There's a shiny metal gadget lying on the lawn.

It looks like a headband, or maybe a visor, one of those virtual reality things that are getting so popular these days. As if our reality wasn't enough to deal with. Must be something my granddaughter left behind on her last visit. I'll have to have a word with her about being more careful with her toys.

Right next to my tulip bed, no less. She's lucky the rabbits haven't carried it away. I pick it up and polish it on the hem of my blouse, wiping off the dew and dirt, hoping the ants haven't gotten into it.

I hold it up to my face. It's a visor all right; I can see two lenses in the metal. When I take off my reading glasses, it just about fits. I wonder, could I see better with this thing? My eyes get worse every year, and all the optometrist can do is shake his head. But no – everything past the neighbor's fence is just as blurry as before.

Click. The gadget moves. It fits itself to my head more exactly than anything I've ever worn, including the hats I've knit for myself.

"State your identity," a robotic sort of voice says in my ear.

"Oh! Uh ... I'm Diane. Diane Murphy. Taylor's grandma? Is this hers?"

"Identity confirmed." Is it a man or a woman? I can't tell. "Species: Human. Origin: Earth. Commencing examination in three ... two ... one ... "

Oh my.

I can't see my garden anymore.

I'm in space. I can see the stars, planets, those whatchamallits – nebulae – and the endless darkness in between. This isn't like any computer game I've ever heard of. It's the most amazing thing I've ever seen, but it makes me queasy. I wonder if I'm going to be sick.

I throw out my arms for balance, as if that could help. That's when I realize that space isn't the only thing I'm seeing. Some kind of controls are in front of me, like on a car, but even more complicated. My husband's an engineer, but even he might have some trouble with this. Am I on a spaceship? Am I supposed to fly it somewhere? Is that the point of the game?

Just reboot it, Grandma, Taylor always says, rolling her eyes, when I'm having computer trouble. Nine times out of ten, that'll do it. The power button always looks the same.

I see a big green lever in the middle of the console. I grab it.

The spaceship – or whatever it is – jumps forward.

"Ha!" I crow to whoever's listening. "Did you see that?"

It's really not that difficult, as long as I don't think about it too much. Pull the lever right, the ship goes right. Pull left, it goes left. Up, down, fast, slow, same thing. Now all I have to worry about is not bumping into a planet or anything like that, and in the meantime, figure out what in the name of all that's holy this game is about –

"Whoa! Dear God, what was that?"

Another ship just whizzed past me. I'm not alone out here.

Another one zooms past, too quick for me to even see what it looks like, besides sleek and silvery, like some kind of space dolphin. And it came too close – much too

close. Another few inches, and it would've crashed right into me. If these were cars on the highway, I could've been killed. Cold sweat runs down my spine.

"Asshole!" I clutch the lever with one hand and lift my other one to flip him off. I never swear in front of my family – it sets a bad example – but sometimes it's a considerable relief.

This isn't just a flight, I realize. It's a race. And I seem to be losing.

Well, that doesn't bother me. I've never been the competitive type anyway. I've no idea whether there's a prize at the end of this, but whatever it is, surely it's not worth risking my neck, even in a digital make-believe world. All I have to do is keep this fancy boat in one piece.

Which, I realize, is easier said than done.

I can't get the hang of steering this thing. I always overcompensate on the turns and start swerving like a drunk. That was fine in empty space, but not with all these other folks around. I swing right to avoid one and almost bump into another, then pull up so that someone can zoom past underneath me. This is why my daughter's always after me to give up my driving license. I thought she was just being fussy, but maybe she's got a point.

That's when I see the ghost driver – or pilot, I guess – flying in the opposite direction of everyone else. Including me.

"C'mon, c'mon," I mutter. "Pull over. Do a U-turn, or whatever they call it in space. Pull over, damn it!"

They're getting closer.

"Hey!" I stare at the console. Isn't there some kind of emergency signal I can use? But I can't just start pushing buttons randomly, what if I blow up the ship? "Hey you, robot voice, are you listening! Tell those sons-of-bitches to get out of the way before they get themselves killed!"

No one answers.

It's a game. It's just a game. None of this is real. But when I reach up to pull the visor off my head, it doesn't budge.

"Cancel!" I shout. "Game over! STOP!"

The ghost pilot's getting closer. Heading right for me. I think this is what the young people call "playing chicken" – whoever gets out of the way first loses. Is that what this is about? Some sick test of courage?

My heart is racing. Much faster than the doctors recommended. The last one I went to told me I should stop driving, cut down on coffee, avoid excitement of any kind if I want to reach my eightieth birthday. For all I know, crashing this ship could give me a heart attack. I could die in real life, not just the game.

But what the hell. Seventy-nine isn't a bad age either. I've had a good life. And I may not be the best driver, but I've always been a responsible woman, taking care of my husband, my kids and grandkids, and my garden as best I could. If I'm going to die, I'm sure as hell not going to kill anyone else.

I can almost see the ghost rider's face through the viewscreen. It's not a human face. The skin is a silvery gray, the same color as the ship, and it's got more than two arms on the console.

"You're welcome, motherfucker," I say.

Then I swerve.

Wouldn't you know it, I crash right into a big chunky asteroid that was orbiting a nearby planet. The impact shakes my bones like Skittles in a bag. My ears are ringing. I can't see. I smell smoke coming from the console, thick chemical smoke, and I remember how I once saw on a TV news show that in a fire, smoke inhalation will get you before the fire itself does, and everything's swimming in front of my eyes, and I think of my husband and how ironic it is that he's the one who loves machines and I'm going to die in one ...

Then everything goes black.

/

I wake up lying full length on the grass in my garden.

Those pesky squirrels chattering from the trees, the neighbor's lawnmower, and the bus roaring by from a distance never sounded so good. I squint at the sunlight above me and pick myself up shakily. I'm alive.

Well, this is ... anticlimactic. But I must say, I'm relieved.

"Diane Murphy," says the robot voice.

"Y-yes?"

"You have passed your examination."

"I have?"

"You have demonstrated basic moral integrity. Your species will be permitted to survive."

"I – what? Now wait just a minute, you - "

But before I can demand an explanation, or even give this stupid thing a piece of my mind for almost scaring me to death, the visor slides off my head on its own accord, falls into the grass, and vanishes in a blinding flash of light.

I clutch my heart and take deep breaths until I stop feeling so dizzy. Basic moral integrity, eh?

Well!

All I can say is, thank God I'm such a bad driver.

No one's ever going to believe this.