Free Pod by Stephen Wallenfels Page A

start, what parts of my life to keep and what parts to leave behind. Mom yelled, “Three minutes!” My mind was spinning, my hands shaking.
Be calm,
I told myself.
Think!
Mysketching notebooks, keep. Stuffed koala from Zack, leave. Poster of ’57 Mustang, leave.
    The phone rang while I was sorting through some books.
Treasure Island
, keep.
Bridge to Terabithia
, keep. I heard Mom talking, first slow, then fast. The phone slammed onto the floor, broken pieces scattering on the linoleum. Seconds later she burst into my room. “No time, Megs,” she said. “Leave it all. We gotta go
now
!”
    I grabbed my backpack and we ran out the door. Three minutes later we were on the freeway headed east out of town. Once we passed the CHICAGO 220 MILES sign, Mom finally relaxed. “Don’t worry, Megs,” she said, lighting a cigarette and leaning the driver’s seat back a little. “It’s all going to be okay.”
    And that’s what I’m thinking as I stuff my backpack full of the treasures I found in this SUV.
It’s going to be okay.
Spaceballs are shooting death rays from the sky. All I have left to eat is five pieces of popcorn and one tube of ketchup. I’ll drink the last of the beer before we leave. Plus I have one hungry kitten—how did I wind up with that? Richie is coming back any minute and he’s expecting to find a gun in the safe. A gun that I don’t want him to have. Instead he’ll find a note from yours truly. But still I whisper, as I roll up my sleeping bag and tie it to my backpack, that it’s going to be okay.
    I slip the backpack on and step out the door, headed for who knows where. Definitely up because down isn’t achoice. I look over my shoulder at Mom’s car, all covered with dust, dents, and duct tape. The taillights are broken, pieces of red plastic mixing in with the dirt and cement. I walk into the shadows of the parking garage, a yellow kitten in one hand and a briefcase in the other.
    Mom is right. Crazy does run in the family.

DAY 10: PROSSER, WASHINGTON

    Lights Out
     
    “I wouldn’t do that,” he says. “You’re leaving too many pieces open.”
    “You wouldn’t do that,” I say, “because you’re not a risk taker. Me, on the other hand, I’m fearless.”
    Of course he rolls double threes, lands on two of my unprotected chips, and knocks them off the board. It’s a crushing blow.
    He says, “This game is a delicate balance of patience and calculated risks.”
    I pick up the dice and say, “It’s a game of dumb luck, plain and simple.”
    We’re sitting on the family room floor, playing one of my least favorite games of all time—backgammon. Dad’s on this board-game kick. Monopoly and Scrabble yesterday, both of which I dominated. Now we’re supposedly onhis turf. He even played backgammon online, back in the PP (-Pre-POD) days. This must be our thousandth game. I had a string of victories this morning, but he’s on one of his patented streaks of lucky rolls.
    I shake the dice, saying, “If you want a game with real strategy and risks, Halo is the obvious choice.”
    “Halo?”
    “It’s what Alex and I play whenever he comes over.”
    “Ah, the video game.”
    “It’s more than a video game,” I say, releasing the dice. “It’s a defining—”
    The lights go out. No flicker, just out.
    The power has been iffy the past couple of days, but it always comes back—sometimes in a couple of seconds, sometimes a couple of minutes. This time is different. I have an odd feeling in my stomach like this is a whole new deal.
    We sit in the dark. There’s a wind outside. The house creaks. Somewhere to my right there’s a thump—my brain races to catalog the sound. Up high, maybe aliens on the roof, maybe not. Odds are it’s a tree branch rubbing up against the house.
    I have an unbearable need to hear something other than my screaming mind. “Look,” I say, not even able to see the board, “I rolled double sixes!”
    “Shhhh!” Dad stands up. The floor creaks as