“Look! An emperor penguin!”                                   

“Over there’s an ivory-billed woodpecker!” 

“This is so fun,” I whisper with binoculars to my face. `

“Indeed!”

I clench my teeth and cringe at my mother’s remark. She never says ‘indeed’.

“On the sunflower -- a bluebird!” Mom points in awe. 

“Which kind?”

“Mountain!” 

I pull the binoculars closer, searching for a close-up of the avian. “So pretty….”

Mom pats my shoulder affectionately. “Aren’t we lucky to live right next to this beautiful wilderness?”

Suddenly, a pop-up ad appears and I rip the VR set away from my face in disgust.

As soon as the light of reality crawls in, the illusion of my binoculars, Mom, and the lush, green forests ripe for birdwatching dissipates. 

I sink back onto my bed, then sigh. 

“CVR?” I spit.

“Yes, Birder14?”

“Customizable options, please.”

“Of course. Loading, loading, loading…”

Another pop-up ad slams it’s ugly, unnatural colors into my eyes from the side of my room with the TV. I gripe. “Turn it off!”

“Yes, Birder14. Loading complete. What would you like to cust--,”

“Indeed! Mom doesn’t say ‘indeed’.”

“Immediately correcting VR. Correction completed.” 

“Good.” I walk over to the end of my room with the window. I yank the blinds down and am met with a never moving, never shining, never changing block of gray. I hate that color. 

“CVR?”

“Yes, Birder14?”

“Tell me again where the birds went.”

“This seems to be a popular question. Would you like to customize the answer to your liking?”

I go back to my bed and crawl into a ball on top of it. “No. I want the truth.”

“Of course. The absence of birds today is no new thing. Birds went extinct from planet Earth during the year of 2102. This is attributed to pesticides, herbicides, habitat loss, climate change, invasive species...”

I close my eyes and murmur along with the next fourteen attributors. I memorized the list a long time ago. 

When CVR finishes, I question, “How close are we to 100%?”

“We are 8% away from total, Birder14. Once we are at 100% the VR will be completely--,”

“It’ll be perfect,” I interrupt.

“Yes.” 

“Mom will be perfect.”

“Of course.”

“The green place will be perfect. The birds will be perfect. Everything will be perfect.”

“You seem to frequently describe ‘BirdingWorld’ as perfect. Would you like to change ‘BirdingWorld’ to ‘perfect’?”

“No, but when it’s at 100%, can you change its name to ‘Home’?”

“If that is what you wish.”

The next day, rations were low so I ordered more through DD. While I waited for the drone to arrive, I went through the old boxes piled absentmindedly by the boarded-up door and pulled out things from my previous life -- the life with Mom.

As my hands dug into a box hidden in the back, my fingers brushed something hard. Curious, I leaned over and removed the object. 

It was a digital album. I plugged it in, and the old tech blinked to life. 

First, I just saw a picture of the city. After a moment the city blurred into a new picture of Mom and me. Mom was wearing a red scarf -- I need to remember this so I can update my VR. 

That photo faded into another part of the city again. The slideshow lasted for a couple minutes before it brought me to a sunset with a quote in the corner. The quote read, “‘Every day, you have the power to choose our better history -- by opening your hearts and minds, by speaking up for what you know is right.’ -- Michelle Obama.” Then it switched to a photo of a factory, smoke leaking into the sky. Again, to a crowd of people holding signs and screaming for justice. Again, to Mom and a group of others cleaning up a field of unmoving migratory birds. Again, to a meadow of tree stumps. Again, to an e-newspaper clipping declaring the extinction of the wild turkey. Again, to an e-newspaper clipping declaring the extinction of cardinals. Again, to a video of Mom holding binoculars and staring into the empty land. She turns and says ‘there’s nothing.’ Again, to a video of a bird-of-paradise hopping from branch to branch and a voice in the background saying ‘they’re such fascinating creatures.’ The album ends abruptly, like it wasn’t yet finished. 

I get up and snap my mask to the portable O2 tank and unboard the door and walk outside for the first time in three years. My heart is about to come out of my chest alien-style. But it doesn’t, so I figure I’m safe.

The outside smells. There are garbage heaps everywhere and the air might as well be thick enough to cut and put on a plate. 

I make my way to the back of the house where I unchain Mom’s old bike. I get on and peddle. With the help of GPS, I reached City Hall. 

