A Day in the Life

In every age, there are two sides of society: the light and the dark. Each person exists somewhere in the balance between the two.

The bright light stirs me from my sleep; I feel a jolt and a slight wave of nausea. A purple message lights up like a neon sign: Good morning, Foy! Today is Monday, August 29th, 2050. The time is 6:30 a.m.

The chimes start, and the sound builds in my head with the force of a gong. Lights are strobing, and the nausea is building. I grit my teeth until…

“Fine!” I open my eyes, and the sensory overload stops at once, leaving me in my bed between gray sheets and a gray coverlet. I pop up immediately, before my sheets start to drop in temperature, and I swing my legs over the side of my mattress as it begins to firm. I’m 14, so I don’t really need an assist, but I’m used to it.

A tone sounds as a small opening appears in my wall, thrusting forth a tray of white tablets. This morning, I pass on the tablets and skip towards the bathroom to brush my teeth the old-fashioned way.

I return to my sleeping quarters for a 15 minute workout and hurry down to the kitchen for a quick breakfast. A large wall tray opens, offering up my breakfast for the day: a glass of orange juice, hard-boiled eggs, and fruit. I eat quickly so I can prepare for class.

Waiting at my desk for the instructor to arrive, my thoughts begin to drift. I wonder where Mom and Dad are and what they are doing, if they miss me.. I wonder if they’ll sync in for dinner tonight.

You see, Mom gave me my first pair of sensory lenses - “SPECS” - when I was five; they were still in the early models, then. They are worn like contact lenses, which aren’t actually a thing anymore, but most people never take them out. They tap directly into the sensory cortex to manipulate most types of sensory information. Obviously, they don’t allow perfect control over pain sensations, and they don’t fight diseases or infections. I haven’t figured out how to get them to stop me feeling hungry, or tired, or from needing to pee. Mom says maybe those are 3rd generation goals.

Mom told me that learning to use my SPECS was like learning a language, and they would work better if I used them all the time, so I haven’t removed them since I was 9. She was right, too: my SPECS are intelligent, and they seem to grow with me. The initial programming was done by my parents when I was younger, but they’ve given me more control in recent years. I’ve learned how to frame mental commands so that they are perceived as commands, not idle thoughts. I’ve also learned how to keep idle thoughts from taking the form of inadvertent commands.

My current idle thoughts are interrupted by my teacher syncing into the classroom. She greets the class quickly and begins her lesson. Her motion is in real time, and her margins are nice and crisp. I enjoy an uninterrupted view from the front row, same as the other hundred odd students in the class. This particular teacher writes in a tiny, dense script, and I focus on the microscopic scribbles and think Enlarge text, please.

Fifty minutes later, my attention drifts from the science of augmented reality and my eyelids grow heavy. I could shut them, of course, but both my teacher and parents receive a notification if I actually fall asleep. A bit more light, please, I think, and the room begins to grow brighter. Suddenly, the teacher is blinking and stuttering, and my brain starts to feel fuzzy. The brightening lights flicker for a few moments and then sputter out.

I blink as I adjust to the halflight in my bedroom. Who knew it was so dark in this house? What is going on? I think, leaving my room to walk the halls. The house is empty and so, so quiet. The kitchen is bare, and the cooler and warmer won’t open. I sit at the table, facing the window, reciting poems in my head as I wait for something to happen.

An hour later, I hear a sound outside. I run to the door and pull it open, squinting my eyes against the brightness. I look to the nearby houses to see if there is any movement, and something stirs down the street.

I turn to see a beautiful girl with bronzed skin and dark curly hair squatting beside a vehicle. I can tell something about her is different… very different.

***

He wraps his arms around my neck, squeezing me tightly. “Be careful out there today,” he says, and I know what he’s thinking. The streets in the city have been darker lately. Darker, quieter, emptier. More people are shifting.. Abandoning the outside world for a different one.

“I know, Dad. I will be. I’ll be gone a few hours tops and back around lunch.” He worries more since Mom died last year. Now, it’s just me, him, and my two younger brothers. That’s why I’m making supply runs, instead of him. He has too much work to do here.

