science fiction author • 3 novels coming in 2026
Chapter Three
Before heading toward Americana’s Boulder, a few miles away, Chris took a mental snapshot of the flat rock he had emerged from, the surrounding landscape, and any distinctive landmarks to ensure he could find his way back to the portal site later.
He descended the hill, weaving through fallen branches and tall grass. The earth was soft beneath his boots.
At the bottom, he spotted a rack filled with recumbent trikes and other personal transporters. This appeared to be a modified version of the bike-sharing programs in his world. A corner of his mouth lifted. Could he commandeer one of these? It would certainly get him to town faster than on foot.
His attempts to liberate some of the trikes were unsuccessful; they were all locked. No surprise there. Examining the rack more closely, he noticed a small glass square facing upward. What do we have here? He pressed his thumb against it. Nothing. He hovered his palm above the square. This triggered a momentary red glow, and he tried to pry out one of the vehicles. Still locked. Undeterred, he tried again, positioning his hand above the glass plate, then stopped when it finally dawned on him. It was a palm biometric scanner. And his vein pattern wasn’t in the system.
This had not been a foregone conclusion, though.
He and Ronny had discussed the possibility of another Chris Walden existing in Americana but deemed it unlikely. The odds of two lives converging to produce another Chris Walden were vanishingly small. Well, it looked like they were right; there didn’t appear to be any other Chris in that universe, at least not one registered in the biometric system.
Back to walking then. But should he wait for daybreak?
The earlier sighting of bison and elk herds hinted at the presence of predators. Chris had no desire to have close encounters with mountain lions, bears, or wolves in the darkness. He pondered the situation for a moment. The potential run-ins with dangerous animals aside, he’d need to be on his A-game when navigating this mirror-world society. Remaining awake all night seemed like a dubious move, especially after being too amped up to sleep the night before. He resolved to get some much-needed rest.
Chris settled beneath the pines, the faint chirp of crickets in the air and a sliver of moonlight dappled across his boots. He stared up at the stars, not ready to sleep, but then closed his eyes anyway.
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He awoke in the shade to the sound of chirping birds and the faint scent of pine. The sun, now high but angling westward, prompted him to check his watch. Huh. It was already past three o’clock.
Be that as it may, history could hold its horses for just a bit longer.
After answering nature’s call, Chris rummaged through his backpack, pulled out a plain paper bag of nuts, and settled against a tree to snack.
Everything in his pack had been meticulously chosen.
In a world of walking canes and self-driving vehicles, a bright synthetic backpack might or might not stick out like a sore thumb. Chris had opted for a nondescript leather and canvas one instead. It might say “rustic,” but that was better than shouting, “I’m from another universe!” Following the same logic, he packed a change of clothes, a water canteen, and toiletries that were unremarkable and plain.
With the empty paper bag now stowed away in his knapsack, Chris set out toward the distant town, trudging through carpets of wild grass and clusters of yellow flowers. He noticed a couple of prairie dog sentries perched on a nearby mound, the only ones keeping watch, as far as he could tell. It seemed like he was all alone out here.
Chris pushed through the dense grass and cursed under his breath as he stumbled over a railroad rail all but hidden from view. He brushed himself off and noticed a narrow dirt path running alongside the tracks. Deciding to follow it, he started walking.
It was quiet except for the occasional gust of wind and the chirping of birds from the cottonwoods and willows by the reservoir. Suddenly, a new sound intruded on his thoughts. He turned. A lone flatbed railcar was trundling down the track toward his position.
First contact!
For a brief moment, Chris stood still, anticipation and uncertainty coursing through him. He brought his arm out and gave a thumbs-up—hoping that this universal gesture was not limited to his universe. Belatedly, he realized that there was no one steering the vehicle; the sole passenger sat toward the back. All the same, the train car was slowing down with a faint metallic squeal of brakes.