There are bodies everywhere. Skinny and all wearing large masks. I try to bike around them because among the limp some are sleeping. I try to be quiet, but someone grabs my foot.

I want to scream; I refuse to. “No food,” I whisper quickly.

The person moans.

“I don’t have food!”

They let go. I keep pedaling and then stop before City Hall.

I walk up to the fancy doors, now coated in dust, and bang my fist on them. I hear the metal clank of military robots as they come up and block the inside of the door, should I manage to unlock it. “That’s alright. I’ll just wait out here,” I mumble to myself. 

Mom’s bike leans against the brick wall and I stand at the top of the stairs. I yell, "Save the birds!"

Ten minutes pass before a homeless man bleeds out of the rest of the bedraggled shapes. “Ain’t no birds no more, sweety,” he says beneath his mask. 

“Well, I’m going to bring them back.”

“Are ya?”

“Yeah. And I’ll wait out here for years if that’s what it’s gonna take.”

He chuckles. “Ya mind if an ole fellow joins ya?”

“Will you help me?” The homeless man nodded and we shouted ‘save the birds!’ into the streets. Time passes and we both sit.

“Why don’t the people go into the buildings?” I ask, not wanting to be rude.

He kicks a pebble off and watches it roll down the steps. “The stores all broken down. The airlock systems dead. Ef ya hang en the road some passerbyer might take pity.”

“What if it rains?”

“Everyone fights ta get en a tent. Animals they are. Second generation animals. Most don’t know how ta talk, sweety. They think en pictures. There ain’t no point en trying to change an’thing.”

“I’ll try anyway.”

“Nothin’ goin’ happen.”

“But I’m gonna try.”

“Kay.”

I check in the window of City Hall again. The bots are still there. 

“Did you know that scientists predict that this is going to be a silent spring?” I randomly murmur. I read that somewhere in a book I found in those boxes by the door. 

“Sweety, it ain’t the first one.”

“Wait, what? They knew about the silent springs?”

“They knew. They lived right through it.” 

“Why didn’t anyone do anything?” My throat grows taunt and it becomes very hard to breathe. “Why didn’t anyone say anything? Why didn’t they save the birds when they could've?” The album comes back to mind. Mom wouldn’t have had to pick up those dead birds if they’d done something. 

“I dunno, sweety. Stop crying, hun, it’s alright.”

“B-but it’s n-not…” My head feels heavy and funny. Why do they say lightheaded? My knees buckle and I fall to the concrete. “I-I c-can’t bre-eathe…” The O2 tank…. Surely I’m not out already?

“Don’t take yer mask off!” The homeless man holds it to my face. “Just think bout’ a flower. Et blooms with each breath.”

I do. My head just gets heavier and heavier and I slump to the ground. 

I woke up sweaty with a tarp over myself. I checked the levels on my tank, and they’re fine.

“I-I gave you the plastic so you wouldn’t get up with an inch of smog on ya.”

I nod my thanks to the elderly man. I rub my eyes from the lingering tire; he hands me a tin of food. “Don’t breathe when ya eatin’. Put yer mask back on soon as ya can.”

I eat. After a few more hour’s worth of declaring ‘save the birds!’, we stopped. 

The homeless man tells me to quit peeking at City Hall because they aren’t going to open up. He tells me that we ought to go somewhere that people will listen to us because no one here’s ever heard of a bird. 

We leave. I walk Mom’s bike because the old man is really slow. We come to the edge of town and don’t go any farther.

“Why are you helping me?” I ask. 

“What I got better ta do, sweety?” 

“I dunno.” We take a break, resting half on concrete and half on dust. The emptiness of the unknown looms over our heads. “You have water?” I ask.

“None.”

I start to think. It’s times like now that really hurt because your mind gets away from you. You know how to lock that stuff away and you’ve been doing it successfully for a while, but then it just happens. You slip and sink into those thoughts and it’s awful. 

I bite my tongue and try to imagine the flower, but it just won’t bloom.

I hear a chirping sound and think that the washing machine is broken again. Then I remember that I’m not at Mom’s house. 

I get up and stare into the gray.

The chirping sound continues.

“Ole man!” I gently nudge him into awareness. “Do you hear that?”

“Huh?” 

We both get quiet and listen and watch. When the chirping doesn’t return, we get up as silently as we can and take the first step into the unknown.

Then we take another.