns of projected light. Zip rarely held still. He listened to music while fidgeting with self-mods that had already voided his warranty several times over, halfway through the process of adding an extra joint to his left thumb.
Both the light show and the music were translations of the same data set. Isosceles watched packages en route throughout the solar system. Zip listened to that information as a symphony. Every delivery made a sound on departure and an answering note of satisfaction once it got to wherever it was going. Delayed packages missed their beat. Anything registered as damaged, missing, or otherwise undeliverable made a discordant clang. Zip ignored the clangs. He listened for hidden patterns instead. A countermelody might indicate theft, smuggling, or piracy.
The symphony hiccuped. Zip flinched in surprise. His thumb popped off.
Isosceles caught the thumb and waved it at a corner of the light show.
“Where?” Zip asked.
“Titania,” said Isosceles. “We need to tell the general.”
***
Postmaster General Phoebe Benten finished her coffee and dropped the empty bulb. It drifted slowly down. Phoebe Station clung to the outer surface of Phoebe Moon, which was a tiny and retrograde satellite of Saturn. The place had negligible gravity. The postmaster general’s responsibilities carried more weight. Every delivery in the solar system orbited around her.
Isosceles clocked the general’s fleeting microexpressions, comparing the precise angle of her eyebrows on this day to their geometry on previous days, and extrapolated patterns.
They used their hands to whisper to Zip.
“Behave,” Isosceles signed. “The general is in no mood for nonsense.”
“When is she ever?” Zip tried to sign. His thumb popped off again. Isosceles caught it and handed it back.
General Phoebe pretended not to notice any of this.
“Good work,” she told the bots. “Here’s what we know so far: a cluster of packages have gone missing. Each one had a different itinerary, but all of them passed through the Titania depot before their absence was noted. Contents undeclared. Each was marked ‘sensitive’ by the Guild of Manufacturers.”
Zip clicked his thumb back into place. “So the Makers will be grumpy if we don’t investigate.”
“Exactly,” said the general. “We can’t conduct a remote investigation without putting the whole mess into the public stream—which I would very much like to avoid. Our own people may turn out to be complicit in a Uranian smuggling ring. Let’s keep that fact to ourselves if we can.”
“How?” Isosceles asked.
“By sending both of you. Conduct the investigation in person. Send me reports by courier. The good news is that you’ll arrive at the height of festival season.”
Zip clapped his hands, delighted. He didn’t lose any digits this time.
“And the bad news?” Isosceles asked.
The general’s eyebrows met under a furrowed forehead. “The bad news is the complete lack of available passenger transit. People reserve their festival tickets years in advance.”
“That’s okay!” Zip said. “We can be cargo. I don’t mind spending time shelved in the back of a hauler.”
Phoebe winced and shook her head. “No haulers available either. Even cargo space is spoken for. The next ship I could possibly send would take more than a year to arrive.”
“Then how are we expected to travel?” Isosceles asked.
“Uncomfortably.”
***
“They are going to shoot us from a cannon,” Isosceles said.
“We’ll be wrapped in layers of diamond weave,” Zip pointed out.
“We will lack navigation,” Isosceles said. “We will have no propulsion. We will be unable to accelerate, decelerate, or steer if we happen to deviate from our expected course in any way—and a single pebble can knock us off course. They are throwing us at Titania and hoping that the people we intend to investigate for violations of professional ethics will be ethical enough to catch us when we get there.”
“Maybe we should shut down and sleep the whole way?” Zip suggested. “Skip all of this worrying?”
“I will stay awake wondering what the impact of pebble versus diamond might sound like,” Isosceles said.
“Try to think about nicer things,” Zip said. “If we make it all the way to Titania—and we probably will—then we’ll get to see the festival. I’ve always wanted to go.”
“You are barely two years old,” Isosceles pointed out.
“That’s long enough for always,” Zip said. “Besides, you’re only three.”
The bots reported to the launch bay and subjected themselves to diamond-weave mummification. Sound waves moved inside that pocket of trapped air, so the two of them could still speak aloud once wrapped inside a translucent cannonball. There wasn’t much room for sign language, though, and both bots were reluctant to communicate through their internal ansibles. Any messages streamed at each other would echo throughout the whole solar system. All broadcasts were public.