As it drew closer, more details registered. He’d never seen anything like it. The carriage was entirely open. Four massive bamboo posts at each corner supported an arched roof that appeared to be a thick, distressed brass plate.
The railcar came to a stop beside him. It could have been controlled remotely, but Chris doubted it. No, some onboard image recognition software had identified a person, understood his hand signal, and brought it to a stop—presumably to pick up a commuter.
The glasses he wore had been Ronny’s brainchild. Chris had to admit it was a clever idea. They looked like ordinary corrective glasses, which they had noticed on people in Americana. However, these glasses were pretenders, hiding a tiny video camera and a microSD card that could record twenty-six hours of footage. Twenty-six hours that could change history and, on a crasser note, line their pockets with extra coin.
This is it, he thought, feeling his heart race and adrenaline surge. A discreet tap on the frame activated the hidden recorder. Stay calm. You got this, Chris told himself as he climbed into the open railway carriage and nodded to the lone female passenger.
She sat in a hammock chair: a stunning, fair-skinned woman in her early twenties. She wore a dusty sage-green blouse and matching button-down skirt, cinched neatly at the waist, with a notched collar and sleeves that hugged just above the elbow.
The carriage remained stationary, waiting for something.
She looked at him, and he merely looked back.
Her long, dark hair flowed down her back, settling in soft waves. A sudden breeze sent it tumbling around her face, and she pushed it away with a flick of her wrist, revealing anew her intense green eyes, now sparkling with good-natured humor. “Hold your palm over the scanner,” she called out.
Chris glanced around, finally understanding what she meant, and then realized it was not going to work.
The young woman got up, the pleated skirt swinging just below her knees, her black heels clicking softly on the gritty wooden floor as she approached. She stopped in front of him, standing closer than necessary. “Here,” she said, guiding his hand to a small glass plate he’d missed. It flashed red. She appeared puzzled and tried again. “Odd. Your palm vein pattern isn’t in the system.” With a shrug, she placed her own hand on the scanner, which flashed green.
With a jolt, the railcar started moving. “It’s on me,” she said casually and turned back.
“I appreciate it,” Chris mumbled, his throat dry. So those were to be the first words of an Earthling in this parallel universe. Not quite, “That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind,” but history would have to make do.
A moment ago, she’d tucked away her earpiece and slipped on a smile. Now she glanced back—this was him. The one Homeland Security had flagged. The one she’d been sent to observe.
The real-time tracking data the department provided had been spot-on. She boarded the railcar at just the right moment to “coincidentally” meet her target. Why had her handler chosen to involve her in this? He’d told her this assignment was “uncritical,” and from his tone, she’d deduced he thought little of it. Border infiltrators wouldn’t have their biometrics in the database. Such individuals were rare but not unheard of. What set this man apart?
She smiled inside, thankful for the assignment all the same. The last one had been six months earlier and was not nearly as visually gratifying.
As she walked back to her seat, she steadied herself with the straps dangling from the ceiling. “First time on a train?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder.
Chris made a strangled sound. “You call that a train?” The railroad car lurched, and he grabbed onto one of the hanging straps to steady himself.
She laughed heartily, sat down, and gestured. “Care to join me?”
“Sure.” He made his way to the suspended hammock chair next to hers and settled in. “Chris Walden,” he said by way of introduction.
With a charming, well-bred smile, she extended her hand. “How do you do? I am Miss Sandra Allen,” she said with a clear, modulated voice. As they shook, Chris felt a wave of relief. Her accent was comfortably familiar, mirroring that of his own America. This meant he would have an easier time blending in. Still, her speech had a distinct quality, a graceful cadence reminiscent of old black and white films. Chris resolved to listen closely and match her intonation.
The hanging hammock chairs, secured by ropes looped through floor-mounted rings, could be pivoted effortlessly. With their feet down, the two comfortably turned to face one another.
He found himself gazing too long, captivated by her green eyes, reminiscent of sunlight filtering through leaves.
