Chapter 1
Not actual grass.
At least, we hoped not.
It was green, messy and sticking out in every possible direction, like a tiny lawn had decided to grow on top of a two-year-old’s head.
He was staring at our front door.
We were staring at him.
And nobody knew what to say.
I was the first one to notice him.
“Mum?”
No answer.
“Mum.”
“What?”
“There’s a child outside.”
My mother looked up from whatever she was doing.
“Okay?”
“He’s... weird.”
That got my father’s attention.
He came over, phone still in his hand.
“How weird?”
I pointed towards the door.
Dad looked.
The boy looked back.
Dad stared at him for a few seconds.
Then he looked at me.
“That’s a child.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you saying he’s weird?”
“Because look at his hair!”
Dad looked again.
“Hmm.”
He paused.
“Maybe he needs a haircut.”
I nearly lost my mind.
“Dad! Look properly!”
The boy was tiny.
His clothes were slightly too big for him, but that wasn’t the strange part.
The strange part was the tiny creatures moving across his skin.
I pointed.
“He’s made of germs.”
Dad looked at the boy.
Then at me.
Then back at the boy.
He slowly put his phone in his pocket.
“Okay.”
Mom walked towards the door.
“Don’t scare him.”
“I’m not scaring him. He’s the one standing outside our house!”
Mom opened the door.
The boy immediately took a step backwards.
She stopped.
“Hi.”
The boy said nothing.
“Are you lost?”
He nodded.
“Where’s your home?”
He whispered,
“Far away.”
The boy looked at Dad.
Dad smiled awkwardly.
“Hello.”
The boy hid slightly behind the wall.
Dad raised both hands.
“Okay. I’ll stay here.”
Mom crouched down.
“What’s your name?”
The boy hesitated.
Then he whispered,
“Hempoo.”
I couldn’t help smiling.
“Hempoo?”
He nodded.
“That’s your name?”
“Yes.”
For the first time, Hempoo giggled.
And somehow, that little laugh made everything less frightening.
We brought him inside.
He didn’t want to sit on the sofa.
He didn’t want to eat.
He didn’t want water.
He didn’t even want the blanket Mom gave him.
He sat on the floor in one corner and watched all three of us.
Every few seconds, his eyes moved from one person to another.
Like he was trying to figure out whether we were safe.
Eventually, I sat down on the floor a few feet away from him.
“Are you scared?”
He nodded.
“Of us?”
Another nod.
“Why?”
He looked down at his hands.
“Because I don’t know you.”
Fair enough.
Dad was standing in the doorway.
He looked at Hempoo.
Then at Mom.
Then at me.
“He’s got a point.”
Mom gave him a look.
Dad raised his hands.
“I’m just saying.”
Then Hempoo suddenly whispered,
“I have to go back.”
Mom’s expression softened.
“Back where?”
“Home.”
“Where is home?”
He pointed outside.
Then stopped.
“I don’t know.”
That was the first time we realized this wasn’t just a lost child.
He genuinely didn’t know where he belonged.
Over the next few days, we slowly learned pieces of his story.
He had come from somewhere called Shampoo World.
Yes.
Shampoo World.
Dad refused to take the name seriously.
“Shampoo?”
“Yes.”
Dad nodded thoughtfully.
“Okay. Very threatening.”
Hempoo frowned.
Dad smiled.
“Sorry.”
Apparently, Hempoo had been there since he was about one year old.
He didn’t like the shampoos.
He said they weren’t nice to him.
And eventually, he had run away.
He had somehow found his way to us when he was two.
But there was something else.
Someone had created him.
His creator.
When we eventually met the creator, the explanation was almost impossible to believe.
Hempoo hadn’t been intentionally created.
He had appeared accidentally during experiments.
The creator admitted that he couldn’t take care of him.
He wasn’t prepared for a child.
Especially not a child made of microorganisms.
So, somehow, impossibly, the responsibility of looking after Hempoo became ours.
Dad listened to the whole explanation without saying anything.
Then he looked at Hempoo.
“So... he’s ours now?”
The creator nodded.
Dad sighed.
“Okay.”
I looked at him.
“That’s it?”