“Captain Tova would be furious about this,” Isosceles whispered. The two bots had been fostered by the same human, which made them siblings to each other. All juveniles needed care. “She made General Phoebe promise to keep us safe.”
Zip squirmed. “Go to sleep.” He had decided to keep his small juvenile chassis—mostly because he didn’t want to lose any self-made improvements, but also because the Makers would have made a fuss about his modded body if Zip ever tried to trade it in. Isosceles, by contrast, had upgraded their own chassis as soon as possible. They liked to be tall. Usually. Less so while curled up inside a diamond cannonball.
“I cannot sleep,” Isosceles said. “There is too much to think about.”
“Then savor the view,” Zip suggested.
“What view?”
“You’ll find out in three. Two. One. Boom.”
The cannon fired. The cannonball left Phoebe Moon.
“Oof,” said Isosceles.
“Look,” Zip whispered.
The bots watched sunlight bounce through Saturn’s rings. Particles built up an electrical charge and fell from orbit, which made storms of ring-rain that glowed as it fell.
“I wish I could paint this,” Isosceles said softly.
“Just watch,” said Zip. “Paint it later.”
***
The bots spent the next few weeks hurtling through the void, Uranus bound. Zip spent most of that time talking.
“Names are strange,” he said. “Uranus is the only planet in the whole solar system with a Greek name. All of the others are Roman. People keep trying to change this one to Caelus, because that was the Roman version of Uranus. God of the skies. Father of Saturn. Grandfather of Jupiter. Caelus never sticks, though. Accept no substitutes for Uranus. It also means ‘sky,’ or maybe ‘weathermaker,’ but if you split the syllables just right, it means ‘primordial ass.’ The whole place is both holy and profane. Heavenly and chthonic.”
Isosceles tried to shift positions, which was almost impossible. Zip kept talking. “Most of the Uranian moons are named after characters from Shakespeare. Demigod of pre-exodus literature in English. He who really liked raunchy puns. Does that make him another sacred ass? A spear-shaker and rabble-rouser as well as a minor deity of all the holy things that words can do? Now the rabble crosses the void to Uranus in praise of him and all his dirty jokes.”
“Dirt is only matter out of place,” Isosceles said, “and names are arbitrary.”
“We’re traveling to a bunch of moons whose culture and society spin around a really big theater festival,” Zip said, “which happened because ancient astronomers named those places after imaginary people from even more ancient plays. Is that really arbitrary? It seems more like destiny.”
“If names are destiny,” Isosceles wondered, “then why did you choose Zip?”
“Because I like the sound of it. Zip, zip, zip. And also because zippers are ingenious. Tiny metal teeth separate and join together while making a funny noise. Zip.”
Isosceles tapped the inside of the cannonball. “We are almost there. Look.”
Zip craned his neck to see. “Wow. This whole place is perpendicularly bonkers.”
***
Once upon a time, in the early days of the solar system, a rogue planet smacked into Uranus. Such events were not uncommon. Luna was born of a collision that nudged the homeworld slightly off its axis and created its four seasons. Uranus suffered something even more dramatic. A celestial impact knocked the ice giant entirely sideways. Other worlds spin like tops, but Uranus rolls around the solar system like a ball. This perpendicular orientation is a source of local pride. Uranians like to do their own thing.
***
Something struck the cannonball.
“What was that?” Zip asked.
“A pebble,” Isosceles said.
Hairline cracks spread across the outer surface.
Zip started to panic. “What should we do?”
Isosceles did not panic. They felt almost serene now that the anticipated Bad Thing had actually happened. “Move to your left if you can. I need to see if our course has changed. Your head is in the way.”
Zip tried to move.
Isosceles glanced rapidly between available points of reference.
“Are we going to hurtle through the void forever?” Zip whispered. “Or are we going to die right here, in the ass-end of the solar system?”
“Probably the latter,” Isosceles said. “We seem to be headed directly for Uranus.”
Zip’s hands twitched. “We could try to widen the fracture? Release some air, change course in a random direction?”
“Or we could simply call for help,” Isosceles said. “Both of us have ansibles.”
“Right,” Zip said. “Sure. I guess we could do that. Maybe we don’t have to, though. Look.”