“Mill.. You’re never back when you say you will be. But dinner is at 5, sharp. Don’t be late.” He gives me a stern look.

I kiss his cheek. “Love you. Back soon. Promise.”

I shut the door of our cottage and head towards the car in the drive. I catch a whiff of the sea air blowing up from the shore a half mile away. I see the orchard in the distance, alive with color, and I hear one of our chickens clucking around the house. My mother and father built this life away from the city, away from the virtual world… out, in the open air. It’s hard work sustaining it all, but Dad tells me all the time that there are some stories, some lessons, and some skills that we can’t afford to forget.

Forty-five minutes later and I am driving through the city, eyes peeled for metals, plastics, and rubbers… things we can’t really make ourselves but can remake into things that we need. In the first hour, I find enough scrap rubber to melt down for a spare tire, some old bicycle handlebars, several small pieces of sheet metal, and a shovel with a broken handle. Not a bad start, I think.

Dad’s right, though. It’s only been two weeks since I was here last, and the streets are noticeably different. I think about what’s hiding inside the homes I drive by: so many people playing pretend and ignoring the ecological nightmare beyond their walls.

I feel a thud alongside a dull pop, and I groan as the car grinds to a halt. So much for a quick trip. I circle around to the passenger side where the rear tire is rapidly losing air. Shit.

I pop the trunk and scoop up the car jack, lug wrench, and tire plug kit. I say a silent prayer that it’s a screw in the tread and not the side wall. This needs to be quick, so I can get home to help Dad in the workshop. I’ve probably gathered enough scrap to make the trip worth the fuel I burned to get here.

I finish jacking up the car and wipe the sweat from my brow. I hear the click of a closing door, and I glance quickly over my shoulder to make sure there is no danger. I see a small girl who looks about 12 years old coming out of one of the houses, twenty feet away. She blinks against the daylight with a startled look on her face and scans the nearby houses.

One look at her and I can tell. She’s a Fluffer, pasty skin and formless clothing. We call them Fluffers because most of what they experience on a daily basis is just that: fluff. Made up bull shit. They call us Ghosts because… well, because we’re not real. Not to them, at least.

The girl has an ear length blond bob and wide blue eyes set in a pale face. Her plain, gray clothes are clean, and I can guess her hands are also. Clean and unmarred. Just like a doll.

I turn back to my work before she catches me looking at her, but seconds later, I hear her approaching. Her footsteps seem to stop some feet behind me. I fix my attention on loosening the second lug nut. A minute passes, but I can sense she is still there.

“What do you want?” I mutter in my least encouraging tone.

“What are you doing?” the girl asks nervously.

“What’s it look like?” I retort, kicking myself for sounding so rude. I have to stand up and use my foot to drive the lug wrench down to loosen the fourth one.

“I’m not sure..” she responds slowly. I hear her shoe scuff against the sidewalk, and a stray pebble rattles past me. Reflexively, I turn to look at her.

“You’re old enough to drive?” she asks, looking slightly encouraged by my attention.

“Yes.”

“I’ve never seen a roadrunner before, you know?” She stares at the tire under my hands.

“Oh yeah?” I respond, trying to vibe disinterest. “Now you have.” I grunt as I rock the wheel off the hub.

“I mean I’ve seen them in textbooks.. Just not in person before.”

“Sounds like you don’t get out much,” I can’t help the bite of sarcasm in my voice. I pull the plug kit from my pocket and get to work removing the screw that is mercifully in the tread.

“No…” And then a long silence.

“Then why are you out here now bugging the hell out of me?” I mutter, a piece of rubber piping between my lips. l brace the tire against my knee and start to plug the hole.

"The system is down,” she answers, and I hear her suck in a deep breath.

“Okay… and?” I say, not quite following.

“It will be lunchtime soon..” she says quietly.

I push the tire back on the hub and turn to look at her again. “So what?”

“So, there’s no food. I thought there might be a neighbor or someone out here that can help -,” her voice breaks off emotionally.

