The Procurement Service figured some of us born since The End’s beginning have a genetic memory of a time when summer was real. Of orange-lit afternoons, chimes of now phantom bells that passed through windowpanes to ears primed with subliminal triggers. Bodies bursting out of doors with sudden discovered change and purses prized from parental digits. That was their reasoning behind their choice of van.
“You lads,” the officers called from the vehicle. Headlamps glared the dawn and wheels snaked the tarmac. “What kind of road is this to be on by yourselves?”
“Start running, don’t look over your shoulder,” Badger nestled his words in my ear. He pressed the keys to my hand and gave it a squeeze which I did not know at the time was his last embrace. The vans were now something to be kept clear of. Feared in the way that dogs no longer trust human voices.
Chalk Snow 