Free Keeping Holiday by Starr Meade Page B

for his job.”
    Dylan started to protest, but the voice, going on, cut him short. “Of course, I can see why you might not care much about them. I mean, how much have they cared about you? They know how much you want to live in Holiday; why don’t they move there? Could it be that a job and the things they own matter more to them than you do? If there is a real Holiday, and since it’s so important to you, why don’t they help you get there?” Dylan remembered his parents’ encouragement to take as long as he needed to look for the Founder and to try to get authorized. He remembered his father telling him it was the most important trip he would ever make. But the voice went on relentlessly, as if the speaker could read Dylan’s mind. “If they think it’s so important, why haven’t they worked a little harder at trying to get you there?” Then the voice concluded, and the fact that it spoke so pleasantly made the words all the more awful to hear. “No, Dylan, your parents are like you, and you’re like everyone else. You’re all so wrapped up in your own concerns and interests that you don’t have time or energy left to care about what other people might want or need. It’s all about ‘me first,’ for all of you. Want proof ? Go see.”
    Abruptly (as often happens in a dream), Dylan’s position changed. No longer did he look down on the scene from above; he himself walked with all the other people on the street. Like everyone else, he walked all alone. Now Dylan noticed what he had not seen before. The people were not only walking; they gestured with their arms at one another and their mouths moved so that it looked like they shouted to one another; yet an eerie silence hung over the street.
    Dylan wanted to be with someone he knew, so he looked around for his father. When he caught his eye, he waved and shouted. “Dad! Where are you going?” Dylan distinctly heard his own voice, too loud in the great stillness. His father, however, cupped his hand to his ear to indicate that he had not heard what Dylan had called. Dylan shouted the same thing again, louder, but still his father could not hear him. His father’s mouth moved, as though he too shouted at Dylan, but Dylan could hear nothing but his own voice. “Well, I don’t care where you’re going,” Dylan muttered, “ I don’t have anywhere I have to go; I’ll walk with you.” So Dylan tried to move toward his father, only to discover, frighteningly, that his legs would not do what he wanted them to do. Try as he would to change directions, Dylan could not get his legs to do anything other than move straight ahead. He could not turn.
    Dylan felt a rising panic. He had never thought much about his legs; they had always done what he wanted them to do without any special attention. It scared him now to have them move as though they had their own lives, outside of his control. Where would they take him? Then he saw his mother, walking quickly. She saw him at the same time, and stretched out her arms to him. At first he thought she would come to him, but then he saw that her course would take her right past him, just out of his reach. Once again, he tried to alter his direction—it would only take the slightest movement!—but still his legs would not obey. Now Dylan understood why all the people walked alone. Each one walked at a slightly different angle, so that no two would ever meet and none had the power to change direction. Nor could anyone hear anything except his or her own voice.
    Dylan’s father came into view once more. He reached for Dylan, who reached back, but their fingers touched only empty air. In Dylan’s dream, he walked for hours, maybe days, in the same relentless, solitary, silent circles. Sometimes, when he could no longer stand the silence, he would try calling out again, but no one could ever hear him. For a while, he talked to himself, just to have something to listen to. His voice sounded so strange in the deafening