Read Online The Girl in the Road by Monica Byrne - Free Book Online Page B

high-sensitivity sunbits that can be hung from a strap on my bag and charge while I walk.
    A state-of-the-art solar kiln that can convert any organic matter. That means kelp, algae, anything that can be broken down into simple sugars. It would take fish, too, but that would use more energy, and why not just eat the fish.
    A filet knife and a fishing kit.
    For dead zones and other contingencies, a box of protein cubes and a box of broth cubes.
    A solar plate that’s curved so that it can be used as a bowl, and a miniature irradiator brush to paint my catch before cooking.
    A full medical kit, including broad-spectrum nanobiotics for diarrhea, bacterial infection, viral infection, heatstroke, and motion sickness.
    A natural sponge for Menses Aunty. That’s what Mohini called it.
    A few small items to gift or barter: an extra compass, an extra bottle of soap concentrate, an extra tube of toothpaste, and three extra tongue scrapers, which are worth their weight in enriched uranium to a Malayalee without one.
    A camo pod made of resealable sticky polymer, also waterproof up to ten meters in case I need to go beneath the surface for a storm. I feel reassured. They’ve thought of everything. Mehrdad demonstrates it for me: he opens it with his thumbnail and then seals it just by pinching the material together. He urges me to try. It reseals without a seam, like the membrane of an egg.
    A special weather-resistant scroll pre-loaded with medical and survival information. I load everything from my old scroll, which holds the complete works of Reshmi West, Muhammad Licht, Anuradha Sarang, Wen Huang, Gregory Mbachu, Laura Prufrock Jameson, Gaudi Al-Qaddafi, Jorge Luis Borges, Norman Rush, Federico García Lorca, Nora Chu, Mary Renault, Thomas Mulamba, Kim Stanley Robinson, Sun Yoo, Rodrigo Jimez, Rainer Maria Rilke, Toni Morrison, Fatima Perez-Marquez, Enid Chung, Arundhati Roy, Ursula K. Le Guin, Leo Tolstoy, Jia-Chien Liang, Josefina Paz, Kuta Sesay, Fyodor Dostoevsky, Tori Biswas, Haruki Murakami, Dante, Chaucer, Milton, Homer, Confucius, Shakespeare, Rikhi, Nambiar, Nilambar, Shukla, Jain, Tharoor, Narayan, Desani, Ambedkar, Gupta, Tagore, Gandhiji, Valmiki, and Vyasa.
    Six flares.
    A pozit, a global positioning tag with a simple digital display.
    I pick out models of clothing I want and Misbah prints them out of quick-drying, salt-resistant synth in the far corner, all in white or camo: two pairs of loose pants, a tank top, a T-shirt, a hooded long-sleeved shirt, a sun cap, two pairs of underwear, and two bras. One pair of thong sandals, one pair of canvas shoes, and one pair of second skins.
    Wraparound sunglasses and a collapsible broad hat.
    Mehrdad pulls out sunscreen, but I tell him I don’t need it. I try not to see the look in his eyes. Only the very wealthy or very connected have access to elective gene therapy. He’s wondering which I am.
    Mehrdad and Misbah steer me through toilet matters. I don’t mind squatting over the ocean, but wiping is something else. The brothers have considered this. They show me a special kind of diaper that releases fecal matter after exposure to light. Ergo, I have to keep it out of the light before using it. That seems like something I can expect of myself.
    After an hour, I sit with Mehrdad, drinking more tea, while Misbah packs all my items into my new backpack, save for one full outfit of new clothes I’d picked out.
    â€œWhen are you leaving?” he asks.
    â€œTonight,” I say. “There’s nothing left to do here.”
    â€œWhere is ‘here’?”
    It takes me a while to answer this. Mumbai? India? Asia?
    â€œSolid ground,” I say.
    He nods. “You’ll find like-minded souls out there.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œTravelers. They’re all searching for something.”
    I think this is shitty and simplistic but I don’t say so. “Have you heard any stories about Bloody Mary?”
    Misbah and