Malik got dressed and tiptoed downstairs, minimizing the sound of the creaking wood floor next to his parents’ bedroom. In the basement, Malik gathered his equipment, including air quality sensors he had modified to collect and store more particles. He carried the equipment to the backyard, climbed the ladder leaning against the three-hundred-year-old white oak tree, and fastened the air quality devices in different positions on the great oak.
“Hoot, hoot.” The owl was bold.
“Good morning to you too,” Malik said as he climbed down the ladder and sat on the stump of the old pecan tree that his dad had cut down. The pecan tree never had a chance at sunlight between the tall pines and the white oaks. So, it grew in the only direction it could—an odd curve right over the neighbor’s fence. It had been clear that the tree would not survive and that it was only a matter of time before it fell, causing damage. So, Dad did what he needed to do, but Malik knew he felt a little bad about cutting down life before it was ready.
Malik powered up his laptop and turned on his speakers. The benefit of his dad cutting down the pecan tree was that he left the stump. A hole at the top of the stump gave him direct access to the vast root and fungi network connecting the trees in his yard. He placed his cylinder speaker and a long metal rod into the hole and typed a few commands on his laptop. While his program ran its course, he lay back, closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply, counting to himself: one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi. Up to seven Mississippi. He exhaled, following the same pattern. He did this until he completely lost track of time and was only focused on his breath.
“Maliiiiik.”
His mom’s voice brought him back to the backyard. Malik opened his eyes and turned his face to her. The sun had now forced the stars into hiding, but the moon was still hanging on.
“Are you going to work today?” his mom asked.
“Yes, why?” Malik asked.
“Well, you need to get up and shower. You don’t need to go into the office smelling like outside,” she said. “If you don’t start moving now, you’re going to be late.”
Malik got up and collected the storage container from the air quality box hanging from the tree and his other equipment.
His mother, still observing, asked, “How’s it going?”
“Good,” Malik said. “With the last modifications, the antenna has been able to identify more distinct frequencies.”
“That’s great news. What’s next?”
“What do you mean?” Malik asked.
“Do you think you have enough data to—”
Malik interrupted, “I’d like to get a little more information first, then we’ll see how it goes.”
Malik went upstairs, showered, and put on his dress slacks and a button-down shirt. While brushing his teeth, he paused and stared at his reflection in the mirror.
C’mon, man, don’t be scared. You’ve got this. It’s gonna work. It has to.
But what if it doesn’t?
Malik shook his head. “Don’t think like that,” he whispered before spitting out the toothpaste.
Two knocks on the door made him jump. “Yeah?”
“Don’t forget that after work, your dad and I are going to visit a few places and will probably eat dinner out. So you’ll have to fend for yourself.”
“Okay, Mom.”
“Also, once you get a chance, you need to go get a haircut.”
“What are you talking about? I love my hair,” Malik said in a playful tone, as he opened the door.
“I know, I know. At least put some moisturizer in it.” She smiled and pointed to a jar of cream on the bathroom counter.
She started to walk away, then turned back. “Also, Malik, be careful. More people have gone missing in the city. There’s a community meeting tomorrow to discuss it. More petitions against the CB tracers’ tactics are appearing…”
“Mom, I’m always careful,” he assured her.
“I know, baby.”
Malik glanced at his watch. “Gotta go!”
Downstairs, he grabbed his mask, picked up his car keys from the top of a pile of retirement community brochures, and put on his sports coat. He pulled out a pen from the inside pocket of the coat. He enjoyed the feeling of the grooves that ran along the length of the half-white, half-black pen, as if it was carved from wood. “There you are,” he said softly.