A balmy gust of wind jolted him back to the present. Only then did he realize he was still holding her hand. Heat crept up his neck as he dropped her hand, hoping she hadn’t noticed. “It’s fun to ride this way,” he said, trying to regain his composure. “But maybe not so much when it rains?”
The young woman smiled, revealing even white teeth. “This is an open model,” she said, “suitable for when rain is unlikely. Naturally, there are enclosed models for colder or rainy days.”
That didn’t sound quite right. “How can anyone know if it’s going to rain? Especially in Colorado.”
“By performing the rain dance,” she said, leaning in—and then gave him a mischievous grin. “It’s just a twenty-minute shuttle ride from Lafayette to Boulder,” she explained. “The transport system is continually fed weather data. Basic computer programming, I would wager.”
Chris returned her smile, nodding in acknowledgment, though his gaze lingered on the dainty parasol by her feet, struggling to reconcile this antique charm with computer programming. In fact, everything about the encounter felt disconcerting: the parasol from the early 1900s, her attire from the 1940s, the autonomous vehicles from the present—and the railway carriage’s design? Completely alien.
He reminded himself that none of it must have seemed out of place in this parallel universe. Americana was to them what America was to him—a ramshackle patchwork of eras and habits that somehow held together. Hell, for all he knew, a traveler from a third universe might find his own homeland just as eccentric: 18th-century pennies rattling alongside mid-century personal checks and present-day cryptocurrency; ear gauges visible beneath caps and gowns during graduation ceremonies.
There was a measure of formality in her speech that went along with her dress. Yet there was also forthrightness he hadn’t expected. Keep it cool, he said to himself. The video camera embedded in his eyeglasses was on. This was one for the history books—even if the young woman across from him was unaware of the magnitude of the moment.
She was still explaining, “During the morning rush hour, trains with multiple cars are dispatched frequently. The numbers taper down in the middle of the day or in the dead of the night. The adaptive control continuously adjusts and responds to patterns of passenger demand, accounting for days of the week, weather—” She stopped abruptly, her cheeks flushing a delicate pink. “My apologies, sometimes I forget I’m not in front of a class.”
“Ah, a teacher.”
Sandra nodded. “Literature.”
She studied him openly, then tossed her hair back. “And you? Hiking, Mr. Walden?”
“Exploring around. First time in the area.”
Their legs brushed against each other as she crossed her legs, and the fabric of her skirt slid slightly up her thigh. Their eyes met once more, lingering.
The carriage slowed down again, and Sandra broke eye contact and looked out, shifting a bit in her seat. Up ahead, by the side of the track, two young boys stood with arms outstretched.
“Good afternoon, Miss Allen!” they chimed, jumping on and hauling their kick-scooters aboard. The boys held up their hands over the small glass plate, and the railcar started again.
“Roy, Wayne,” the woman acknowledged. She folded her hands in her lap. “How’s your day going?”
“Oh, just swell, Miss Allen,” one of them said.
“Golly, Miss Allen, you should’ve seen them bluegills fight! Wayne almost fell clean into the water!” the other said and pushed the bucket closer for her to inspect.
Chris eyed them curiously. They were barefoot, wearing straw hats and denim overall shorts. Brothers by the look of it. And on the summer vacation, by all appearances.
“I predict you’ll have a great dinner tonight,” Sandra pronounced.
“You bet!” one of them agreed.
Moments later, the boys lay down and dangled from an overhanging lattice of ropes, gazing at the wild grass a couple of feet below as it whizzed by.
Chris observed them with a touch of apprehension; the children had no harness, no safety net, nothing to secure them. “Is there no danger of them falling over?”
“Well, one can never tell,” Sandra said with a twinkle in her eye. She turned to the boys. “What’s one more bruise or a twisted ankle? Right, Wayne?”
“I did not fall off that time, Miss Allen,” Wayne said. “I jumped.”
“At some section of the track, the train goes right to the edge of the lake,” Sandra intimated to Chris in a stage whisper. “He missed it and landed in the dirt instead.” She laughed softly at the memory.
