Epitaph Road

by David Patneaude

  “Perfect,” I said. “Even on that little screen.” It was destined for bigger ones.

  “Ready?” she said, and I nodded. She took my hand and we let our fingers hover over the e-spond for a few seconds while I thought about the two of us detonating explosions in a far-off forest, not long ago. I recalled sitting in Anderson’s classroom — not long before that — and watching the video of San Francisco disintegrating. I wondered what kind of damage this little blast would do. Then I watched Tia tap the LAUNCH icon.

  An instant later, a word flashed in the middle of the display: AIRBORNE.

  It was done. The wide world had something new to chew on.

  Now for our smaller world. Tia shifted back to the MAIL screen. “Your turn, Kelly,” she murmured.

  I didn’t hesitate. With her fingertips resting on my forearm, I touched the SEND ALL icon. A green arrow zipped across the top of the screen. Our message was gone. In a moment the first kids would read it. Then later, tens of thousands more.

  I imagined the fallout. I pictured Rebecca Mack and my mother, squirming.

  Tia and I shared a hug.

  Above us, a flame, nearly invisible in the sunlight, watched over us.