The Countdown to Freedom

June 8, 2081

The first thing people always ask is what it was like before.

Before the alerts.

Before the scores.

Before every screen began telling us who we should be.

The truth is disappointing. Most days were ordinary. And that's exactly why I miss them.

I was thirteen that summer. Old enough to think I knew everything. Young enough to complain about almost anything.

Especially the heat.

We were halfway through a road trip when the air conditioner in Dad's old van started struggling.

"I'm melting," I said from the back seat.

"Human beings don't melt," my brother Lucas replied.

"I might. You don't know."

"If you melt, can I have your headphones?"

I threw a napkin at him.

He caught it and grinned.

Lucas was sixteen and deeply committed to being annoying. "See?" he said. "Her motor functions are still working. She's fine."

"Dad, tell him to stop talking."

"I'd love to," Dad said. "Unfortunately he inherited that from your mother."

Mom gasped dramatically from the passenger seat. "Alejandro Reyes, how dare you."

"It's true. You talked for twenty minutes yesterday about lawn sprinklers."

"That was an important discussion."

"Nobody has ever had an important discussion about sprinklers."

Lucas pointed at Mom. "It's summer so she's right, Dad."

Dad looked betrayed. "I am surrounded by enemies."

I laughed.

Mom reached back and squeezed my knee. "Feeling better?"

"No. It's still hot."

"You survived last summer."

"Barely."

"Such courage."

Outside the windows, fields rolled past beneath a clear blue sky. Little towns appeared and disappeared. Trees flashed by. A rusted water tower stood in the distance.

Nothing important was happening.

At the time, that felt unfair.

Now it feels priceless.

Lucas stretched and looked out the window. "How much longer?"

"An hour," Dad said.

"You said that an hour ago."

"That was a different hour."

"You're making up hours now?"

"I'm the driver. I control time."

"That's not how driving works."

"You want to walk?"

Lucas sank back into his seat. "No."

"Then I control time."

Mom started laughing again.

The van hit a bump.

A cooler shifted behind us.

Somewhere on the radio, an old song played.

I don't remember the song anymore.

I wish I did.

After another twenty minutes, a faded sign appeared beside the road.

ICE CREAM - NEXT EXIT.

Dad pointed triumphantly.

"Good news, everybody."

Lucas sat forward.

"Ice cream?"

"Ice cream."

"You're my favourite parent."

Mom folded her arms.

"Interesting."

"You're my second favourite parent."

"Much better."

The ice cream stand sat beside a quiet road surrounded by trees.

It wasn't anything special.

White paint. Red roof. A few picnic tables.

The kind of place thousands of people passed without remembering.

We parked and stepped into the sunlight.

Heat wrapped around us immediately.

"This is terrible," I said.

"You wanted to get out of the van," Lucas replied.

"Well, I make mistakes... sometimes. "

The line moved slowly.

Families chatted.

Kids ran around.

An elderly couple shared a milkshake.

Nobody seemed in a hurry.

Dad studied the menu.

"There are too many choices."

"There are twelve," Mom said.

"Exactly. Twelve choices for an ice cream flavor is extreme. "

"That's not very many."

"It's an impossible number. There should only be three– vanilla, chocolate and strawberry. "

The teenage cashier leaned out the window.

"Sir, you've been reading the menu for three minutes."

Dad nodded seriously.

"This is a big decision."

"It's just ice cream."

"That's exactly why it matters."

A few people behind us laughed.

Eventually everyone ordered.

We carried our cones to a picnic table near the edge of the parking lot.

Dad took a bite and closed his eyes.

"Perfect."

"You say that every time," Lucas said.

"That's 'cause it's true every time."

Across the lot, a large screen mounted beside a gas station was showing a news program.

Most people ignored it.

So did I at first.

Then I heard a phrase I didn't recognize.

SYS-GOV.

The name appeared beneath a smiling presenter.

"There it is again," Mom said.

Dad glanced over.

"What's that?"

"Some new government project."

"They've been talking about it for months," the cashier said as she wiped down a nearby table.

"Is it important?" I asked.

She shrugged.

"No idea."

