I was eight years old when el padre left for the new world. We walked two days to see him launched off. It happened slow at first, like our world would fight to keep the ship put, but eventually it left from the sky and the only thing that was left of mi padre was the smudges of exhaust against the atmosphere.

    Mi padre, he told me one thing, and just that. “You take care of su madre. You take care of sus hermanas. You take care of sus hermanos.” The eyes of mi padre, they showed of the strictest sorrow. My people, they talk of devastation and resignation and death. They talk of divine rule, injustice, and evil.

    The day of mi hermana pequeña's birthday we were walking down the street and she gripped my hand tight. She held her chin high and grimaced at ever stranger that passed. Hatred in the eyes of a six year old. This is when I finally accepted what my people have been saying. I have begun to understand the hopelessness of it all, of our lives here. There are dangers on the street, el jefe and his gang, hunger, los monstruos rabid at night, thieves, hunters, kidnappers. I must do my duty. I must keep my family safe. 

    After school and when los niños have gone to sleep, I have started to experiment more and more with the material mi padre has left me. I want to make him proud, though maybe, I just want to keep together and discover our ticket to survival. I have not seen my father since the day he left. No one has seen anyone return yet. After someone leaves, we never hear from them again. We know little of what is out there and we know little of our fate here. It is day 29J, the year is 2501.