Do Not Resuscitate. Charley Brindley

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      I died before Caitlion got back with my Big Mac. That must be what happened. Then what is this? Afterlife? No, I don’t believe in any of that crap. I’m lying in that hospital bed, hooked up on wires and tubes. Damn it. ‘Do Not Resuscitate.’ What’s the point of signing a legal document if no one reads it? I should have had it tattooed on my forehead.

      My body died, and they’re pumping life support shit through my veins. My brain is alive but hopped up on painkillers. And my mind, with no control over my dead body, has to do something.

      So, I’m constructing this elaborate fantasy to entertain myself?

      Two minds. Conscious and subconscious. When we sleep, the subconscious takes over, feeding dreams to the comatose conscious part. Now I’m inside the subconscious, playing this ridiculous game of reliving my high school years.

      How long can it go on?

      Until Caitlion gets back from McDonalds. She’ll tell them to pull the plug. She knows very well I don’t want to exist as a vegetable.

      How much time do I have?

      In here, in my fantasy, time may not matter. And I won’t even know when they cut my life support.

      Until that happens, I’m going to enjoy this little piece of make-believe.

      I opened the iPad and tapped the screen.

      Uh-oh. Password.

      He didn’t tell me the password.

      Probably in the ‘Instructions’ folder, which I can’t get to without the password.

      Down in the lower right corner of the screen was a stylized thumbprint.

      Could it be?

      I wiped my hand on my overalls and pressed my thumb to the icon.

      Bam!

      ‘Hello, Charley.’

      They–or I–had thought of everything.

      I found the ‘Instructions’ folder and opened the file called ‘Instructions.’

      Hard to miss that.

      ‘One. You are not immune to anything. There are very few vaccines in 1945. Measles, mumps, diphtheria, and especially polio, are all prevalent. You can probably get a small pox shot. Remember, don’t touch sick people, and wash your hands often.’

      Polio, I bet that’s what Melody has.

      ‘Two. You can’t tell anyone about your mission. They’ll think you’re crazy, and you’ll be locked away in an insane asylum.’

      Mission? What mission?

      ‘Three. Your mission is to prevent global warming.’

      Oh, is that all?

      ‘When you left 2019, the world was already past the tipping point. Icecaps were melting, sea levels rising, climate warming at an accelerated rate. Two hundred years from now, the Earth will start correcting that, but the human race will be long gone.’

      That’s not good.

      ‘You have to start the change to green energy—wind and solar.’

      I’m just a kid. What can I do?

      ‘You’re only fourteen years old, but you have all the knowledge of mankind at your fingertips. All you have to do is design a wind turbine and solar panel.’

      Yeah, right. Any teenager could do that.

      ‘And lastly, don’t forget to wash your hands.’

      That’s it? All I have to do is stay alive and invent technology from fifty years in the future?

      Polio. Wow, I forgot about that. When I was little, I saw lots of kids in leg braces. I wonder how old Dr. Salk is in 1945. He has to get to work on his polio vaccine.

      I don’t want to end up in an iron lung.

      I clicked on the tab for Wikipedia.

      And Albert Einstein. I need to talk to him, too.

      I read about obesity and polio. One link led to another. Cause and effect. History of research. Treatment and cures. Polio is caused by a virus, obesity caused by many things. Polio is highly contagious.

      Before I knew it, an hour had passed.

      “Charley Eye! Where are you?”

      Oh, no! Mom. The eggs!

      “Coming, Mom.”

      “What are you doing up there?”

      I clicked off the iPad, put it in the box, and covered it with hay.

      “Looking for eggs.”

      “The chickens can’t get up there.”

      I climbed down the ladder. “Sometimes they fly up there.”

      “Yeah? Let’s gather some so I can finish supper. Your dad will be home soon.”

      During lunch in the bleachers, Patsy, Melody and I talked about the classes we shared. Melody and I had English together. All three of us were in the same history and Spanish classes. Patsy and I had science.

      “Can we study history together,” I said, “after school?”

      “Sure.” Melody pulled her coat collar tight against the cold wind. “It would be much easier with the three of us working together.”

      “I know,” Patsy said. “I’m always running into words I don’t understand.”

      “Okay,” I said. “Where?”

      “Me and Patsy live next door to each other, so maybe at one of our houses?”

      “That works for me,” I said.

      “I’ll ask Mom if we can study at my house,” Patsy said. “But I’m pretty sure it’ll be okay.”

      “Cool.” I folded my empty brown bag and shoved it into my hip pocket.

      “Cool?” Melody asked.

      “Yeah, fine, good, cool.”

      “Okay, cool.”

      “We better go,” I said. “Lunch hour is almost over.”

      As we walked toward the school building, I said. “Hey, watch this.”

      I ran for the flagpole, grabbed it with my left hand, swung around in the air, then gripped higher up with my right hand. I then air-walked up, moving my feet as if they were going up a wall. When I was vertical, I air-walked back down, then back-flipped to the ground.

      “Wow!” СКАЧАТЬ