daynight by Megan Thomason

and deep canyon that is lit with a myriad of colors, making it look both eerie and majestic, if that’s possible. Sparse, dry, treeless vegetation in form of cacti and brush is scattered between what appears to be paved paths and a concrete floor. I look up at the sky, but the lights of the canyon obscure any view of a moon or stars. Long cables crisscross the canyons between platforms and I swear I see someone zipping across by pulley. Two enclosed ‘bridges’ are in view and from the whooshing noise emanating from them—some sort of train, perhaps?
    As we approach one of the spotlights shining into the canyon I see it is covered with a variety of large, nasty looking bugs. Beetles with long antennae, jumbo cockroaches, and fuzzy spiders. Remind me to stay away from the lights. Or maybe it’d be safer to know where and what the creatures are. I wonder what’s hiding in the brush, thinking of all the fun stuff I’d encountered or could’ve encountered on canyon hikes in San Diego. Snakes? Lizards? Scorpions? Coyotes and mountain lions? Hopefully most the wildlife has chosen to live outside the city borders.  
      I screech when a cockroach at least four inches long lands on my shirt. It is no use to try to shake it off, as it has no intention of relocating without encouragement. “Please get it off me,” I say to our escort with urgency. “I hate bugs. Especially really large ones.” The escort keeps walking, but Blake plucks it off my shirt and flicks it a few feet away.  
    “That was a waste of some good protein,” he jokes. The multi-colored lights and shadows make him look like a maniacal clown or an extra in a purposefully deranged music video.  
    “Disgusting. The moment we’re expected to eat bugs will be the moment I head home,” I mumble, speeding up my walk to catch up with our escort. I can hear Blake laughing behind me, likely remembering my last attempt to jump ship.
    The sight of several men herding a pack of mules up the canyon, all loaded with boxes reminds me of my parents’ pictures of their trip to Santorini, Greece. My parents had ridden donkeys up a switchback trail cut into the cliffs and told us the donkeys were used to not only transport people, but supplies. I’d always envied their trips, but it’s my turn for an adventure.
    Blake appears to also be taking in the new landscape with awe, particularly when he sees a figure whooshing along one of the paths at high speeds by skateboard.
    “Suh-weet!” he says. “Can I try?” he signals to our escort.
    “Later. It’s time to move along. Your training room is up ahead on the right,” our escort says, first words spoken, in a low rumbly tone.
    “Where are all the people and the city center?” I ask. From my count, I’ve seen a few dozen people at most.
    “This is a restricted area solely used for training,” he explains. “And since you showed up off-season you won’t encounter the masses until you transfer to Garden City High.”
    “How many Recruits come during the peak season?” I ask.
    “More,” he says. Helpful.
    “What about the other Recruits who greeted me when I arrived yesterday?” I ask.
    “They already finished their training and are en-route to their final destination assignments.” He then rushes ahead, signaling our ‘conversation’ is over.
    Blake and I walk as slowly as allowed, until we’re pushed into a large room the size of a school gymnasium with its ceiling several stories high. The room’s walls are a sunny yellow, except for the one hundred-eighty degree curved screen directly ahead of us. We’re motioned to sit in two front-row chairs, center of a row containing what looks like massage chairs on steroids. Each row of chairs is suspended from the ceiling by heavy cables. Twenty seats per row times five rows equals a hundred seats. Do they really usually have that many Recruits?  
    “This is sick,” Blake says to signify his approval of our training room, even though upon sitting