Chris blinked. He’d heard of free-range chickens before, but free-range kids? Apparently, people here believed in a “school of hard knocks” approach to child-rearing.
The vehicle slowed when a cluster of deer crossed the track up ahead. Once they’d cleared the rails, it picked up speed again.
Chris gestured at the boys. “Are they your neighbors, Miss?”
She shook her head. “Students in Whittier School, where I teach.” She flashed him a dazzling smile, and the sun seemed suddenly brighter. “And what do you do, Mr. Walden?”
“I’ve been out of the country,” Chris said, his eyes holding a distant look. “Iraq, to be exact. Just got back.” He’d rehearsed this line in the mirror until it rolled off his tongue naturally. He smiled apologetically. “Taking a little break before I figure out what’s next.”
She nodded in return, uncertainty in her eyes.
Had she bought it? What did she make of him? He could only hope his story held. Chris had no way of gauging yet how different, how truly different, this world was from his. With any luck, claiming to have returned to the States after many years in Iraq might account for his inevitable quirks and displays of unfamiliarity.
The railcar was nearing the end of its journey. Sandra had to think fast. “Mr. Walden, any plans for the day?” He shook his head. “It’s Friday,” she went on in a bright voice. “Might I tempt you to join us for a neighborhood picnic?”
Chris grinned inwardly—talk about luck breaking his way. “I’d love to,” he said and tried to hide his elation.
“Wonderful,” she said with a warm note in her voice. She squeezed his arm and then got up as the carriage slowed down, drawing to a stop. “Shall we?” Sandra asked him.
much later in the story....
Sandra beamed in response, linked her arm with his, and started walking. “Come. Let me introduce you to the principal. He’s in right now, though he’s a busy man.” She glanced his way. “Welcome to my world.”
He stumbled and almost missed a step. “Your world?” he repeated.
“The school, of course, you dolt.”
He smiled sheepishly, and together, arm in arm, they entered the building.
School. There had been nothing horrible about his school experience; it had been simply boring. Hours of boredom, weeks of boredom, years of boredom.
Chris loved the outdoors and loved to work with his hands. Academics were the polar opposite. And schools, of course, had but meager, lukewarm offerings outside of academics. All the same, he was determined to keep a positive attitude during his visit. He wanted to engage with Sandra’s passions and interests.
From outside, the building looked exactly like that of Whittier in his universe. On the inside, though, it was unrecognizable—whether because it was simply different in Americana, or because it had been completely renovated since he’d attended it for one year, when he was in fifth grade. A lifetime ago.
He had never imagined he would come back to visit the school—let alone in a parallel universe, as an adult, and next to a woman he was romantically involved with.
Sandra knocked on a paneled door, and moments later, Chris was shaking hands with an elderly, impeccably dressed black man. His prominent side whiskers and lively hazel eyes, framed by bushy eyebrows, gave him a distinguished appearance.
“Welcome to Whittier School, Mr. Walden,” the principal said. He motioned for them to sit down, his eyes shifting between the two young people with a hint of amusement. “Miss Allen has mentioned you. Quite the impression you’ve made.”
Sandra laughed with genuine amusement, appearing completely at ease.
Sunlight slipped through high windows onto a patterned rug, illuminating a stately desk rubbed to a dull sheen. A few comfortable chairs sat nearby, gathered loosely around the center. The air was faintly scented with cedar and ink, and a small stack of papers sat on the corner of the desk, a subtle reminder of the principal’s other duties.
“I’m actually expecting someone soon,” the elderly gentleman said, “though I’m happy to have met you and answer any quick questions you might have.”
They were both now looking at Chris.
Nothing came to his mind, yet he could tell that Sandra expected him to ask something.
“So, uh …” Chris began, mentally rifling through a stack of potential insightful questions. “What do students learn in this school?” he asked. Inwardly wincing at the banality, he braced himself for Sandra’s eye roll, but she gave him instead an encouraging smile. Maybe she was grading on a curve.
