(Part One appears on my other blog.)

“I’m coming, too,” Chura said.

“No, you stay. If I’m not back when it’s time to step, you both go without me, okay?”

I left Chura admiring the butterfly and Chethra glaring at her watch. There I was again, headed back into the forest, trying to find some idealistic customer with a hard-on for the environment. I brought it on myself, though, playing tour guide instead of just driver. Without doing an interview, how could I know whether they would see nature as a lost treasure or as valuable property? Even the devvies had a respect for it when they saw it, and a few cried after their first few breaths of fresh air. They always looked at me after that and said, “What happens in the past, stays in the past, right?” I always told them their secret was safe.

I hiked down one or two switchbacks in the trail. Damn, this place is nice. I caught a glimpse of Danetta about 100 meters off, coming toward me. She was turned, digging around in a pack on her hip. One of the rules was “if you pack it in, you pack it out,” including toilet paper. I figured she was just finishing up the logistics of relieving oneself in the great outdoors.

I called out, “Hey, you went a long way just to pee.” It was nice to yell without it echoing back from a building.

She quickly zipped the pack and turned to face me. “A lady needs her privacy, Mr. Falcon.”

“Just Falcon, please.”

“Okay, Falcon. Hawk. Whatever extinct bird you want.” She stopped talking to catch her breath. “How did you get that name, anyway?” She sure warmed up quick.

“I tried to fly when I was a kid.”

“Oh, in a skyporter?”

“No, in my pajamas.”

“Ouch.”

“That was what I said, but louder and not with words. I was at my grandpa’s apartment at the edge of the wilderness. There was this one falcon that always came up to his balcony. First floor, but the building was on a hill that put his back door about 10 feet off the ground. The hawk landed on a roost Grandpa had mounted on the wall, and as long as we were still, it just sat there, turning its head back and forth. I remember the shine of its eye. Like your sister said, replays don’t do it justice. I don’t remember it well, but my brother says that one day, when I was three, he stepped inside for a second to get his drink. When he came back out, I was on the railing. I held my arms out like wings and said, ‘Falcon.’ Then I jumped.

“When my grandpa came to see me in the hospital, he said, ‘So, you are my own little falcon, eh?’ The name stuck.”

“What about impact absorption shields?” Danetta asked.

“We didn’t have them that far away from the city. Not enough power on that part of the grid to juice them.”

“So, you were okay?”

“I landed on a downward sloping grass hill, so the impact wasn’t as bad as it could have been. Plus, at that age, kids kind of bounce.”

“That stopped years ago for me,” she said.

“Same here. Listen, we need to speed it up or we’re not going to make it out. You may have the resources for a rescue, but I’m pretty sure I’d have a hard time getting any customers if I missed my return window.”

Already breathing hard, we quickened our pace. Downhill was always tougher on my legs, but uphill challenged my heart. Although my family history gave me a good ticker, I was not the epitome of healthy living. Personal note: don’t wear heavy hiking boots again.

Danetta lagged behind me a few steps, really having trouble now. “Hold on, Falcon. Wait.”

I looked back. She stopped and leaned over, hands on the lower part of her thighs, her feet apart, looking at the ground. She drew long, deep breaths through her nose, and exhaled loudly out her mouth. In that stance, if she would have looked up and said, “Okay, team, we gotta do a better job on defense,” I would have lost it. As it was, though, I had to give the pep talk.

“Just a little farther. I can see the clearing near the exit point. Chethra and Chura are waiting, but they won’t wait much longer.” Besides, I’m not sure you want to trust your sister to lead a rescue effort.

Each time we reached the top of a rise, I thought it was the last. That trail always did that to me. I made the mistake of telling Danetta, “This is the last hill, and then we’ll be there,” when there were at least two more. She had a hard time getting started each time.

“I don’t think I can keep up this pace,” Danetta said.

My watch showed we had three minutes left.

“This really is the last rise,” I said, not quite lying. I didn’t know whether it was or not, but I couldn’t have her giving up on me. “You don’t want to be my first customer to miss the window, do you?”

When we reached the top, I saw Chura watching with anticipation. She visibly relaxed and nudged Chethra, who stood close to the azaleas but didn’t seem particularly concerned with us. One major drawback to my job was that they didn’t need me for the return trip.

I still served a purpose, though, besides just being a tour guide. Travelers too often got themselves wrapped up in their surroundings without a neutral party there to prod them toward the exit. I was a bouncer, escorting people like Danetta to the door when they wore out their welcome.

One minute. I grabbed Danetta’s hand. “No more stops, now. This is it,” I said.

She tripped.

(continue to Part Three)