The End Has Come

Donnie explains about the flowing sails, the blue water, the freedom of being alone, the golden beach, and — more than anything — the excitement of being free under the sun and the sky and how he could sail anywhere. “That’s a good dream, Donnie. Don’t let go of it. Live your life in a way to achieve it, and you’ll never regret it.”

Falling asleep that night, Donnie dreams of waking up before the dawn, standing on the deck of his yacht, and watching the sun rise, the sound of seagulls and waves and flapping sails his only company.

* * *

It’s too late. The bags of groceries are shaking in Don’s arms. Please don’t make it be too late. Even without official confirmation, the word is spreading everywhere that the asteroid is going to hit North America. Escape is their only hope. He rushes up to his son’s room. They have no time. How desperate will people be?

He walks into Zack’s room. His son is playing a video game, looking bored. “Son, I’m sorry. You know what’s going on, and I’m afraid we don’t have much time. We need to start packing.”

Zack shoots him a glance but pays most of his attention to his video game. “Is this about the asteroid?”

“What kind of question is that?” Don walks over, grabs the VR controller from his son’s hand, and tosses it on the bed. “Of course this is about the asteroid. We need to get to safety. We’re leaving tonight on the Southern Cross.”

“God, Dad. You know I hate your boat.”

Don stares. “What do you mean ‘I hate your boat?’ We need to get away, Zack!”

His son shrugs.

Closing his eyes, Don gets his anger and fear under control. “Zack, this is not a game. We don’t even have time to track down your mom or my family in Austin. We need to get to safety now.”

“Sure, Dad. Whatever.” Zack moves to put his VR controller back on.

“Whatever? Do you have a better idea?” He had worked two full-time jobs over ten years to achieve his dream, and that dream would now save their lives, and Zack’s response was “whatever?”

Zack shrugs. “I just assumed we’d die.”

Don’s anger collapses under the casual acceptance in his son’s voice. “Zack, we can make it. You know that, right?”

A painful pause and then Zack replies, “I guess.”

“Think of the future, Zack.” Don sits down next to his son. “We can get away, and we can survive.” Zack nods, but there isn’t much heart in it. “Think of the future, son. Where do you want to be? What do you want to do? We have to put all this —” Don taps the controller. “ — behind us.” His son’s face is still blank, emotionless. “Don’t you have a dream?”

“I don’t know.” A nonchalant shrug. “To live. I guess.”

* * *

Donnie is sixteen and gets through the pain of junior high by clinging to his dream.

The yacht is no longer under his feet; it is moored in the middle of the bay, white and majestic. The sails are furled up and the mast and mooring are elegant in their angles and geometry, a different beauty than the billowing sails. The sky is a sun-washed blue, and the sun itself is bright enough that he can’t really judge its size. It is high above, a background piece that shines light on the new additions to his dream: The girls in bikinis arrayed in front of him on large beach towels with bright blue, white, and yellow patterns.

It is just him and them. They don’t have names, but it doesn’t matter to Don. They adore his yacht, his private beach — and him.