Violet Murphy lounged on the weathered stone bench where she was eating her lunch. A tepid breeze ruffled her hair as she absently munched on an apple and contemplated the dismal historical poem she had just read.

“Lament of the Earth”

Cool fools press power

Filthy air clings with no rain

While angry storms rage

Crops wither and fail

Seasons lost in gasping breaths

Friends long forgotten

Life battered and cracked

Fading under rising tides

Aching and lonely

Violet did not notice that Firestorm was angling for an apple of his own until his nostrils were a couple of feet from her cheek. A gentle whinny roused her from reflection. At once, she turned to look at him. “I’m sorry, buddy. Of course I have one for you!”

A plump red apple lay beside her on the bench. She snapped the fruit in half and stood to face the large chestnut horse. He had a ruddy brown coat and striking white markings that ran from forehead to nose. Violet had received him as a gift from her parents when she turned twelve. He was a wobbly foal then, but in her imagination, he swept across the pasture like a flame, and she promptly named him Firestorm.

“Sounds perfect,” her father had chuckled. “Now remember, Violet, horses are extremely rare. You must care for this foal diligently and treat him like the treasure that he is.” He kissed the top of her head and proceeded to explain her new daily chores. She hung on his words and watched his movements intently, striving to absorb every detail.

Firestorm ate the juicy apple pieces from Violet’s hand as she stroked his neck. “Can you believe there was a time when wild horses roamed the countryside? I can picture it clearly: silver stallions crashing through the surf or spotted mares meandering in fields of flowers. The world is so small now…”

Finished with the apple, Firestorm nuzzled Violet’s pocket for sugar cubes. He always knew where she’d hidden them. Violet chortled at his antics, pushing away the funk that had enveloped her. “Not yet, smarty,” she teased. “Let’s go for a ride first!”

Violet relished how riding could make her feel serene and energized at the same time. Wisely, they had waited until Firestorm was four to ensure that he was physically and mentally prepared to bear a rider. From the moment Violet mounted him, it was an ideal pairing. They grew together over the years, branches of the same tree, anchored by deep roots. They were parted while Violet studied at the university, but even then, she had returned to the farm regularly.

As Violet crisscrossed the paddock, she rued having chosen the gloomy poem. In her mind, much-loved voices encouraged her to celebrate life. “I know that’s what you would want,” she thought, “but it’s so hard.” Her parents had died exactly one year ago. After graduation, Violet had eagerly returned home to assist with the farm. Her mother was a botanist, and her father was an engineer. Living on a bucolic estate bordered by dense woodland, the unassuming couple designed and tested vertical farming techniques and sold fresh produce to the city. They instilled in Violet a thirst for knowledge and a profound appreciation for all living things.

Quieted by the meditative clomp of horse hooves on grass, Violet revisited a seminal incident from her childhood. A hawk had been killed by a hailstorm. Violet had found the beaten, mud-covered carcass near the front door of their old stone house. True acrobats of the sky, hawks had frequently swooped overhead while she played in the yard. Violet was intensely moved by the loss of the regal bird. She knelt on the sodden lawn and wept. Her mother joined her, and after a few wordless moments, she tenderly brushed Violet’s hair from her tearful eyes. “We must allow ourselves to be sad, sweetheart, but only for a time,” she counseled. “Then we must take comfort that the one we have lost has gone to a better place and we will be reunited someday. In the meantime, we should cherish their memory and be grateful for the time we shared.”

Those words had helped to ward off the bitter grief that had threatened to consume Violet this past year. She had been home for five short months when her parents ventured to the rugged western coastline. Violet’s mother was investigating a possible new flower species. She was passionate about flowers, and their scarcity seemed to fuel her fascination. A squall erupted. It dissipated quickly, but not before Violet’s parents were wrenched from a sheer cliff. They broke like porcelain on the jagged rocks below, where the sea writhed with furious waves and the tempestuous foam was tinged with red swirls that mocked the tiny wildflowers peppering the adjacent slopes.

With a hearty neigh, Firestorm came to a halt near the entrance to the greenhouse. Vivid colors shone through the clear windows—lush greens, pristine whites, jubilant yellows. The greenhouse was a modest one-story extension of the farm tower, but the radiance of its residents made the building seem impossibly grand and dazzling for its diminutive size. This had been a sanctuary for Violet’s mother. It was also a fertile laboratory where she labored to preserve plants that were on the brink of extinction and develop new hybrids that might have a better chance of survival.

Violet dismounted and retrieved a sugar cube from her pocket. “Here you go,” she crooned, stroking Firestorm’s fine, silky coat with her free hand. “You’re so spoiled,” she appended affectionately.

The horse nickered his appreciation for the treat, and Violet grinned toothily. For months, Firestorm had smooshed his nose against the greenhouse glass every afternoon, searching for Violet’s mother. He dutifully reported to the barn to be groomed by Violet’s father. Violet suspected that he knew they were gone but was unwilling to surrender these routines. A boisterous horse, Firestorm had grown eerily quiet after the accident. It was the sort of silence that accompanies the eye of a hurricane, suffocating and out of place. She was relieved to hear his lively vocalizations again.