I feel a little sick to my stomach. “You mean you don’t have any food other than what your house gives you?”

“I - uh -,” she begins, biting her lip as a single, treacherous tear escapes her eye.

I look away quickly. “Your parents aren’t home?” I ask, tightening the lug nuts.

When she doesn’t respond, I turn to look at her again. “When do they come home?”

She shrugs defeatedly. “Don’t know. They’re abroad. I think. They usually check in around dinner time.”

I use an old can of Fix-a-Flat to air up the tire and toss everything back in the trunk. She watches silently.

“What’s your name?” I ask as I slam the trunk.

“Foy,” she answers. “You?”

“Mill,” I say, walking back towards her.

“Mill.. is that short for something?”

“What? Like a MILLion bucks? No, FOY, it’s not. It’s just Mill.” I say in an irritated tone that makes her blush and makes me feel guilty again.

“You up for a bit of a drive,” I ask her in a momentary lapse of sanity.

“Where are we going?” she asks, chewing her lip a bit.

“My house. Get in.”

***

An hour later, the car pulls up the long drive to the cottage. A boy around 7 years old, with floppy brown hair, runs out to meet them. “That’s Miggie. Marty is probably napping.”

“You have TWO siblings?!” Foy’s draw drops. Doesn’t this girl know about population control??

“Yep!” Mill says, parking the car and hopping out to ruffle Miggie’s hair!

“Come see, come see!” he squeals, running off towards the house.

“Mig, this is my friend, Foy,” Mill yells.

“Hi!” the boy yells over his shoulder as he runs.

They follow him to the side of the house where a small garden box is built of repurposed wood. “I did it, Millie!” he says, “LOOK how pretty!” He reaches out to touch the purple petals of a fresh bloom.

“Wow, Miggie, that’s amazing!” Mill beams, but Miggie’s eyes are fixed on Foy, whose eyes are fixed on those delicate, sweet-smelling petals.

“Touch it,” he says, and she does… tentatively, gently, with all her breath caught in her chest and her eyes unblinking.

Mill watches her and feels her eyes begin to water as Foy utters a simple “Wow.”

“Come on, Mig. I want to show Foy something else that’s really special. You wanna join?”

“Yes, yes, yes!” he cries.

A brisk, fifteen minute walk, and they are standing at the edge of the beach, staring out past the coast.

“Is this -?” Foy begins.

“The sea,” Mill finishes. “You’ll want to take your shoes off for this part.”

They head out across the golden sands in their bare feet, Miggie bouncing out in front of them. Foy stops at the edge of the water.

“It’s okay,” Mill smiles, and splashes into the water after Miggie.

Foy follows, hesitant and uncertain. “It’s so cold,” she gasps, but soon, she is up to her knees in the water, laughing. Miggie splashes her and she squeals like a small child. She’s twirling in the water, smiling up at the sky as an easy tide laps around her knees.

***

Two hours later, Mill parks the car on Foy’s street. Foy turns to look at Mill and gives her a shy, grateful smile. “Thank you for today. For the beach and the flower. For Miggie and your dad. For lunch and just everything,” and her eyes brim with tears.

Then, Foy begins blinking rapidly as the system buzzes and boots back up. Mill’s outline blurs briefly before Foy’s brain starts to fill it back in. She doesn’t like the way the SPECS make Mill look.. Too crisp, too perfect, too unfamiliar. Return image, please, she tries to command, but the system doesn’t respond.

Mill registers the cloudy look that passes over Foy’s eyes and the subsequent relief and anxiety. Then, Foy is speaking: “Mom, I’m okay. Yes, I’m home. Will I see you at dinner? Okay, bye.”

Mill offers her a soft, sympathetic smile. “I’ll come visit you, if you want,” she says.

Foy throws her arms around Mill’s neck, in a rare instance of physical contact. “Yes, please” she whispers.

Mill squeezes extra tight for an extended moment. “Foy,” she begins, pulling back to fix her gaze on the younger girl’s big, round eyes. “You don’t have to wear them, you know. Not all the time, anyways. YOU get to choose.”

THE END