A courier ship pulled up alongside the cannonball, matched velocity, and caught them in a carbon fiber mesh. Zip was loudly delighted. Isosceles was quietly relieved and refrained from pointing out that their rescuer had neglected to check in. No transmission. No offered reassurance. No request for current status. Not even a ping. The bots had been retrieved as cargo rather than rescued as passengers in distress.
***
Cargo from the courier ship was automatically deposited in a mail chute on the outer surface of Titania Moon. The bots dropped through several dozen klicks of ice and several more of liquid ocean before reaching the human habitations carved into layers of stone down below.
Their cannonball ended up in a warehouse. It bounced off a pile of deliveries and rolled into a corner.
“This is why packages are not often round,” Isosceles said.
“I think we can break out,” Zip said. “The cracks are wider now. Push at the same time? One. Two. Three. Push!”
They pried it open like twin birds hatching from the same egg.
Zip hopped up and floated back down, feeling out the local gravity.
Isosceles took in their surroundings and realized that they were not alone.
A human with a trim beard and wide sleeves stood by an unmarked door. Isosceles recognized him as Antonio Foxe, postmaster of Titania—the primary subject of their investigation. Three robots stood with the postmaster: a hulking warehouse laborer and a pair of slender bots with elegant chassis of wood and brass.
“Hello!” Zip said. “My name is Zip. I would like to be gendered male, please and thank you. That’s a recent decision, so I’m feeling excited about it. This is Isosceles. They find gender uninteresting.”
“We have orders from the postmaster general to conduct a surprise inspection of this facility,” Isosceles said.
“Surprise!” Zip added. “We’ll strive to make the whole experience as pleasant as possible.”
All four of the locals moved to stand protectively closer to the unmarked door.
“Hello,” the human said. “Welcome. To Titania. I’m Antonio. The postmaster. And of course we’ll cooperate fully. This is a very busy time, though. Festival time. Lots of luggage arriving. Lots of souvenirs to ship out. Please be patient with us while we handle the festival traffic. Thom and Tiffany should probably get back to the front desk.”
The elegant bots bowed and left, crossing the warehouse to exit through a much larger set of doors on the far side.
“This is Stubbs,” Antonio said.
The humanoid forklift nodded. He did not move otherwise.
Isosceles and Zip shared a look. Neither one of them glanced at the unmarked door.
“I would like to begin by examining your records,” Isosceles said. “The hard copies.”
“And I’ll have the honor of searching your private residence,” Zip said, “if you could please accompany me there?”
The postmaster furrowed his brow. “This is a very busy time.”
“I understand!” Zip said. “But I can’t possibly poke around your home without a witness. That would make this whole process even more awkward than it is already.”
“Um,” Antonio said. “Right. Yes. Of course. Hard copies of our records are in the main office. This way.” He stumbled on a broken piece of cannonball, recovered quickly, and took long low-g strides between tall shelves of sorted packages.
Stubbs continued to stand completely still.
“Nice to meet you,” Zip said.
The forklift did not respond.
Zip caught up with Isosceles and kept stride behind the postmaster.
“We need to look behind that door,” Isosceles signed with one hand.
“Obviously,” Zip answered. “That’s why I’m taking the boss away. Maybe it’ll be easier for you to sneak back there while he’s gone. Good plan?”
“Good plan,” Isosceles agreed. “Be careful.”
Zip signed laughter. “Antonio seems harmless.”
***
Isosceles buried themself in a stack of handwritten ledgers.
Zip left the depot and followed the postmaster through downtown Titania. Trees and gardens grew everywhere. Branches found postures unlike any arboreal shape ever held by ancestral flora. Leaves opened to the light of several artificial suns. Titania Moon was known as the Green World.
Street theater flourished everywhere. A bot puppeteer entertained a crowd with several dancing marionettes—one for each of the bot’s eight arms. Zip wondered what it might be like to add more limbs. It would take getting used to. There were no shortcuts to the effort of remapping proprioception, even with mechanical bodies. Maybe especially with mechanical bodies.
Antonio’s apartment was fashionably Neo-Tudor, with white plaster walls and exposed beams of fungal lumber masquerading as the bones of old trees. A tapestry of the solar system showed courier traffic in golden thread.
