1 Year Later, 2452

Hero

Standing tall, Dad towers over me. His grey-blue eyes turn soft whenever he sees me, with his dark grey curls falling on his light brown forehead. He always wears a worn flannel shirt and heavy, thudding boots.

Sometimes, I catch him slumping as if something weighs him down. He doesn't say much about it, and that's fine with me. I don't think I can help him with that, being a 13-year-old boy. Or was I 14?

"Hey, son, toss me that number 8 key, will ya?"

After digging into the toolbox, I pass him the key. While kneeling, I witness him vanish under the car. "It's all 'cause of those USR guys," he grumbles, his voice muffled from below. "They kicked off this damned war. Know that, son."

I give a little eye roll. Dad always finds someone else to blame for everything.

He pops back out from under the car. There's this serious look on his face. To appear interested, I imitate him.

Looking up, he says, "If your mom says okay, we're heading to Eden."

Following his eyes, I check out the fluorescent tube above.

He takes a deep breath and adds, "Those oil folks messed everything up."

"I know, Dad."

That's Dad, always stuck in the past.

In his opinion, the USR, or the oil folks, made a huge mess of everything. He thinks they're to blame for how our world turned out.

I don't care about the USR or whatever. What catches my attention is the paradise in the Far East known as Eden.

Dad showed me these pictures of green jungles and promised we'd go there someday.

He always says rain comes from the east, from a place full of good stuff, like milk and honey.

I don't know what honey tastes like, and I don't think Dad does either, but it sure sounds amazing.

As I check out our garage, I tap my feet to an imaginary beat.

Soft beams of sunlight flow through the half-opened doors. Thanks to the ceiling light and construction lamp, we can work on Falcon.

Car parts, which create walls and pathways, transform the garage into a maze while guiding us to the tools and materials we may need.

While checking out Falcon's undercarriage, I catch sight of Dad working on the suspension.

Letting out a groan, he tightens a bolt, then rolls out from under the car and stands up.

"Finally, Falcon's done!" He pats the car on its boot, then grabs his crossbow from the side of the car and straps it onto his back."What a car."

"Yeah, he is," I reply, excitement bubbling inside me.

"He's ready for a test drive. We'll do that tomorrow."

Tomorrow it is!

My stomach flutters with excitement while I imagine the thrill of riding in Falcon. Dad spent months perfecting him, making him the world's best car.

He explained all the gadgets and features, but I admit I often drifted off when he got into technical details.

In terms of being a car, Falcon is far from ordinary. Compared to our old pickup truck, he is sleek and clean. And the best part? He runs on electricity.

Dad despises anything associated with the oil magnates. Because of that, it was out of the question for us to drive a gas-powered vehicle.

Mom, an artist, never shared Dad's hate for people, regardless of their beliefs or origin. She only cared for love and the love for art.

She added her touch to Falcon by painting a striking black stripe down the centre and adding parallel thin lines that run along the sandy-coloured bodywork. With the appearance of an arrow, our car slices through the dry plains.

"Let's go, son. Your mother is waiting for us."

Outside our house, Mom stands with her basket full of freshly harvested kale and potatoes from our little patch of fertile land. Her streaked grey hair dances in the wind as she smiles at us.

Grinning, Dad looks back at her.

Inside, the crackling sound of grease fills the air, accompanied by the mouthwatering aroma of our crow meat cooking on the stove.

My stomach grumbles.

After pulling out a big bag from our emergency closet, Dad tosses his bow inside and places it near our worn leather couch.

Eagerly awaiting Dad's words, I rest my head on my palm as we gather around the table.

"Hero, my boy," Dad says, stretching out.

I raise my head. "Yes, Dad?"

"Tomorrow."

My heart skips a beat. "What?"

A wide smile spreads across Dad's face. "Tomorrow, you'll get to drive Falcon."

I can hardly believe my ears.

"Are you serious?"

Going on joy rides with Dad is amazing, but the thought of driving Falcon alone is beyond awesome. I'll have complete control over where and how fast I can go.

One time, Dad forgot to close up shop and left Falcon running. I registered my index finger under his name, and my parents never even noticed.

It was awesome!

"Sure," Dad confirms, his smile never fading as he pats my head.

No way! This is going to be epic!

Time stretches on, each minute feeling like an eternity as I wait.

My left foot can't stop shaking, making the plates dance on the table. If only I could control time to bring tomorrow closer in an instant.

"So, tomorrow?" I ask, my voice high-pitched.

Dad laughs. "Yes, yes. You can't wait, can you?"

I grin back at him. "Hah, no, I can't."

Mom serves our meal, sliding the steaming crow meat and kale stew onto our plates. Her face softens with lines that crinkle around her eyes, while her warm, sun-kissed skin glows with a natural rosy tint on her cheeks.