He shrugged.
“What else can we do?”
Then he looked at Hempoo.
“Come here, grass-head.”
Hempoo frowned.
“My name is Hempoo.”
“I know.”
“You called me grass-head.”
“Because you have grass on your head.”
Hempoo touched his hair.
“It’s not grass.”
Dad nodded seriously.
“Of course.”
Hempoo smiled.
That was the beginning of their friendship.
The problem was that the Shampoo people still knew Hempoo existed.
So we couldn’t exactly let a two-year-old germ-child walk around outside.
Mom came up with a plan.
“We’ll hide him.”
Dad looked at her.
“Where?”
She looked at Hempoo.
Hempoo looked at her.
Then Dad looked at the purse.
There was silence.
“No,” I said.
Dad laughed.
“Absolutely not.”
Mom opened the purse.
Hempoo looked inside.
“I can fit.”
Dad stared at him.
“You’re enjoying this.”
Hempoo nodded.
“I am.”
And somehow, Germos could shrink.
So Hempoo became tiny.
Tiny enough to sit comfortably inside Mom’s purse.
The first time we took him outside, he whispered from inside:
“Are we safe?”
Mom answered,
“Yes.”
“Are the shampoos here?”
“No.”
“Can I come out?”
“No.”
“Can I have biscuits?”
Dad immediately said,
“Absolutely not.”
There was silence.
Then Hempoo whispered,
“You’re not my favourite.”
Dad looked at Mom.
“Did you hear that?”
Mom tried not to laugh.
“I did.”
Dad leaned towards the purse.
“Listen, little man. I’m the one carrying the biscuits.”
Hempoo became silent.
A few seconds later:
“You’re my favourite.”
Dad smiled.
“Good boy.”
We thought we’d be hiding Hempoo for a few days.
A few days became weeks.
Weeks became months.
And somewhere during those months, Hempoo changed.
He stopped sitting in corners.
He started following Mom around the house.
He started sitting beside Dad while Dad was on his phone.
He started stealing my things.
He discovered music.
He would grab my guitar, place it against himself and randomly strum the strings.
He didn’t know how to play.
Not even remotely.
But he didn’t care.
He would sit there for hours making completely random sounds.
One evening, Dad walked past him.
“What are you playing?”
Hempoo looked up proudly.
“Guitar.”
Dad nodded.
“Obviously.”
Then he walked away.
Hempoo continued playing.
Five minutes later, Dad came back.
“Play that again.”
Hempoo grinned.
The funniest part was that Hempoo slowly stopped asking when he could go home.
At first, he asked every day.
Then every few days.
Then occasionally.
One night, Mom was putting him to bed.
She asked quietly,
“Do you still want to go back?”
Hempoo stared at the ceiling.
For a long time, he didn’t answer.
Then he shook his head.
“No.”
“Why?”
He pulled his blanket closer.
“They didn’t give me attention.”
Mom sat beside him.
“And you’re happy here?”
He nodded.
“Very.”
“Why?”
Hempoo thought about it.
Then he smiled.
“Because you all keep looking at me.”
Mom laughed softly.
Dad, who had been standing outside the room, pretended he hadn’t heard.
I knew he had.
Hempoo closed his eyes.
A few seconds later, he opened them again.
“Can I have a biscuit?”
Dad walked in.
“No.”
Hempoo frowned.
“Why?”
“Because it’s bedtime.”
Hempoo looked at Mom.
Mom looked at Dad.
Dad looked at both of us.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
Hempoo crossed his tiny arms.
“I’m going to remember this.”
Dad laughed.
“Go to sleep.”
Hempoo finally closed his eyes.
And that night, for the first time, I realized something.
We hadn’t rescued Hempoo anymore.
He wasn’t a strange child who had accidentally ended up at our door.
He wasn’t a runaway.
He wasn’t somebody else’s experiment.
He was just...
Hempoo.
Our Hempoo.
And none of us knew that, within the next year, this tiny boy would somehow become a guitarist, a germ-throwing menace, an open-mic sensation, a terrible student, a hopeless romantic, and the biggest problem—and possibly the best thing—that had ever happened to our family.
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