Someone Like You

Brin saunters to a dim kitchen. It's dawn; she checks and double-checks that the metal blinds are tightly shut.

Yesterday's stale, cold coffee separates in a plastic pot. Dishes rot. The faint hover of fruit flies hums. A wet mass of hand-ground dark roast slumps into a torn green bag that smells of bagels and decay. Brin flicks the kitchen switch, industrial light flickers from a 20-year-old lamp.

Her wristwatch buzzes —a notification. In ten minutes, a work meeting starts where she's paid to sit and smile. She pulls her thick, unbrushed hair into a bun. An outgrown layered haircut pops out in defiance. She yields and settles for a ponytail.

———

The meeting begins. She presses "sit", her avatar smiles. The CTO reports progress on the new virtual office space. "It'll be just like the good old days." Brin shudders at what used to be.

In the corner of the virtual room, the love of her life clenches his jaw as he pulls his hair out in rhythm with the CEO's monologue. The CEO tasks the team to create "We're in this together" NFTs. He mentions the company's logo should be present at least twice to double as an advertisement.

Long ago, her Davin would have fought back against such a ridiculous idea. In the stock office model room, his eyes are wide, staring off into some unknown torturous daydream. In a sea of blank, smiling avatar faces, the emotional display is jarring. He chimes in, still grimacing, "I love it. Great idea, sir."

They haven't yet greeted each other this morning.

Davin's just a room over. His words echo through their home before it plays from Brin's headset's headphones. She lifts a headphone pad off her right ear; his voice sounds sweeter in the echo of their sanctuary.

Suddenly, a faint knock raps on the metal front door. Brin startles. She strains to not remove her headset. The company's eye-tracking policy was harsh; her wandering eyes had already given her two strikes this month—the knock repeats. Through the thick metal, a heavy box clangs as it lands on concrete.

———

The meeting ends, and she pulls off her headset. Her daily tasks fall into her wristwatch.

Ping. Ping. Ping.

She rushes to the door, curiosity drowning out the influx of assignments.

It's too early for the weekly delivery. What could it be?

Brin reaches for the outer door's turn wheel and stops. "Old habits die hard," she mutters as she pulls her undersuit off the wall. She steps gingerly into thick rubber. The smell of industry wafts around the tiny foyer, increasing in intensity as the undersuit slides up around slept-in business casual. One final pull, and the undersuit is over her shoulders. It squeaks with each movement as she attempts to adjust it.

She moves to the wall and presses the blinking Oversuit button. From the ceiling, a loud mechanical whir starts as the nylon and Dacron layers shift above her. Brin had once dreamt of being an astronaut. A wave of sadness sweeps over her, dull pain in her chest above her diaphragm. The Oversuit unfolds. She comforts herself, "Everyone's an astronaut now, Brin."

The Oversuit lowers onto her. She quickly snaps small fasteners and zips sliders without thought. A helmet extends from the rack. She grips it firmly, placing it over her head, then twisting until it clicks into the oversuit.

———

The turn wheel clicks, and the outer door opens. Brin walks out cautiously, paying careful mind to where light is touching her porch. Sunlight has already snuck up to the first step down to the driveway. She sidesteps along the wall to reach her staircase.

Just on the edge of the shade sits a dingy metal box. Shoddily engraved on the top, "Brin." Brin grabs the little crate; it's warm from minutes of outside exposure. She can feel the box's heat through Mylar, Teflon, neoprene.

Before rushing back indoors, she hesitates to take in one final glance. The empty cul-de-sac, once a haven of crabgrass, is barren. Through a heat haze, Brin makes out an empty cardboard box across the street. It's bleached white from sunlight. A quick, hot breeze nudges it over on its side, breaking it into brittle pieces.

She rushes back into her vault.

———

The heavy metal door groans shut, and the air regulator triggers. Cool air blasts the entryway until a ding indicates homeostasis. Behind the transparent barrier of the temperature-lock stands Davin, his inquisitive look betraying layers of exhaustion. He smiles, a sadness floats in his eyes.

The barrier clicks open, a swoosh of cool air hits Brin as she removes her helmet.

“Whatcha got there, spaceman?”

"Some kind of package. There's no return address. This isn't from you, right?"

“Nope. Maybe they forgot something on the weekly delivery?”

“I guess. Could you grab this? I wanna get out of my three-piece.”

Davin runs to grab oven mitts. Even a decade deep into overwork and he bounces. For a moment, Brin forgets the sweating and the layers of spacesuit. Her mind strays to 10 years earlier; Davin is across a field aiming sunlight at her with a little pocket mirror. She yells to him, "Fight me!". That's how they used to say, "I love you."

