and given strict instructions to wipe down the frames with a preserving liquid called nirogene ensuring these national treasures last for years to come. We harvest nirogene compound from hills bordering our country, and our chemists turn it into this miracle liquid by boiling the sooty, silver mineral. The resulting liquid smells like a mixture of urine and sweat, but we deal with the stench since it’s such a valuable resource.
The bikes’ tires are another concern altogether. Rubber tires went out of production years before the eco-crisis. In many cases our ancestors were just starting to adopt greener, more ecologically friendly materials when the planet went into destruction-mode. Unfortunately for them, it was too little, too late. Fortunately for us, the discovered alternative to rubber is actually something plentiful in the barren post eco-crisis era: dandelion root. Its gummy paste can be heated and congealed to make a substance akin to rubber when hardened. The root tires don’t last long, but East Country planters grow dandelion crops with fervor, and thus, the bikes’ tires are replaced constantly.
When we ride up to the pavilion, I see hundreds of shiny bikes laid out in lines before I even see the people. It’s a magnificent sight and makes me smile. The metallic blues, reds, and greens shine in the afternoon sun like a rainbow.
My parents and I slide off our horses and descend into the amphitheater. We make our way down the rows of benches, security guards flanking me on both sides.
I wait behind my parents as they shake hands with random townspeople and stop to say hello to people by name. Our community is small, and my parents have an amazing mastery for names.
Once at the bottom, my father takes over the operation, while my mother and I sit down.
“A new day to you all!” my father says, his voice a firm bellow. It takes a moment for people to respond. But there’s a growing roar of welcome cascading back to him.
The only way to amplify my father’s voice and ensure all of our townspeople can participate in the town hall is by staging “talkers” every few hundred yards. We’ve perfected the system so the message at the end is always the same as the one spoken up front.
As soon as my father says his welcome, the first talker yells his words backward to the crowd. There’s a pause of a few seconds before I hear the second talker take the words back to his group. While my father begins the discussion with talk of the crops we’ll be growing this month and how the seeds will be distributed, I take a moment to look around.
I’m searching for one face in particular. My eyes scan the rows of people at the top, looking for him. It’s not a matter of whether Griffin is here. It’s where. I need to see his eyes to tell if he’s planning to out my secret in this public venue. I realize my palms are sweating as I keep searching, and I thrust them in frustration against my pant legs.
Everyone is here today. I learned from Tomlin that not everyone participated in government before the eco-crisis. That there was widespread apathy. I can’t believe that would be true. Why wouldn’t people want to cast a vote or have their say? In East Country, everyone takes part. We have no government representatives. My mother and father talk to everyone personally. The Elected has no advisors except for the people themselves. And everyone in our country turns out for our monthly town meetings.
So I know he’s here.
My father is now onto the subject of our water supply. There are a few questions from the crowd, and I tune out the meeting as I keep searching.
And then I see him.
Griffin is sitting in the front row, directly in front of me. When I realize how close he is, I jump in my chair. I’m unnerved by his proximity. Does he always sit up here? I never noticed before today. Why pick a spot in the front now?
He locks eyes with me, like he’s been waiting for me to find him in the crowd. And when I
The bikes’ tires are another concern altogether. Rubber tires went out of production years before the eco-crisis. In many cases our ancestors were just starting to adopt greener, more ecologically friendly materials when the planet went into destruction-mode. Unfortunately for them, it was too little, too late. Fortunately for us, the discovered alternative to rubber is actually something plentiful in the barren post eco-crisis era: dandelion root. Its gummy paste can be heated and congealed to make a substance akin to rubber when hardened. The root tires don’t last long, but East Country planters grow dandelion crops with fervor, and thus, the bikes’ tires are replaced constantly.
When we ride up to the pavilion, I see hundreds of shiny bikes laid out in lines before I even see the people. It’s a magnificent sight and makes me smile. The metallic blues, reds, and greens shine in the afternoon sun like a rainbow.
My parents and I slide off our horses and descend into the amphitheater. We make our way down the rows of benches, security guards flanking me on both sides.
I wait behind my parents as they shake hands with random townspeople and stop to say hello to people by name. Our community is small, and my parents have an amazing mastery for names.
Once at the bottom, my father takes over the operation, while my mother and I sit down.
“A new day to you all!” my father says, his voice a firm bellow. It takes a moment for people to respond. But there’s a growing roar of welcome cascading back to him.
The only way to amplify my father’s voice and ensure all of our townspeople can participate in the town hall is by staging “talkers” every few hundred yards. We’ve perfected the system so the message at the end is always the same as the one spoken up front.
As soon as my father says his welcome, the first talker yells his words backward to the crowd. There’s a pause of a few seconds before I hear the second talker take the words back to his group. While my father begins the discussion with talk of the crops we’ll be growing this month and how the seeds will be distributed, I take a moment to look around.
I’m searching for one face in particular. My eyes scan the rows of people at the top, looking for him. It’s not a matter of whether Griffin is here. It’s where. I need to see his eyes to tell if he’s planning to out my secret in this public venue. I realize my palms are sweating as I keep searching, and I thrust them in frustration against my pant legs.
Everyone is here today. I learned from Tomlin that not everyone participated in government before the eco-crisis. That there was widespread apathy. I can’t believe that would be true. Why wouldn’t people want to cast a vote or have their say? In East Country, everyone takes part. We have no government representatives. My mother and father talk to everyone personally. The Elected has no advisors except for the people themselves. And everyone in our country turns out for our monthly town meetings.
So I know he’s here.
My father is now onto the subject of our water supply. There are a few questions from the crowd, and I tune out the meeting as I keep searching.
And then I see him.
Griffin is sitting in the front row, directly in front of me. When I realize how close he is, I jump in my chair. I’m unnerved by his proximity. Does he always sit up here? I never noticed before today. Why pick a spot in the front now?
He locks eyes with me, like he’s been waiting for me to find him in the crowd. And when I
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