The principal responded, “Well, besides instilling in them some patriotic spirit and grit, students gain cultural knowledge. Beyond that, it’s up to the family and the youngster.” He walked around his desk and sat down. “Folks choose different programs. Some attend more often than others.”
Chris thought for a moment. “Are schools around here government-run?” All right, that was a better question.
The principal chuckled. “A common misconception, Mr. Walden. Schools are private institutions; they provide what they see fit. For its part, the county runs a tax-funded voucher system.” The older gentleman leaned forward in his high-backed leather chair. “If a program includes a cultural trip abroad, the voucher might not cover it. However, as a rule, they aim to provide a voucher for any and all school programs.”
Chris pondered this. Publicly funded, privately run. Interesting.
The elderly man glanced at his golden pocket watch and rose, extending a hand. “I trust Miss Allen will show you the rest. It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Walden. Perhaps we’ll have a chance to chat more at another time.”
Once outside the principal’s office, Chris turned to Sandra, his eyes opening wide in mock astonishment. “So you’re a teacher. Why didn’t you mention it before?”
She punched his shoulder. “I’m the only literature teacher for tweens in Boulder, I’ll have you know.”
“So how many kids do you teach?” Chris asked.
She gave him a sideways look. “Kids? Didn’t I just say tweens? I teach adolescents, Mr. Darcy. You know, the non-kid kind of students.”
Chris blinked, not sure what she just said.
“Look at the numbers,” Sandra said as they walked down the corridor. “There are about five hundred in that age group in Boulder. Some of them love to read, and among those, some are drawn to idea-rich novels. Out of those, some like to discuss them in a group setting. The upshot is that around eighty young folks attend literature seminars: mine. I run five sections.”
Yeah, it made sense. Pity that on the other end of the looking glass, in America, there was no possibility to opt out of language arts classes. Still, he did acquire a certain finesse in the skill of dozing off while seated; his time in class was not all in vain.
“It’s worthwhile to go to this school just for the lighting.” He pointed up. “It’s amazing, Sandra.”
“Diffused sunlight,” she said.
“What?”
“Mirrors tracking the movement of the sun, piping the light into the building via ducts coated with reflective material.”
Now he understood. “So when it’s too dim, artificial illumination makes up for it?”
She nodded. Of course.
Sandra opened her classroom door, inviting Chris in. He entered, and she followed.
He gazed in wonder at the spacious room. Books were everywhere—crammed into deep wooden shelves that ran along the walls and jutted out in freestanding rows. Murals adorned the rustic, cinnamon-hued brick walls, and a grand fireplace stood at the far end.
But almost instantly, Chris got his second, bigger surprise: As he waded between the towering bookshelves, he saw carpeted islands where tweens, primarily girls, sat on plush, oversized cushions in circles and conducted discussions in low, earnest voices.
He found Sandra. “You walked out in the middle of a class to meet me?” Chris studied her, bemused.
She pinched his cheek. “You’re positively endearing!” she told him in a voice that only reached his ears. “Those are not kindergarteners, Chris. What do you fancy would happen if I walked out?”
Chris looked around and observed some of the tweens as they heatedly discussed something. “They seem to have stayed on task,” he admitted.
Sandra shot him an amused look. “‘Task’? Chris, you sound like a foreman at the foundry.” Her eyes sparkled. “We call these sessions ‘the salon’—the exploration of new ideas in the form of boisterous debates, heated intellectual discussions, and contemplative analysis of select works of fiction—the brightest stars in the literary galaxy.”
“The salon, huh?” Chris smiled, intrigued.
He took a seat next to a group discussing a “nocturne fantasy” novel, watching Sandra from the corner of his eye as she moved among the students, conversing softly with one group or another.
A series of chimes signaled the session’s end. Chairs slid back and books snapped shut, followed by laughter and animated chatter as students streamed out, joining others pouring from the building. It seemed the entire student body was taking recess at that time.