Brin shakes away the memory as he returns in view. Affixed to his hands are oven mitts, burned from misuse, threadbare from age. He grips the box and unlatches it as Brin undresses.

———

Standing close to one another, the couple opens the rusty box. It creaks open. On top rests a heart-shaped locket with the word "Unless" neatly engraved in cursive on its surface. Beneath it sits a note, a bag of dirt, and a seed kept safe in a plastic packet.

“Unless what?”

“Hey, quick question: what the hell is this?”

“I… uh… huh. That's a good question.”

“Read the letter!”

Brin grips the letter, unfolding apprehensively. She reads out loud as Davin looks over her shoulder.

Plant this seed. Save the world. See the sun.

Water twice. Keep in shade.

You are chosen.

The two stand, gaping. Two pairs of eyes squint in confusion as they read and reread lines of neatly printed instruction.

Davin opens his mouth as the first noise of a word forms, ping Ping PING. He looks at his watch.

"I gotta deal with this," and he's off.

———

Brin never owned plant pots and, even in the before-times, never had a green thumb. Box in hand, she grabs a cooking pot in desperation. She sits and fills it with dirt, placing the seed in the center of the pile. She rereads the note.

Water twice? Does that mean twice a day?

The pot barely fits between the leaky faucet and decaying dish pile. She turns the water on briefly, and high pressure blasts a hole in the loose soil. Wiping droplets from her face, Brin sets the potted plant down. After a moment of fascinated staring, Brin shrugs, drops the box next to the pot, and wanders off to her office desk.

———

The workday ends. Two watches beep, two chairs creek backward as two workers sigh.

Two pairs of feet wander to each other.

“How's the world-saving-thing going, Brin?”

"I dunno. I've left it alone all day."

They walk into the kitchen and stop. In place of a pot of dirt are a pot, dirt, and a tree of considerable height. Several short inches away from the ceiling, it towers.

“Uh, Brin, maybe you are chosen”

Brin navigates to the tree, and reaches out to touch its thin trunk, still in disbelief. Her eyes flit to the box.

The box opens again, with a small creek, and Brin's anxious hands grip the heart locket. She examines it closely, running her fingers over "Unless." Her fingers come across a tiny clasp. With a hard press, it opens. Inside sits a small rolled-up piece of paper. Unfurled, it reads:

someone like you cares a whole awful lot.

“Okay, what in the actual...”

THUD.

Two heads turn, and two mouths drop in unison. The tree is several short inches taller. Two workers stand stunned.

“Brin, whatever this is, it's working.”

She moves the pot to the ground with some effort, fills a cup with water, and pours it over the tree. The two stare at it, waiting for a spurt. Ten minutes of waiting pass, and no change occurs. They resign themselves to rest.

Brin grabs the locket on her way out of the room. She stuffs it into her pocket.

Maybe I am chosen.

———

A song plays from Brin's buzzing wristwatch, and she jumps up in a start. It's morning, and she slept without a dream. The air is a degree less heavy than most mornings. She runs to the kitchen. Before her rests a great plant, wide as her cooking pot, tall as her room. Davin slides into the room after her, seconds behind.

“Holy…”

PING PING PING

Two pairs of eyes look down at watches. An unknown notifier with an identical message for both:

A plant needs sun.

———

Two astronauts emerge from a metal door. Between them, a tree of considerable height. They huff and puff, straining as pumped arms shake under the weight of flora. They place it down on the porch.

PING

On the lawn, not the porch.

They glance at each other in fear. Davin's face hardens into courage. Brin nods as both lean to pick up the tree. They walk out into the sunlight, wincing.

Their eyes adjust to the brightness of non-shade. The world is white sand and cream-colored dilapidated suburbia. They drop their tree with a thud and stand motionless as the heat slowly permeates through their layers.

Around the cul-de-sac, one by one, metal doors open. Astronauts emerge, carrying trees into their lawns.

They drop their trees, then join in to stare at each other and at Brin and Davin.

In a single instant, the neighborhood realizes that no one is burning.

PING

In the helmet's HUD: You're safe.

Twenty tense shoulders drop.

An astronaut across the street waves his arms above his head. The neighborhood turns. He grips his helmet with wide hands. The helmet twists and makes a sound like a soda can opening, uncovering the face of an old man.

He breathes in fresh air and drops to his knees, tears welling up in his eyes.

Tears roll down his cheeks —they fail to evaporate. His skin does not burn.