Chapter 1
Chapter 1: The Wi-Fi Death Knell
The tragedy didn’t start with a bang. It started with a “Doo-Doo-Doot” and the sound of a minivan key fob chirping in the driveway like a cheerful little bird of doom.
I was currently in the middle of a high-stakes tactical operation in my bedroom. Specifically, I was trying to get my left space bun to match the exact gravitational trajectory of my right space bun. It is literally a matter of national security—or at least, a matter of my YouTube channel’s aesthetic, which is basically the same thing when you have twenty thousand subscribers counting on you to look flawless.
“Marquine! Operation: Green Zone is a go! Five minutes until wheels up, people!” Dad’s voice boomed through the floorboards, followed by a rhythmic beatbox session that sounded suspiciously like a drum kit falling down a flight of stairs. Buh-chick-chick-fwoom!
I froze, my hands still buried in my hair, holding a clump of brown waves like a weapon. “Dad! I’m in the middle of a transition! You can’t just announce a ‘Green Zone’ without a formal thirty-day notice! It’s literally violating my human rights!”
I sprinted to my window and looked down. There it was. The Silver Slug. Our family minivan was idling in the driveway, looking like a giant, metallic potato on wheels. Dad was currently tossing a neon blue cooler into the trunk while doing a celebratory moonwalk on the pavement. He was wearing his “Road Trip King” bucket hat, which has a chin strap and makes him look like a very lost park ranger who dropped his compass.
“Marquine, honey, let’s go! Grab your things!” Mom called out from the hallway. She walked into my room, looking way too calm for someone who was about to participate in a literal kidnapping. She was carrying a bag of kale chips (gross) and a stack of books made of—I shuddered—actual paper. Like, real dead trees. “Aunt Sheila is so excited. She’s already prepared the ‘Welcome Tea.’ She says the mountain air is going to do wonders for your digital aura.”
“My digital aura is fine, Mom! It’s thriving! It’s currently at five bars of 5G!” I held up my phone like a shield, the screen glowing with a pastel sticker-art wallpaper I’d spent three hours designing. “Do you know what the signal strength is at Aunt Sheila’s? It’s ‘Zero.’ They don’t even have a router. They have a birdhouse where a carrier pigeon probably lives and delivers texts once a business week.”
“It’s a digital detox,” Mom said, gently plucking a stray bobby pin from my dresser and tapping her nose with it. “Think of it as a reboot. You’re the computer, and the mountains are the ‘Refresh’ button.”
“I don’t want to be refreshed! I like being cached! I like my cookies!”
“Five minutes, Marquine!” Dad yelled from below. ”Chicka-chicka-BOOM!"
I turned back to my vanity mirror. My space buns were perfect. My ring light was glowing, reflecting two tiny white circles in my eyes. My phone was at 98% battery. I looked like a girl who was ready to conquer the internet, upload a high-stakes vlog with an exaggerated eye-roll thumbnail, and trend on the Explore page. Instead, I was being exiled to a place where the only thing “streaming” was a literal creek full of bacteria and judgment.
I grabbed my “Emergency Survival Kit,” which consisted of a portable power bank, three packs of watermelon gum, and a hidden bag of chocolate-covered pretzels, and stuffed them into my backpack.
As I marched down the stairs, I ran into Leo. He was currently seven years old, wearing a metal colander on his head like a helmet, and carrying a plastic sword.
“The Raptor is ready for the wilderness!” he announced, hitting my kneecap with his sword. “I’m going to find a bear and make it my steed! We will conquer the mountains!”
“The only thing you’re going to find is a mosquito that thinks your ears are an all-you-can-eat buffet, Leo,” I muttered, sidestepping him. “And don’t touch my backpack. It contains the relics of civilization.”
We marched out to the car like a line of doomed prisoners. Dad was standing by the open sliding door of the van, grinning like he’d just won a lifetime supply of vintage synthesizers.
“Welcome aboard the SS Family Bonding!” he chirped, hitting a rimshot on the roof of the van with his bare knuckles. “Leave your worries at the door, and your passwords in your pockets! We are officially going off-grid!”
I climbed into the middle row, dragging my feet, and buckled my seatbelt. I watched our suburban house—and my beautiful, beautiful, blinking Wi-Fi router—fade away into the background as we backed out of the driveway. I pulled out my phone and watched the signal bars like a heart monitor.
5 Bars. 4 Bars. 3 Bars.
“Goodbye, world,” I whispered, leaning my head against the cold glass of the window. “Tell my subscribers... tell them I survived as long as I could.”
“Alright, crew!” Dad yelled, shifting the van into drive and blasting the AC. “Who’s ready for the first verse of ‘The Road Trip Rap’?”
I closed my eyes. This wasn’t just a weekend trip. This was a battle for survival.