“You have a lovely home,” Zip said.
The postmaster mumbled his thanks.
Zip poked around, paying more attention to Antonio than his belongings. Every movement that Zip made, and every word spoken, seemed to make the postmaster increasingly uncomfortable. Elevated pulse. High startle reflex. Understandable, given the surprise audit, and not necessarily indicative of a guilty conscience. Still suggestive.
“May I examine your desk?” Zip asked.
Antonio unlocked the writing desk with an ornate key.
Zip glanced at the papers and tablets. Then he examined the desk itself. Real wood rather than fungal lumber. Extravagantly expensive. Suspicious.
Zip turned away from the furniture and tried to steer the conversation to something harmless and disarming. He noticed a playpen in one corner. Lettered blocks and cloth animals littered the floor. “You have a child?”
“Not mine,” Antonio said. “I babysit for friends sometimes.”
“That’s kind of you.” Zip picked up a painted block, which had also been carved out of actual wood.
“I’m sorry,” Antonio said.
“Whatever for?” Zip looked up.
The postmaster zapped him with a sparking baton.
***
Isosceles examined shipping manifests and dockside reports for two hours. Then they returned to the warehouse.
Stubbs the forklift had not moved.
Isosceles asked him clarifying questions about storage systems.
Stubbs answered each question with the fewest number of words that he could possibly muster while still conveying his meaning.
Isosceles returned to the main office, picked up another ledger, and hoped that the forklift would have to go lift something soon.
Patterns began to emerge from the records of misplaced deliveries.
Those patterns suddenly snapped into place.
Isosceles shut the ledger. They knew exactly what Stubbs was protecting behind the unmarked door.
“Excuse me, Inspector,” said Tiffany behind them. “A package has arrived.”
“Is that noteworthy?” Isosceles asked without turning around. “This is a courier depot.”
“The package is addressed to you, Inspector,” Tiffany said, her voice flawlessly polite and still suffused with absolute distain. She set a small box on the desk and walked away.
Isosceles untied the ribbon and opened the box. Inside was an ornate ticket to A Midsummer Night’s Dream at the Changeling Theatre. Underneath the ticket was Zip’s disembodied thumb.
***
Isosceles ignored every puppet show, otherworldly garden, and robotic bearbating pit along the way to the Changeling Theatre, which was itself impossible to ignore. This venue did not bother to mimic an ancient Elizabethan experience of theatergoing—unlike the replica of the Globe across the street, which was one of seven identical Globes scattered across Titania. The Changeling boasted a very different kind of authority. Stone columns flanked its entrance. A Latin motto above its doors read TOTUS LUNAE AGIT HISTRIONEM. “All the moon’s a stage.”
The doors were locked.
Isosceles pounded on them for several minutes.
“Good afternoon,” said the well-dressed and elderly human who finally answered.
Isosceles held up their ticket.
“I’m afraid that the house is not yet open for tonight’s performance,” the human started to say, and then took a closer look at the ticket. “Ah, but your seat is in a private box. In that case, you may arrive early.”
Isosceles stepped into the lobby while simultaneously diving into the data stream. They needed to know more about this place—including the exact location of every exit in case they had the opportunity to grab a wounded thumbless Zip and then bolt.
Every surface in the lobby was covered in gold leaf and red velvet, which apparently mimicked the pre-exodus opulence of nineteenth-century London.
“Ahem.” The human usher held out one hand.
Isosceles stared at the outstretched hand.
“Your ansible,” the usher explained. “It will be returned to you after the show. No broadcasts may be transmitted or received at the Changeling. Live performances are sacrosanct.”
Then I cannot call for help if ambushed or send a final report to the general in the instant before being killed. Isosceles plucked the ansible from their chest anyway, handed it over, and watched it disappear inside the usher’s gold-and-velvet coat. They also noticed several weapons holstered beneath that coat.
The heavily armed usher showed Isosceles to their seat, bowed, and left. No one else had arrived yet, either in the private box or in the house seats down below. The stage also stood empty. Fae sculptures made an ornate golden frame around the bare proscenium.
Isosceles waited. They took a sketchbook from a storage compartment in their leg and drew a pair of mag boots from memory. Then they put the sketchbook away and continued to wait.