“Come,” Sandra said. She crossed the hall and opened the door to another classroom. As they stepped inside, a woman rose from her seat, her face brightening with a delighted smile.
“I’d like you to meet my associate, Miss Joanna Harris,” Sandra said, introducing the woman. “This is Mr. Chris Walden.”
“Sandra has mentioned you. How do you do?” Miss Harris said, shaking Chris’s hand. She was an attractive black woman with sparkling green eyes and a warm, open smile.
“And what subject do you teach, Miss Harris?” Chris asked.
“Math, Mr. Walden. One of two dedicated math teachers in Whittier.” They all sat down. “My class is ordinarily filled with thirteen-, fourteen-, and fifteen-year-old students. It’s the last math chapter for most.” She smiled. “The last bus stop of the journey.”
Chris was taken aback. Math stopped sometime around the end of ninth grade? “What does the math curriculum cover?” he asked.
“The four operations with whole numbers and fractions; number sense, ratios, and measurements; applied statistics, data analysis, probability, and estimation; word problems, percentages, and basic finance and accounting,” came the reply.
“Nothing more advanced than that?”
She cocked her head slightly. “Nothing more advanced is really needed—except for the relatively few who pursue the sciences, engineering, and computer science. And those few will take more advanced math courses in their respective college programs.”
“I see,” he said, his faint smile acerbic.
He then remembered something he’d intended to ask. “I was curious, Miss Harris: How does the school handle students who disrupt the learning of others?”
Miss Harris shared a look with Sandra. “We try first, of course. But if someone’s set on being a knucklehead—out they go.”
Chris raised an eyebrow.
“We don’t let a troublemaker spoil it for the rest,” Miss Harris said with a shrug.
“It’s also a matter of self-preservation,” chimed in Sandra. “Parents expect us to hold that line. If we didn’t, they’d take their kids elsewhere—and rightly so. However, this is rarely an issue. Those who attend are motivated and want to be here.”
A piercing whistle suddenly blared through the loudspeaker, accompanied by a metallic voice: “Attention all workers! Form a single file and report to gate thirteen. It is time to descend into the coal mine.”
Sandra noticed the look on Chris’s face. “School humor, dear. Recess is over.”
As students were coming back inside, Chris took a peek through a window at an empty classroom, and with a nod from Sandra, walked in—gazing curiously at the enormous tables, laden with a bewildering array of items, from countless figurines to colored tokens. He frowned. It had the look and feel of a tabletop game, though unlike any he’d seen.
“Mr. Jones specializes in complex simulations lasting days on end,” Sandra said, entering the room. “I have a few moments,” she added, responding to the unspoken question in his eyes.
Chris regarded the table. “Never saw anything quite like this.” He gestured at the stacks of signage, miniatures, maps, currency, and small display screens.
“Live-action, large-scale simulations of economic and political microcosms. Participants take on different roles, from entrepreneurs to defense ministers,” Sandra said with a hint of pride. “Mr. Jones introduces unexpected and random events to make the simulations more realistic.”
“It sounds … intense.”
“‘Overwhelming’ is the word you’re looking for,” she told him, her shoes clicking on the rustic oak floor as she paced around the room. “Mr. Jones throws the young people into the deep end of the pool. It involves them in ever-shifting, interrelated crises with countless repercussions that can’t be foreseen.”
“A social studies class,” Chris said, wonder in his voice.
“A specialized part of it, anyway,” Sandra said.
Her face brightened. “I just thought of something. Come.”
Sandra led him to the back of the building, and then into another, larger one. “This is where the students forge their ideas into tangible artifacts,” she said as she pushed open the double swing doors with a flourish.
They stepped into a large hall, and Chris halted, taken aback by the sights and sounds that greeted them. Young people were dispersed throughout the space, gathered in small groups on the floor or around sizable workbenches—assembling, drawing, conversing, and constructing. A dozen paces from Sandra and Chris, a large wooden boat sat.