Inhaling deeply to catalyze a change in focus, Violet announced, “It’s time for me to get back to work, but I’ll visit you later. Stay out of trouble, okay?” Firestorm snorted and trotted away.

Violet traversed the greenhouse, evaluating various plants along the way. Though the artificial lighting was effective, she tended to loiter where sunbeams danced on the windows. At the entry to the farm, Violet stopped next to a young plum tree with fragrant silver blossoms and dug her digital companion, or DC, from an interior pocket of her jacket. A DC was issued to every citizen at birth. The device was wholly integrated into daily life and regarded as an extension of its owner. The sleek screen illumined at her touch. “Show my tasks for this afternoon,” Violet bade, brushing sugar granules from her fingers and heading into the tower. With her eyes on the list, she accidentally bumped the delicate tree. “Sorry,” she whispered, steadying the trunk. As the tinted glass door closed behind her, she glimpsed a few petals falling reluctantly to the ground like a snow flurry at dusk.

Abounding with life, the farm was an airy circular structure that housed a dizzying array of crops and equipment. It was a more controlled and mechanical environment than the greenhouse, but the technology harmonized with nature as much as possible. Solar panels, wind turbines, and an innovative water capture system all supported a bountiful indoor harvest. Yet inasmuch as the farm depended on Mother Earth, it also required protection from her. At the Murphy estate, a biblical tempest was as likely as a mizzly rain shower. The farm thrived in a protective cocoon of reinforced walls that withstood the capricious weather as resolutely as a dragon guarding its gold.

Violet’s parents had devoted their life’s work to the farm, even though most people viewed farming as a frivolous pursuit since food generators were plentiful. Nevertheless, the operation was consistently profitable. Venerable restaurants in the city purchased their produce and cooked “natural” dishes for enthusiastic customers who regarded it as a novelty.

The majority of the population lived underground, burrowing deep into the mountains to evade the planet’s heaving seas and broken sky. Fear and frustration festered until many came to despise the earth and yearned to leave it. For years, the government had been seeking a new Eden. Relatively few people lived aboveground on inherited plots passed down for generations. New habitation was prohibited. Most land was left untamed, visited only by dazed students on steel-clad field trips and adventurers inspired by folktales.

Though their ranks had dwindled, the Murphy clan still occupied the mature stone house where Violet was raised. The house was settled on a sprawling, meadowed lot skirted by acres of thick forest. Violet was now its sole caretaker and the family’s only living descendent. Fortunately, the farm was just three stories high. Violet’s parents did not want it to overshadow the nearby trees. With advanced robotics and automation, Violet was able to manage the estate on her own.

After three grueling hours and a particularly difficult repair of storm-damaged machinery, Violet paused. “Play classical music,” she prompted, and Vivaldi sprang elegantly from the walls. “Very nice,” she murmured and moved on to her next task. Engrossed in the work and music, she did not hear the visitors’ approach. The abrupt intrusion of the bell startled her.

Lingeringly annoyed from the jump scare, Violet headed without haste to the arched front gate of the estate. She was surprised to find three people in formfitting white jumpers and helmets, bobbing like buoys next to a matching white microcar. They appeared to be inspecting the carpet of lime moss on the rocky arch and the petite golden flowers at its base.

“May I help you?” Violet called as she approached.

“Are you Violet Murphy?” a woman’s voice shot like a pistol.

“Yes, that’s me,” Violet replied. “I wasn’t expecting visitors today. Please state your business.”

The woman mulishly waited until Violet arrived at the gate. “Per recent news alerts,” she recited briskly, “the government is performing the annual census. We are completing our work in your area today. My name is Dr. Akira Tanaka. I belong to the Science Bureau, and I am leading the census.” She extended her DC to Violet. “Here are my credentials.”

Violet opened the sturdy gate and glanced at Akira’s device. She knew about the census and had no reason to doubt the woman’s legitimacy, but she could not recall having home visits in the past. “I thought I’d get a form to complete,” she said. Irritation and confusion colored her tone.

“The process is more comprehensive this year,” Akira explained. “May we look around your property?” With the flick of a hand, Akira signaled her companions to proceed. They did not wait for consent.

Violet exhaled loudly. She followed the trio up the path, watching uncomfortably as they recorded extensive threads of data and images. As sunset started to paint the horizon, the group dithered outside the farm, debating in low voices. Akira turned to Violet. Adopting a more conciliatory manner, she inquired, “Would you mind giving us a tour of this structure? I am acquainted with your parents’ methods. Organic production is my personal area of focus.”

Violet was hesitant but could not deny a request to showcase her parents’ work, especially on this day. She led the scientists around the facility and answered their ready questions. As they filed out of the building, Akira noted that they had skipped the greenhouse.

“The greenhouse is…private,” Violet asserted. Akira’s dark, flinty eyes dissected her, but she did not back down.

“Fine,” Akira said with a nod. “Remove your jacket, please. We require a blood sample.”

Momentary relief dissolved to alarm. “What?! Why do you need my blood?” Violet yelped as she backed up a step. “I’m certain you have access to my medical records. Look, I’ve been patient, but this is asking too much!”