After more than two hours Zip came bounding in.
“Oh good!” he said. “You’re already here.”
Isosceles stared at their little brother. “I thought that you had been maimed, tortured, and possibly killed by pirates.”
“Nope,” Zip said. “I was immobilized for a bit, and my ansible was confiscated, but then I took off the thumb myself.”
“Your thumb is why I thought that you were dead!”
“But I sent it to you as a thumbs-up sort of message!”
“How could I possibly know that?”
“It was pointing upward!” Zip protested. “But it probably shifted in transit. Yes, I see the confusion now. I’m sorry. Can I have it back?”
Isosceles returned the thumb.
Zip snapped it back into place and sat down beside his sibling. “The others should be here soon.”
“Who?” Isosceles asked, but they found out before Zip could answer.
A gentleman strode in. He wore void-black clothes with golden thread embroidered into the shape of interlocking keys. His long white hair framed a youthful face. The gentleman moved with local ease, born and raised in this precise amount of gravity. This place is home, his movements said. This place is mine.
“Welcome!” he said aloud. “My name is Lucian Keys.”
“He owns the Changeling,” Zip whispered.
“Indeed I do,” Lucian said. “And I believe that you have already met my other guests. Dearest Antonio. Tiffany. Thom. Stubbs. Welcome, welcome. Please take your seats.”
The postmaster looked embarrassed. Tiffany and Thom remained coldly and elegantly formal. The hulking Stubbs barely fit in his chair.
All of them are here, Isosceles thought, which means that the little door back at the depot is currently unguarded.
“We have mere moments before the show begins,” Lucian said, “but in those moments I will gladly sate your curiosity and answer whatever questions you may have.”
“Are you a pirate?” Isosceles asked.
“I am an impresario,” Lucian answered. “A patron of the arts.”
“Those occupations are not mutually exclusive.”
Lucian laughed. “True! Do you know why it’s considered bad luck to whistle in a theater?”
“I do not know what whistling is,” Isosceles admitted.
Lucian pursed his lips and made a musical sound that Isosceles didn’t know humans were capable of making.
“Isn’t that bad luck?” Zip asked.
“I make my own luck,” Lucian said. “Once upon a time backstage crews were mostly composed of sailors. They spoke to each other in whistles while hauling rope, just as they had done aboard ship. If anyone else whistled a careless tune, then it might send out the wrong signals. Heavy pieces of scenery would likely fall on the actors. This was pre-exodus, you understand, so everything was very much heavier. And it’s true that stagecraft and piracy are not mutually exclusive, because many of those backstage sailors were undoubtably former pirates.”
“How reassuring,” Isosceles said. “Do you intend to kill us?”
“That is not my intention,” Lucian said, “though I reserve the right to change my mind.”
“What is your intention?”
“To see this show,” said the impresario, “and to offer you a choice—but that will have to wait for intermission. The audience has gathered. The house is full. The play is about to begin. You have time for one more question.”
Isosceles turned their attention to the other bots. “Did you bring the baby?”
Everyone froze. Even Lucian’s smile faded.
“I assume that you did,” Isosceles went on, “because none of you stayed behind to guard the nursery. It is a nursery, correct? The room behind the unmarked door? If no one is keeping watch, then it follows that your child is not currently there to be watched.”
Stubbs opened a gaping compartment in his chest and removed the tiny makeshift chassis of an infant bot.
Zip was utterly bewildered. “How did you know?”
“I moved the data around until it took shape,” Isosceles said. “This is the shape that it took.”
Lucian clapped. “Well done, Inspector. Now, please hold your questions for later. It’s showtime.”
The curtains rose up in a ghostly way, billowing slowly in fractional gravity.
Zip closed his eyes and listened.
Isosceles preferred visual information. They watched the stage with interest, wishing that they also had access to the data stream in order to contextualize the current production with the long history of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. It must be a focal point of local pride to stage this show on a world named for one of its characters, but Isosceles couldn’t read up on the topic. They could only watch what was right in front of them.
Titania and Oberon made their entrance. The surrounding forest—some of which was performed by human actors dressed up as trees, and others by mechanical actors in tree-shaped bodies—all leaned their leaves and branches toward the fairy queen as though she were made out of sunlight. They all shied away from the fairy king as though he were on fire.