This meal is our usual grub, served with mashed potatoes.

I heap a generous portion onto my metal fork.

Dad and I scarf down our food like we've been stranded in the desert, and Mom joins the feast.

She can't stop sharing her concerns, even with food in her mouth. "Will you be careful tomorrow?" she asks, her worry all over her face as she spears a piece of stew onto her fork.

Dad's mouthful of mashed potatoes spills out as he reassures her, "It'll be okay, babe. We'll take it slow."

Tension creeps over Mom's face. Her eyebrows squeeze together, and her shoulders tense up. "But Falcon."

Dad interrupts her. "No worries. Falcon's got it all figured out. We're playing it safe, testing the sails and stuff. Trust me; we're being cautious and taking it slow. I promise."

"How could you promise that? You know what happened when Hero and I visited the market."

"Yes, I know. That pale guy won't be here. No one knows of this place. Please, hon... I'll take care of this. We will take it slow. Again... I promise."

My Dad gives a kiss on the forehead of Mom.

Her shoulders sag. "I believe you."

Dad shoots me a wink, signalling we'll do the opposite.

____

When the alarm jolts me awake, I dress and clean my teeth with my Miswak, chewing stick. Adrenaline courses through my veins as I sprint toward Falcon.

I settle into the driver's seat, close the door behind me, and run my fingers along the steering wheel's familiar contours.

My imagination soars as I puff up my cheeks and produce racing noises, envisioning the exhilaration of speeding through the wasteland.

"Falcon, you and me, heading east!" I exclaim to the empty air.

Dad adds his voice to mine, "There, we'll find Eden!" He smiles at me through the open window on the driver's side.

"It's time we make it yours, my boy," he says, joining me inside the car. He taps the touchscreen, igniting the system to life.

With swift swipes and taps, he navigates through the security menu until he reaches the Grant Access section, where he enters my name.

"Give me your hand," Dad instructs.

I extend my hand, placing it on the fingerprint layout next to the touch screen. Dad's familiar wink reassures me, dispelling any nervousness that lingers within me.

"We'll pretend you've never ridden on your own before," he explains, his voice steady.

He knew? My heart skips a beat.

"Now, Falcon registers every finger instead of just the one under my account. You can start it up using any of your other fingers, too. Try it."

He switches off the car, and I press my thumb against the fingerprint reader, making me feel at ease. Falcon hums to life, illuminating its buttons and displays.

My hands tingle, and my feet tap on the protective rubber mats.

Dad exits the car, opens the hangar door, and sits beside me again. He swipes through the driving modes menu, selecting "ludicrous mode." With a shout, he exclaims, "Let's go!"

My heart skips a beat as I press down on the accelerator.

The world outside becomes a blur, daylight streaming in as we rush forward. My vision adjusts, capturing the landscape rushing past us in a motion blur.

The heads-up display shows our speed at two hundred miles, leaving behind a trail of dust as we disappear over the horizon.

"Turn off the engine with that button, then press the one with angel wings," Dad instructs, his voice carried away by the wind. Looking at the wind meters, you can tell how fast we're going. I know Dad wants to test the sails. I hit the engine off switch, and Falcon slows down.

"Now!" Dad commands.

I hit the button with the angel wings symbol, and with a mechanical whir, the two wings on Falcon's roof extend, catching the wind. The silence is perfect—no electric engine whistle, just the sound of the wind rushing past us.

It's just Falcon, Dad, and me.

The sails above us whistle, and we adjust them to catch even more wind.

"So, how am I doing?" I ask, my hands gripping the steering wheel as I navigate the road ahead.

Dad pats my head, a proud smile spreading across his face.

He doesn't need to say a word; his smile says everything.

I'll cherish this memory forever, the thrill of our adventure and our bond.

____

As we return home for lunch, Mom's disapproving gaze meets us as we join the table.

If looks could kill, we'd be six feet under.

"Patrick! You promised you wouldn't drive fast!" she yells.

Dad continues to munch on prickly pears, his laughter echoing in the room as he ignores Mom's yelling.

He's always been daring and could escalate the situation further with one word.

"We're here, Mom," I say. "Nothing happened."

"Shut your mouth, Hero!"

"I told you, babe, nothing would happen," Dad chimes in, supporting my claim.

Mom's anger boils over, and her fist slams onto the table. "No respect! What if something had happened?"

Dad shrugs, not one to back down easily. He should agree with Mom, or they'll argue for days.

"You... ignorant son of a," Mom starts, but I've heard enough.

While eating my lunch, I chuckle.

Suddenly, the alarm blares, bathing the room in a red hue. We're not alone.

Dad rushes out the front door, binoculars in hand. Moments later, he returns, slamming the steel door behind him.

"We'll do just the opposite,"
                                                         Hero