Atlas Farstrider lived in a sagging soggy old log cabin in the middle of a swamp. Every morning a festid haze would hang over the mire as he made his way to school, and every evening he would wallow through the muddy garden tend to his foster-parents' goats and wild rice crop while they and their children ate dinner.

It was a particularly vomit-coloured sunrise that presided over the beginning of Atlas's eleventh birthday. Atlas slept in the loft of the shack, which sounded like fun until it started raining, at which point the lack of roof maintenance reared its ugly head, dripping rainwater on his bed, but not before the water filtered through the moss, dirt, and unspeakable swamp gunk that grew on top of the house.

It had luckily been dry the previous night, so Atlas was feeling optimistic about the day ahead. He got out of bed, staying on his hands and knees to avoid hitting his head on the roof, and started climbing down the ladder into the main area of the house.

The chaos he entered into as he climbed down looked as though a bomb had gone off, and then had subsequently been dragged through a bush backwards. The floor was scattered with all kinds of mess; strewn clothing, toys, bed-linen, boxes of beer bottles, torn up bits of paper, mud tracks mixing freely with bread crusts, and clumps of hair and dust. Nearly every elevated surface was covered with dirty plates, glasses, bottles, microwaveable meal containers, and cutlery, with the notable exception of the couch in front of the TV.

Atlas's foster mother was hauling her considerable girth to and fro to get all of their children ready for school. Despite the fact that he'd been living with them for ten years now, they'd never decided to adopt him, or even deign to call him their son. All of their other children were theirs biologically, so Atlas always ended with second pickings. Most mornings there wasn't even time for him to shower, as everyone went before him. Plumes of smoke billowed out from the kitchenette, where Mr Dankmire, Atlas's foster father, was trying to cook bacon, wash dishes, and smoke a cigarette at the same time. He had an apron on from the waist down, half covering the boxers he was wearing, and a grease-stained singlet above. Equally greasy was the handlebar mustache situated between his cigarette and his aviator sunglasses.

"Hey, hey, uh, Atlas", he slurred, just taking notice of Atlas's arrival, and seemingly struggling to remember his name. "Why don't you, uh, clean up, uh..." He started to gesture, looking for something for Atlas to clean, but becoming quickly overwhelmed, he sighed. "Just, uh... What's the day today?" He said, trying to pretend this was what he had planned to say all along.

"It's June 24, my birthday." Atlas tried to supress a smile at his good fortune; Mr Dankmire had stumbled into the question.

"I said the day, not the date." Mr Dankmire said flatly. Atlas's heart sank at the deflection.

"It's Tuesday." Atlas gave the bacon a meaningful glance, hoping Mr Dankmire would catch it. Mr Dankmire furrowed his brow and pursed his lips for a long moment. After some consideration, he turned to the kitchenette and got Atlas a plate with two pieces of bacon. Though the plate still had soap bubbles on it and the bacon was horribly burnt and decorated with flecks of whatever was stuck to the bottom of the pan, he was very grateful.

"Thank you sir," he said.

"You'd better work extra hard in the paddock tonight."

"Yes sir."

"Alright, go on then."

He all but ran to the couch, and sat down to eat. An episode of some old black-and-white TV show was on, which he usually didn't like, but today he didn't care; it was his birthday. His bubble of joy was burst by the arrival of Mrs Dankmire and Clara, the middle child of the family, who was nine years old.

"Martin, the hot water isn't working for the shower!" Mrs Dankmires shrill voice cut through the sizzling of the fry-pan, the whine of the dinky, overworked fan, and bustle of the morning rush.

"Muuum, Atlas is eating bacon!" Clara cried out in a sing-song voice.

Mrs Dankmire turned to Atlas with a disapproving glean in her eye.

"Don't worry Matilda, I gave it to him," said Mr Dankmire. When she turned her disapproval on her husband instead, he added, "It's his birthday," by way of explanation, in a tone of sad resignation. Mrs Dankmire narrowed her eyes at Atlas for a few uncomfortable moments before saying, "Well, he shouldn't be eating it on the couch, anyway, he could stain it."

