Dear Planet Earth,
The rumblings are coming less often now. But theyâ€™re still there, keeping us up at night, reminding us of our impending destiny.
I shouldnâ€™t be a pessimist, though. I shouldnâ€™t believe that after everything Iâ€™ve been through, Iâ€™m finally going to die curled up into a ball in the back room of a brightly lit RadioShack. It was just a few hours ago I toldÂ Rachel that weâ€™re going to be okay.
â€œWeâ€™re going to be okay.â€
â€œHow do you know?â€ she asked. She had those eyes, those ten year old eyes that youâ€™dÂ think are so easy to lie to until you actually do it.
â€œI . . . I just know. Trust me. When you get to be my ageâ€“â€
â€œYouâ€™re only sixteen.â€
â€œI know,â€ I said. I took a moment to catch my breath, toÂ not scream â€œShut it!â€ on the top of my lungs. â€œWhen you get to be sixteen, you get these . . . gut feelings. And right now, I have one of those. I have a gut feeling that weâ€™re going to get out of this.â€
She stared at the ground, said â€œOK,â€ and walked away.
Iâ€™m not a pessimist. Iâ€™m not an optimist, either. Iâ€™m just a sixteen-year-old withÂ terrible indigestion.
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