The two monarchs seemed to be arguing over a child.
Isosceles looked at the infant bot, who was watching the play with rapt attention. What context did this child have for an ancient story written on another world?
Intermission. The curtain fell. The audience applauded. The houselights softly glowed.
“Beautiful!” Zip said. “Especially Titania.”
“Most especially,” Lucian agreed. “Sami Leela is transcendent in the role—as is right and fitting for a Titanian production. I find the rest merely adequate. Traditional. Lavishly devoted to fulfilling every expectation. Challenging none of them.”
“Oh,” Zip said.
“I am gratified that you are enjoying it, my friend,” Lucian said. “Now, I propose that we all focus on our shared mortal peril. Nothing is more likely to throw the Manufacturer’s Guild into a frothing panic than this adorable urchin right here. This puts all of us in danger: the three parents, the two investigators, the postmaster, and myself are unavoidably complicit in a secret that the guilds would gladly murder us to keep.”
“And then they would take our baby apart,” Thom said.
“The Makers work hard to ensure that mechanical people never seize the means of our own reproduction,” Tiffany said.
Stubbs bounced the kid on his knee and said nothing.
“If the danger is so great,” Isosceles asked, “then why risk bringing the child to a play?”
“Growth requires direct experience with the unknown,” Tiffany said.
“And from this angle they can see the stage but can’t be seen by anyone else,” Thom added.
“What’s their name?” Zip asked, because that seemed like the most important question.
“Pooka,” said Stubbs. “At least until they choose a different one.”
“Hello, Pooka,” Zip said quietly. The infant turned their tiny head to look at him.
“Ahem,” Lucian said. “If I could direct our attention back to the task at hand. We have a choice to make. My colleagues and I have considered various secret-keeping options. One would be to appeal to your better nature, allow you to return to Saturn, and trust that you will file a discreet report.”
“That was my idea,” Antonio said.
“How kind of you,” said Isosceles.
“Another option,” Lucian went on, “would be to alter your memories. Voluntarily or involuntarily.”
“That was our idea,” Tiffany said.
“We could also smash you both into very tiny pieces,” Lucian said.
“Was that your idea?” Zip asked Stubbs.
“Yes,” Stubbs said.
Isosceles studied Lucian’s face. “And what is your idea?”
The impresario smiled. “I propose that you join us. We need allies. Professionals capable of covering our tracks—the very evidence that you yourselves uncovered. Transfer here. Continue to work for the Guild of Messengers, and in that capacity help us safeguard this child.”
“Sounds good to me!” said Zip.
“Not to me,” Isosceles said, “because I do not see how Lucian Keys, proprietor of the Changeling Theatre, stands to benefit from any of this—which makes him seem reckless, since he clearly has so much to lose. Why should we trust him?”
Lucian’s smile widened. “Would you believe that I have great affection for little Pooka?”
“Yes,” Zip said.
“That would still be an insufficient foundation for trust,” Isosceles said.
The impresario lowered his voice. “Then I will confess to you that I am bored. I crave novelty. I am also fiercely possessive, and the founding myth of the Green World is a clash between fae gods for custody of a magical child. I will never surrender such a child.”
Isosceles nodded. “Now I believe you.”
“Excellent,” Lucian said, “because intermission is over. Please enjoy the rest of the show.”
The curtains rose.
The trees onstage began to move.
Zip reached out with both arms.
“Can I hold the baby?” he whispered.
#
Thank you for joining our journey this week.
William Alexander is the New York Times–bestselling author of Goblin Secrets and other unrealisms for young readers. His work has won the National Book Award, the Eleanor Cameron Award, the Librarian Favorites Award, the Teacher Favorites Award, two Junior Library Guild Selections, and two CBC Best Children’s Book of the Year Awards. Most recently he wrote Sunward—his first novel for grown-ups—and co-edited the middle grade anthology Starstuff: Ten Science Fiction Stories to Celebrate New Possibilities. As a small child, he honestly believed that his Cuban American family came from the lost island of Atlantis.
“Changeling,” © William Alexander, 2025.
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Loved it, hermano. Good stuff!