Today, I found part of an old newspaper that was dated March 16, 2025. I attempted to catch up on the news while my parents slept peacefully. My flashlight kept flickering off, and at last, with a deep sigh, I gave up. Tomorrow, they'd share the old news while I scouted for food.
I sat in the dark looking out of the window. Dad's gentle snoring didn't bother while I kept watch. In fact, it was reassuring. Mom lay close at his side and I looked at them for a long moment then covered them with the newspaper. This was their first good nights sleep in a more than a week.
They're tired. They're too old to be living like this and it's my fault that we move from place to place living in the shadows as though we were thieves, keeping out of sight, and dodging the state police.
They would have turned themselves in by now, if not for me.
We've been running away for eight months now. I've moved them to a safe place every week or two just to keep them alive, but I know this is not living, and in the pitch black of midnight the relentless dark reaches deep into my soul and asks once again, "what if?"
I rest my head on my arms for a minute and try to focus but my mind is foggy and my eyes are weighted down with anvils.
Sometimes I think I'm going mad.
Sometimes...I caress my pistol and think dark thoughts.
I close my eyes. Life is a horrendous bargain when you live on the run. We should have seen it coming but we slept through the "change" he promised. Everyone had known before the 21st century rolled around that 77 million baby boomers would retire leaving a scant working population to carry the economic load for the nation.
Without the wage earners and taxpayers, our country was poor and desolate. When the global tax was established, the American dream died. I think we all died inside.
"Euthanasia is the way to fix the problem," our leaders said. Health care costs were too much of a burden and the elders would pay.
Desperate times fueled the smoldering fire for disposing of the elderly, the handicapped, and the accident victims who were deemed to have no possibility of quality of life.
Three years ago, it was put into law. When citizens reached the age of 65 they were to report to the government processing facility in Utah where they would spend their last days being finger printed, their worldly goods confiscated, and their names stricken from the North American regional directory.
Immediately after, they would go to the government room.
All was quiet.
I sensed his presence before I saw him. The shadows fluttered ever so slightly and my eyes flew open wide as I reached for my snub nose special.
"Drop it," he said in a quiet, firm voice.
I obeyed, dropping the gun and easing my leg down at the same time.
"Get rid of the knife too," he commanded in a harsh low voice.
I slid the knife in his direction.
"That's a good girl," the voice continued.
He lit a cigarette and I caught a glimpse of his face in the flickering light. His eyes were dark set in bronzed tight skin, and his hair was long and shaggy from what I was able to see. If I hadn't been exhausted from lack of sleep, I would have lunged at his legs and knocked him down.
"Then what would I do?"
"You're fugitives," he said in that same quiet measured tone.
"And you're the killer patrol," I answered.
He chuckled gently, then he told me to get some sleep and we'd talk in the morning.
I didn't argue. I didn't fear assault. I went and lay down in the corner and dreamt.
My dreams were false starts with one beginning scene drifting and fading into another. I saw myself running from one abandoned building to the next dragging two bundles behind.
I caught a glimpse of my parent's haggard faces laced with exhaustion and sightless eyes staring straight ahead. I heard the hunger rumbling in their stomachs, and all the while, a clock kept ticking off the minutes as I ran from one frame to another.
My legs felt wooden and heavy as I gasped for breath. I managed barely to stay ahead of the dragons that were stalking me through the dark wet night. Finally, I wept bitterly looking for an escape. If only my mother was here. I called to her from the deep.
Far in the distance I heard my mother saying, "Hush now Ginny, it will be all right." In my dreams, my mother caressed my hair while I slept and the dreams slowed their assault.
I awoke to the smell of coffee. As I sat up, I saw my mom and dad sitting on the floor with the stranger drinking coffee and nodding quietly. They were eating bread. I smiled sadly and my heart ached for them. It would be soon now.
Tears welled in my eyes as the stranger walked toward me with bread and a cup of coffee in his hand. I was angry and grateful all at once and my raging hunger would not allow me to refuse the gift of bread.
Though I wanted the nightmare to end, this isn't how I envisioned it.
The stranger frowned then brushed my tears away with his bandanna.
He put his face close to mine and looked straight in to my eyes and said gently, "I hope you'll like it on the reservation. We don't have much in the way of fine homes and cars, but we have hot showers and we still have our sovereignty."
"What does that mean?" I asked.
"It means we have retained our own governing laws so far. It means we respect our elders as we have for centuries, and we take care of them," he answered.
We live deep in the recesses of Canadian wilderness. The government doesn't care how we exist as long as we don't place a burden on them.
I didn't hear much of what he was saying after that, but I wanted to get there quickly and embrace the warmth of a safe community. I sipped my coffee as my dad and the stranger planned our trip and talked about hurting in the wild. Mom and I exchanged glances. She was right.