Escape Velocity

Chapter One

Yesterday's heat and humidity had vanished along with my parents. They were winging their way to another continent. Being apart was fine by me. It wasn't much different from their usual summer research trip. A year instead of three months. Antarctica instead of something closer to home. Like Gramp would say, no biggie.

And now I had the summer, then a whole year with Gram and Gramp. Perfect. As long as the Fates didn't catch on.

But they did. They wanted to take Gramp away from me.

~~~

Draped in a hand-stitched quilt from my grandmother, I hunkered down in a corner on the deck. Staring into space made it easier to breathe. I flew away from battles with my parents and school and away from the need to be on alert for whatever attack would come next.

As the stars winked out with the approaching dawn, life seemed infinitely small and the universe infinitely vast all at the same time. It was beautiful and totally awesome. Out there was the answer to everything. That's what I really believed, and when I said it to Gramp during our trip to the planetarium last month, he'd nodded and said, "I know exactly what you mean."

The recent return to Earth of the uncrewed Astraea spacecraft, with its liquid samples from the Saturn moon Enceladus, hyper-launched my dreams of planetary travel. I'd help settle Mars and build a spaceport for planet-hopping explorers. There, viewing things differently would be a plus instead of isolating me and I wouldn't be the most alien thing in the environment for a change. I'd be away from everyone and everything that said I had to be more flexible and forgiving of people. The idea of spending as much time as I wanted alone with my own thoughts made me dizzy.

But today, today was for squirreling myself away in Gramp's shed to work on FetchBot, the robot I'd built with Gramp's encouragement. It was a hoarder's fantasy in the shed, and it became my very own makerspace, a perfect workshop, a perfect escape for the entire summer.

The white clapboard shed stood a few feet from the back door. No one else used it except me and Gramp. When he built it, Gram had insisted on a window over the workbench so she could see him from the kitchen and Gram would know what he was up to. Gramp said he put it in so he would know when Gram was in the kitchen baking.

Lining the shelves were old mayonnaise jars, coffee cans, and odd containers filled with bolts and screws and fasteners of undetermined origin. Gramp's tools hung on the pegboard on the long wall of the shed. One of my favorite tools was his Estwing claw hammer. It held a place of honor at the center of the board. Its ancient patina had mellowed to a mottled brown, and the leather-wrapped handle was worn smooth by Gramp's strong grip. His vise, firmly attached to the bench, had a few remaining flakes of the original red paint, along with the red nail polish I used in an attempt to repaint it when I was six.

At home in that shed, we fixed stuff, made stuff work. Last summer Gramp and I had helped out the animal shelter by rigging up a repair to their ancient clothes dryer. They couldn't afford a repairperson, let alone a new dryer. All it took was one repurposed coat hanger and a few mismatched screws—screws no doubt found on the ground in some grocery store parking lot as Gramp strolled to his car. Word got around about what we had done and we often spent Saturdays as volunteers for places needing our help.

I leaned back for a moment as the sun's early rays stole away the chill in the air.

Gram opened the French doors. "Savanna, time for pancakes."

~~~

Wearing Gramp's cardigan, with its pulled threads and too-long sleeves, I slid down the turquoise-upholstered chair until my legs jutted under Gramp's bed. FetchBot was on the floor at my feet. I raised my hand to brush away a strand of hair and a faint scent of turpentine on the sleeve reminded me of the time Gramp helped me refinish my dad's old desk. Maybe it was the other way around. Maybe I had been helping him. The memory slipped away.