The presenter's voice drifted across the parking lot.

"Several nations are expected to formally adopt the SYS-GOV advisory framework..."

Dad waved his spoon.

"Sounds boring already."

"Most government things are boring," Lucas said.

Mom pointed her cone at him. "That's because the boring things are the ones preventing disasters."

"You sound like a teacher."

"I am a teacher."

"Good point."

Dad looked at the screen again. "What's it actually do?"

"Probably paperwork," Lucas said.

"A machine for paperwork?"

"I don't know. Maybe it organizes things."

"Then it can organize my garage."

Mom nearly choked on her ice cream, laughing.

"Nothing can organize your garage."

"That's hurtful."

"It's accurate."

The cashier laughed.

News anchors continued talking.

Experts appeared.

Graphs appeared.

Important people made important predictions.

Nobody paid much attention.

A little boy dropped his cone.

That caused more discussion than the broadcast.

Dad eventually stood.

"Come on. We still have a campground to reach before dark."

The drive continued.

Lucas spent most of it trying to convince me that raccoons were secretly planning world domination.

I told him he was ridiculous.

He spent thirty minutes defending the theory.

Mom read aloud from a travel guide.

Dad complained about road construction.

The sun drifted lower.

Shadows stretched across the highway.

It was an ordinary day.

At least that's how I remember it.

Maybe memory leaves out things.

Maybe it polishes old moments until they shine.

But I remember how safe everything felt.

Not because the world actually was safe.

Because we believed it was.

We reached the campground just before sunset.

By the time dinner was finished, the sky had turned orange and gold.

A few campers sat around nearby fires.

Someone played music from a portable speaker.

Children chased each other through the grass.

Lucas tossed a small piece of wood into our fire.

"You know," he said, "if raccoons take over, this is how it'll start."

I groaned. "You're still talking about that?"

"History will prove me right."

Dad looked up.

"If raccoons conquer humanity, I officially apologize."

"Thank you."

Mom shook her head.

"We somehow raised two weird children."

"I'm the normal one," Lucas and I said together.

That made everybody laugh.

Later, when darkness settled over the campground, we returned to the van.

Dad turned on the small television mounted above the seats.

A news broadcast filled the screen.

This time everyone was talking about the same thing.

SYS-GOV.

The logo kept appearing behind reporters.

The presenters sounded excited.

Maybe nervous too.

"Tonight," one anchor said, "multiple governments announced coordinated adoption of the SYS-GOV management system. Supporters call the move historic. Critics remain cautious."

Footage showed politicians shaking hands.

Crowds applauding.

Flashbulbs popping.

Lucas looked unimpressed.

"Still sounds boring."

Dad nodded.

"Very boring."

"Shouldn't you care about this stuff?" I asked.

"Why?"

"Because it's on every channel."

Dad smiled.

"Mara, every week somebody says the world is changing forever. Most of the time they're selling something."

Mom leaned against his shoulder.

"He's not entirely wrong."

The anchor continued talking.

Experts predicted progress.

Efficiency.

Cooperation.

A better future.

Big promises.

The kind people always make when they're certain they've figured everything out.

I watched for another minute.

Then I lost interest.

There were more important things.

Like whether I'd beat Lucas at cards before bedtime.

I never did.

He won three games in a row.

The victory made him unbearably pleased with himself.

By eleven o'clock, everybody was tired.

The television was off.

The campground had gone quiet.

Only insects and distant voices remained.

I lay awake for a few minutes staring through the window.

Above us stretched a sky so dark and clear that it seemed endless.

No alerts.

No messages.

No scores.

No instructions.

Just stars.

Back then, I assumed they would always be there.

I assumed freedom was ordinary.

I assumed families stayed together.

I assumed the future belonged to people.

I was wrong about many things.

But not about that summer.

When I think about everything we lost, my mind doesn't return to revolutions or speeches or powerful men making decisions.

It returns to a hot van.

An annoying brother.

Melting ice cream.

My parents laughing.

A boring news story nobody cared about.

The beginning almost never looks like the beginning.

That's what makes it dangerous.

Before the sky became a screen, life was wonderfully boring.