Jamie
Sunday, July 9th
The wide-plank wood floors of the Red Owl general store groaned as sixteen-year-old Jamie shifted her feet and bent to lift another armful of jars from the cart. Sweat rolled down her back as she strained to reach the top shelf, balancing the jars on her fingertips as she slid them backward to make room for more. She grunted as she dropped back on the heels of her well-worn sneakers. Pulling at the hem of her t-shirt, she created a breeze to cool down. Unfortunately, the brief respite ended as soon as she turned back to her work.
She blew the hair off her forehead and surveyed the store. She should be traveling the world right now; instead, she was stuck in Willow Creek. She chewed on her lip. At least she had a job, and working at the Red Owl had its perks. She had access to things like real sugar and chocolate, which were hard to come by these days.
She could remember a time when the stores were always full of anything they needed. Life was so different back then. Jamie and her older brother, Justin, had lived in the city when she was little. Her father had worked in the auto industry, and Jamie used to spend evenings watching him tinker with old engines, both coming in from the garage smelling like oil and gasoline. Her mother had worked on the city council and hoped to run for national office one day. They’d spent the weekends in parks and museums. And every Sunday morning, her father would make pancakes.
But then the pandemic hit. Dad worked from home. Mom worked on the response team, setting up field hospitals and food delivery. When it was clear the virus would decimate the city, they moved to a farm in Willow Creek near her grandparents. Everything happened so fast after that—the crash, the war, Justin.
Jamie squeezed her eyes tight, gripping a jar of peas while taking a deep breath and counting to five. There was no use thinking about that now. She had to finish the restock before her shift ended.
Finally, the old clock on the wall struck three. Jamie lifted her apron over her head and hung it on the peg by the register. “I’m leaving, Mr. Eaton,” she called out, brushing the dust from her hands. She grabbed the chocolate bar she had bought for her little brother, Sawyer, and headed towards the back door.
Mr. Eaton stood in the middle of a stack of boxes, hands on his narrow hips. He pushed his glasses up on his nose and gave her a casual wave as she walked out. The Red Owl had been in his family for almost sixty years. After the war of 2027 broke out, he moved back to Willow Creek to take it over for his parents. It had been a staple in their little town since Jamie’s grandparents were kids; her grandfather said it hadn’t changed in all that time.
Jamie shielded her eyes from the hazy afternoon sun as she exited the storeroom into the back parking lot. The lot used to be smooth asphalt with brightly painted yellow and blue lines. It had deteriorated to a mix of asphalt, dirt, and gravel. There was little money in the city budget for road maintenance and none for parking lots. Not that many cars were driving through these days. Cars were hard to come by. Luckily, Jamie’s mountain bike was still in good shape.
As her eyes adjusted to the filtered sunlight, she tightened her dark blonde ponytail, threw on her NYC ball cap, and slung her canvas messenger bag over her shoulder. Heading west on Grand River, a self-made breeze dried the tendrils of damp hair at her neckline. In the distance, she could see clouds gathering. She took lazy zigzags from one sidewalk to the other.
As usual, downtown was deserted. Half the storefronts had been abandoned for years. Some closed their doors before the economic collapse, and others were forced to shut down during the chaos that followed. The Red Owl was one of only a handful of businesses too stubborn to give up on their plucky little town.
Her grandfather said that Willow Creek was lucky. They’d escaped the worst of the past decade. The pandemic hadn’t hit them as hard as some places. The war had been fought primarily in the big cities. But even small towns felt the effect of the economic collapse and the failing electrical grid. Necessities had become increasingly expensive or unavailable. Clean drinking water was the biggest challenge for most areas that had lost municipal water purification systems.
A dull, thumping pain developed behind her eyes when Jamie thought about all that had happened. While their small town had been lucky, trouble hadn’t spared her family. She had watched the struggles carve worry into her parents’ faces. She remembered standing at the door of their bedroom. Her father was staring out the window. Her mother was lying on her bed, back to the door, rounded shoulders heaving from tears. For months, grief had threatened to strangle all of them.
Jamie rode past the city park, a memory seeping into the edges of her consciousness.
“OK, Jamie, move your hands closer together on the bat. There you go, just like I showed you. OK, I’m going to pitch nice and gentle. Remember, watch the ball and not me.” Justin smiled. The sun caught his sandy blonde hair, making some strands look almost silver. He squinted and stuck his tongue out, pretending to concentrate on pitching to his kid sister.
Jamie tried to watch the ball but got distracted by the jingle of the ice cream truck down the road. When she swung, it was too late. The ball had already hit the ground, gently rolling past her feet.
Justin pulled his NYC ball cap off his head; the dark blue fabric along the brim was stained white with salty sweat. He wiped the dampness from his brow, frowning. “Come on, Jamie, we’ve done this a thousand times. You have to watch the ball. Try not to get distracted.”
Jamie shuffled her feet and set her jaw. “It’s not my fault the ice cream truck is playing that music when I’m trying to learn how to hit. It’s too hot to play baseball, anyway.”
He walked over and took the bat from her. “It’s OK, sis. Not everybody’s cut out for the major leagues,” he said, tousling her hair. “Seems like you have ice cream on the brain. Should we go find you some?”
She looked up at him, squinting. “Uh-huh.”
He chuckled. “All right then. How about a piggyback ride?”
Justin packed their things into his equipment bag and dropped it by their bikes, squatting so she could climb onto his back. Jamie wrapped her hands around his neck and headed to the ice cream shop across the street. His hair smelled like sweat, coconut shampoo, and a scent she recognized as cigarettes even at six years old.
The distant sound of a car honking pulled Jamie back to the present. There was a reason she didn’t think about Justin. There was no use living in the past.
Thunder clapped, and lightning flashed in the corner of her eye. The storm was moving in faster than she thought. She loved watching storms roll in across the fields but wasn’t interested in getting stuck in some abandoned barn between town and home. She sped up, hoping to beat the rain.
Her bike tires slid on the dirt a mile outside town as she turned onto their road. She cringed at the loud boom of thunder that sounded like a warning to hurry and raced for the cheery yellow clapboard farmhouse. As it came into view, she felt the first drop of rain on the back of her neck. The state flag hanging off the front porch flapped in the wind. A dust-covered blue sedan with government plates stood sentinel in the driveway. Mom was home. Jamie sighed and dropped her bike on the side of the house just as it started to rain in earnest.