Firestorm was grazing in the paddock. When Violet’s distress reached his pert ears, he snorted forcefully and dashed over. His sudden appearance caused a commotion. The scientists jockeyed clumsily for new positions a safe distance from the fence.

Violet scratched under Firestorm’s mane and clucked warmly, “I can always count on you for some comic relief.”

Akira jerked her head to signify that she was composed. She glared at her associates then addressed Violet. “The census process requires a blood sample from each citizen. Would you like to review the edict?”

“No,” Violet snapped. She was tired and just wanted the intruders to leave. She removed her jacket and bunched up a sleeve of her threadbare Henley shirt. Rising moonlight and waning sunshine mingled on her creamy, freckled skin. One of Akira’s minions wielded a small gadget. He held it firmly against Violet’s arm until the sample was drawn. It did not hurt, but Violet still grimaced in protest.

“You’ll be on your way now?” Violet asked, though it was more statement than question.

“We need a sample from the horse, too,” Akira responded calmly. Violet instantly shifted to block her path. Unaware, Firestorm watched a pair of bushy gray squirrels that were bolting like puffs of smoke between the fence posts.

“Why do you need my horse’s blood? What kind of bizarre census is this?” Violet challenged.

“We must account for all household members. This horse is clearly a member of your household and not a feral animal.” Akira dropped her icy tone and added vaguely, “He is quite beautiful.”

Before Violet could react, the phlebotomist mashed his gadget into Firestorm’s neck. Shocked, the horse lurched away, reared, and fled with a shrill cry to hide in the gathering dusk. “What are you doing?! You can’t just jam that thing into him!” Violet yelled.

“It’s just an animal,” the man responded dismissively, his tone as dry as sawdust. Pivoting to Akira, he inspected his equipment and confirmed, “We have what we need.”

“We apologize for the disruption to your afternoon, Ms. Murphy. Thank you for your cooperation. The official confirmation of our visit will be sent to your DC,” Akira announced without a wisp of remorse. “We will be leaving now. We can see ourselves to the gate.”

Violet was anxious to find Firestorm. She mastered her tongue so that the encounter would end. Akira nodded and started down the gravelly path, but she turned back after a few steps, seeming conflicted and speaking more slowly. “Ms. Murphy, I know you haven’t…enjoyed…our visit today. I wish the circumstances had been different because I am truly interested in your agronomy techniques and would like to learn more.”

Violet did not reply. Her stiff movements as she slipped back into her jacket broadcasted her displeasure.

After a thoughtful pause, Akira continued, “Perhaps you would be willing to present at the Science Bureau.” She did not await an answer. “Yes,” she declared crisply. “I will make the arrangements. Please watch for an invitation. Good evening.” The matter was apparently resolved.

Pale moonshine was overtaking the final blush of day, which made it difficult for Violet to spot Firestorm in the wide pasture. “Firestorm?” she called. “They’re gone now, buddy. Where are you?” The horse whickered and emerged from the shadow of the barn. Violet hopped the paddock fence and rummaged in her pocket for a treat to distract him. Firestorm clopped over to meet her, soft light swaying on his silken coat. Violet assessed his neck. “You don’t seem to be injured,” she said, “but I’m really sorry that I didn’t prevent that vampire from touching you.” Leading the horse inside, she added wearily, “The whole thing seemed so surreal.”

The barn was constructed from the same core materials as the house. Ancient beige and gray stones of different sizes and shades created a foggy, ashen tapestry like rolling mist on a basalt beach. The barn boasted a gabled slate roof with skylights and a compact storage silo. The spacious interior mainly consisted of a wide corridor flanked by timber benches and cabinets, two large stalls, and a tack room. It was diffusely lit, and the heady scents of fresh straw and ripened wood perfumed the air. Integrated custom technology supported its upkeep, and the structure was solidly reinforced for severe weather and earthquakes.

The familiar surroundings helped Violet to unwind. She closed the sliding doors manually and watched Firestorm amble to his water trough. He was an amiable horse who raced the produce trucks and merrily snacked on hand-fed carrots from the drivers. Once, a driver brought his daughter to see Firestorm. He rarely encountered children and seemed to recognize that this was a special occasion. He sprinted across his enclosure with such majesty that the girl was awestruck, and then he waited with uncharacteristic patience while she mustered up the courage to pet him. Violet wondered sadly if today’s events would make him less trusting or sociable.

Intending to read the news but unable to keep her eyes open, Violet fell asleep on a cot that she used whenever Firestorm was ill. She was roused by damp breath and prickly whiskers several hours later. Violet chuckled as Firestorm persistently nudged her with his nose until she sat up. “It’s good to see you’re no worse for wear,” she uttered through a yawn. “As for me, I need a shower and a warm breakfast.”

As she led Firestorm into the dewy golden dawn, Violet glanced at her DC. Akira had wasted no time in contacting her about visiting the Science Bureau. In three days, Violet was scheduled to present on a concisely bulleted list of topics. Her train fare was prepaid. There was no request for confirmation. Violet sighed. “Well, it looks like I’ll be taking a little trip, Firestorm.”