Atlas didn't have to look at the couch to see that there was nowhere left to be stained that wasn't already, but he stood up and shoved the remaining bacon in his mouth, muttering a 'Yes ma'am' as he did. He brought his dish over to the sink to be washed, but Mr Dankmire simply put more bacon on it and gave it to Clara, who frowned at the proffered plate. Atlas didn't stick around long enough to hear what complaints she would inevitably come up with, and after supplementing the bacon with his usual breakfast - a bowl of bran with thin, watery goat's milk - he went up the hall to the bathroom, and managed to avoid being given any jobs along the way. Having a cold shower didn't bother him, as the hot water was normally all gone by the time he got to the shower anyway. It was shaping up to be a good day for him. When he got out of the shower and got dressed, everyone else was getting ready to walk out the door. Rory, the oldest child at thirteen, shoved Atlas out of the way as he ran down the hall. Before Atlas could even consider packing his bag, Mrs Dankmire shouted orders for him to help the youngest child, Emily, pack hers. Emily was six, and often barely seemed to have a grip on reality, but today she looked lucidly at Atlas and smiled.

"Happy Birthday Atlas." Atlas smiled back.

"Thanks Emily. Now let's get this bag packed." Her workbooks were scattered on the floor around her schoolbag, and schoolwork intermixed with colourful messy drawings on every visible page. The workbooks that were closed were inverted, so that the covers were turned in and the middle two pages of each book faced the outside.

"Emily, when you close your books, you have to have the covers on the outside." Atlas explained as he started inverting them back and shoving them in her bag.

"Why would you do that?" she replied, genuinely confused. "Then you can't see the pictures." Atlas thought about that for a second, and since he couldn't come up with an answer, he said, "It'll make sense when you're older."

"Alright everyone, now or never, out the door!" Mrs Dankmire practically shrieked, making herding motions with her hands. Before Atlas could do a thing about it, he was hustled and bustled out the door without his schoolbag. "But, wait, I just..." came his futile cries as he tried to head back indoors to get his bag. The lock on the door clacked as Mr Dankmire turned the key, his arm still poking out through the neckhole of his t-shirt. The car's engine was wheezing and clattering to life before Atlas could get a word in edgeways to his foster-mother.

"My bag's still inside," he said, exasperated. Mrs Dankmire was silent for a moment, before, with an impassive face but a satisfied twinkle in her eye, she said, "We need to leave now, so I guess you'll just have to miss school today." She slammed the car door shut in his face, and the car rattled and puttered down the long driveway, leaving him alone, locked out of the house, in the snot-yellow morning fog, without anything to do. On his birthday.

He sat down on the top step at the front door with his head in his hands, and felt very much like he was going to cry. He might have, if he hadn't been distracted by a rustling in the ferns nearby. Curious, he stepped to the bushes on the side of the driveway where the rustling was coming from. The sound was getting closer and closer, until he could see the leaves rustling. The was a moment of silence, before a little owl popped out, with its feathers looking particularly ruffled.

"Hey there... buddy?" said Atlas uncertainly. "Get a little lost in the fog?" he added. The owl cooed a response, before diving back into the bushes, rustling more leaves making little hoots of exertion and squeaks of frustration. Atlas didn't know how owls were supposed to behave, but he thought this wasn't how. The object of its difficulties became clear as the owl tumbled back-first onto the driveway, flinging in tow a letter onto the driveway. The letter, which looked far too large for that little owl to be carrying, had a purple wax seal on one side and a handwritten address on the other. It read:

"Mr A Farstrider

Loft at the top of the Cabin

Dankmire Homestead

Norley Heath

Suffolk"

He picked up the letter, slightly crumpled from being dragged through the foliage, and looked at the wax seal. It bore a coat of arms: a lion, an eagle, a badger and a snake surrounding a large letter 'H'.