NEXT REST STOP: EARTH

2

The wind is calm and steady, keeping the kite full and out in front of Trevor. The board strapped to his feet cuts a clean line through the crystal blue water. The world around him is silent and calm.

He's supposed to be heading south, but for the past hour the wind has been pulling him east, and he can't seem to steer out of it, which doesn't make any sense because everyone else seems to be on course. At least they all showed to be on course when his GPS was working, but now it's on the fritz and his digital compass is flashing an error message.

Trevor gives the state-of-the-art tracking device built into the wrist of his wetsuit a vigorous shake, but it's no good. The map flickers and blinks out.

"Come on! That race buoy was dead ahead," he says out loud to himself.

He conducts a 360-degree scan of the horizon. It's open sea for miles in every direction—no clouds, no birds, no boats—not even a friendly dolphin to guide him to land.

Safety check: his day-glow orange life vest is secure. The camelback is half full of water...being optimistic. And the yellow box with the words Rescue Flares stenciled on the top in red is still attached to the tail of the board, just behind his right foot.

He gives the device on his wrist another good shake.

A faint blip appears on the screen. It's him. A red dot flashes on his six about a kilometer back.

Is that the buoy?

It can't be, because instead of getting farther away it's getting closer and at a high rate of speed.

What the hell is that?

Trevor looks, but nothing is there.

A high-pitched whine cuts in and out as the red light closes in on his position.

The screen goes dark and silent.

The kite tugs. Trevor looks up, and just as he does a UFO streaks overhead.

A surge of air fills the kite and rockets him a hundred feet into the air in three seconds.

He grips the rope handle and attempt to use the board as a wing as he spirals uncontrollably in the UFO's wake.

The wind dies and Trevor drops.

He twists and tumbles.

The water approaches rapidly.

His life flashes before his eyes, but the memories are not the ones he was hoping to see. Trevor had always heard about this retrospective phenomenon where we're given a few seconds to contemplate our own existence before cutting out, but he would think he would be shown the time he and his Dad partied with Flogging Molly at the bar in the airport Marriott, the tequila college party at that $500 a night shack on Rehoboth Beach, or even the time with Tammy in the car, between two eighteen-wheelers behind that old warehouse. Those are the types of memories that put the creepy smile on the faces of people who go out peacefully.

What Trevor is getting here are lessons.

His dad's voice barks instructions to him from the sidelines.

"Throttle into the jump. Spot your landing on the ramp."

Trevor and the board pass through a holographic bubble. The water below him changes, becoming a flat platform of solid concrete standing fifty feet above the ocean.

What the...?

"Concentrate, Trevor!" his dad shouts. "To slow your fall, pull the parachute down hard. Get your leg out in front of you."