My dad considered himself a Tarosovo, a wise man of the Tarot, and my mom was supposed to be a chronicler, but neither of them was able to travel with me to record my theoretical deeds, because my parents spawned like asteroids, leaving them with a lot of kids and little money.
Then my mother had come up with a solution: “You can chronicle yourself! Use your phone to text us updates on everything you do. I’ll download and organize your messages, entering them into the book.”
That creepy, ancient tome: The Chronicles of the Arcane Navigator.
The pages were filled with accounts of betrayals and murders from centuries ago. I knew the book backward and forward, had been read the stories since I was old enough to remember. Now my “game” would be chronicled as well.
Via text.
“So here I go,” I said, wondering if they might yet see reason. “If you stop getting updates, you’ll know the Moon shot me through the heart or the Devil ate me.” Or else I’d gotten sick of enabling their illness and refused to text any longer.
Mother pursed her lips. “That isn’t funny, Stellan. Besides, you know better than to go up against the Moon.” She chided me: “Only challenge players who must get close to you, especially in the beginning.”
I gazed from her to my father. “You’re really going to do this? Send me off by myself?” In their minds, the odds were against me living.
Which meant they were sending me off on a burning Viking funeral ship, except I was still alive and kicking, screaming for help.
“You think I should quit my job?” Father was reaching the limit of his patience with me, his face reddening with anger. “Maybe your mother should stop raising your siblings.”
“No, I would never expect anyone else’s life to drastically change.” I’d reached the limits of my patience with him as well. We’d been arguing about this for weeks. Enough was enough.
I leaned down to kiss and hug my brothers and sisters, then told the five, “Watch each other’s backs.” Without another word, I headed toward the security line, ticket ready.
I made the mistake of looking back. They all smiled and waved like everything was normal. Like they were normal. It made me feel even crazier.
By the time I cleared security and hurried down the concourse, my flight was boarding. Sidling down the aisle, I found my seat and stowed my backpack. Then I took out my phone. Updates, Mother? Be careful what you ask for.
Stellan: First plane ride ever! Waiting for takeoff. Trying to decide which parent I hate more.
I didn’t receive a response.
Stellan: Takeoff was smooth. The Viking funeral ship has sailed.
As the plane ascended, I gazed out the window and watched the fading shadow of the only home I’d ever known. Once the excitement of air travel dwindled, I nodded off. . . .
I slept the entire way to Atlanta, my connection city, waking as we were about to land. Despite the passage of hours, I was still furious with my parents. So I kept updating.
Stellan: Slept the whole flight. Drooled on passenger next seat over. Dreamed my parents were demented and had sent me to America to get murdered.
Mother: This isn’t funny. Stop immediately.
I didn’t stop.
Stellan: Thought about changing my next ticket from Colorado to Hollywood. Perhaps parents meant a different kind of star.
In the airport, I hurried down the escalator to catch the train between terminals, but just missed it. “Careful,” an automated voice said. “Doors are closing and will not reopen. Please wait for the next train.”
I took this opportunity to text my parents yet again.
Stellan: Heading toward a new terminal. Terminal can be an adjective as well as a noun. As in, *Stellan is terminal.*
No response.
When the next train arrived, I entered with everyone else and reached for an overhead strap. “Welcome aboard the plane train,” another automated voice told me. “The next stop is for E gates. E as in Echo.”
Echo. One of my powers was supposed to be echolocation. If I developed supernatural abilities, I would theoretically know how to use them, but so far there hadn’t even been a glimmer.
Not surprising. I was eighteen and still didn’t need to shave.
The train got under way, moving at a surprisingly fast—and rough—clip through an underground tunnel. Father was a mechanic who’d worked on trains for as long as I could remember. And he’d traveled as little as I had. I wondered what he would think about this automated people mover.
The lights flickered, and the car slowed. I glanced up, searching others’ expressions. Was this normal?
The train rolled to a hissing stop—between terminals.
Everyone was dialing their phones like crazy. Okay, so not normal, then. I tried to call my parents. Circuits were busy.
The lights flickered again. On and off.
On and off.
Darkness.
For some reason, this unplanned stop hadn’t tripped the train’s emergency mode. As far as the train knew, we were still chugging along.
Cell phones lit up the interior. People cast each other nervous glances.
When the tunnel rumbled, a woman cried out.
Weren’t there killer tornadoes in Georgia all the time? Great, my parents had sent me to be mangled by a twister.
One big, sweating American yanked at his T-shirt collar. The shirt read: Orgasm Donor. He grunted the syllables: “Clau-stro-pho-bic.” With a yell, he attempted to force open the doors.
I wanted to say, “Those won’t open as long as our gear is engaged.”
His eyes darted. “Can’t do this!”
A uniformed airport worker said, “Sir, just stay calm. They’ll have this figured out soon.”