“The annual Battleship War is a beloved tradition around here,” Sandra said, following Chris as he walked up to the boat for a closer look. “Students, mostly boys, spend their summers building these vessels. A rival school does the same. The ships can only be powered and steered by the students’ legs.”
Fascinated, Chris examined the complex network of pulleys and gears attached to multiple propellers. “Now, that’s more like it,” he muttered to himself. He’d never been one for academics, but this was the type of activity he could really get into.
“I see it got your attention,” Sandra said, a hint of a smile playing at the corner of her lips. She steered him a bit to the left and pointed. “Both groups have constructed battering rams and riveted them to the bows of their ships. The final clash will occur in the Boulder Reservoir in two weeks. They’ll be armed with paintball guns.” Sandra winked at him. “Only one team shall emerge victorious.”
Chris turned to her and said, “Sandra, this is precisely how a school ought to be.”
Sandra smiled, and for a minute, they both stood watching as a group of young people tinkered with the gears, the click of a wrench audible over their low murmurs. One of the gears gave a soft clack as a student adjusted it nearby, testing tension with a satisfied nod.
“Building a human-powered boat is just the pretext,” said a voice from behind. One of the teachers, a wiry man in his thirties, joined them. “Along the way, students internalize mechanical principles like friction, momentum, and mechanical advantage.”
“How do you do?” Chris said and offered his hand to the teacher. They shook.
“Mr. Walden thinks the world of what you’re doing here,” Sandra told her associate.
“I do,” Chris agreed. “Please tell me, how do the students decide on their projects?”
The teacher crossed his arms loosely, smiling faintly. “Sometimes, they make plans. Other times, they simply start constructing things.”
“So they build whatever strikes their fancy,” Chris said, looking around appreciatively. His hidden video camera never stopped filming.
The teacher said, “Projects may end up being anything from trebuchets to steam-powered water-raising machines to pneumatic automata.”
Chris looked impressed. “Da Vincis in training, huh?”
“Precisely,” replied the wiry man with a toothy grin. “They operate with scarce resources, constructively engage in failures, negotiate the ambiguous and the uncharted—conditions that are intrinsic to an authentic creation and development process.”
Chris now looked even more impressed.
“It starts with hammers, drills, and circular saws for the six- and seven-year-olds,” the teacher explained. “By the time they are fourteen—at the culmination of this track—they’ve mastered precision metalworking techniques, operating industrial-grade equipment like CNC milling machines, plasma cutters, and hydraulic metal formers.”
Chris shot a glance at the instructor. “You actually have those tools and machines here?”
“Those and more.” It was Sandra who answered. She motioned toward the far end of the hall. “We have a woodshop, a metal shop, and a textile shop.”
For Chris, this was like an invitation to tour wonderland. “May I?”
The teacher inclined his head, and Sandra led Chris to the woodshop.
Amazing, he thought to himself. The space held everything one could need to work with wood: bandsaws and laser cutters, table saws and routers, planers and wood lathes, drill presses and sanders. Next, Chris walked into the adjoining metal shop. It was even more impressive. The shop was equipped with welders and grinders, lathes and metal-cutting laser machines, swing-beam shears and milling machines. It even had a punch worktable, a plate rolling machine, a small foundry, and a hydraulic press brake.
“Do you see anything you like?”
Sandra stood smiling at the doorway.
He turned to her. “This is a dream shop,” he told her. “One could build just about anything here.”
Sandra snapped her fingers and pointed a finger at him. “That’s the idea.”
“Do adults in the community have access to these shops?”
“Are you asking about it for personal reasons?”
“Maybe,” he said. “I’ve nothing specific in mind, though.”
“If you need to build something that requires more than a circular saw or a claw hammer, you can work at any of the Community Toolsheds in town or borrow a tool from a nearby equipment depot.”
It was good to know.
“Both places offer skill-sharing workshops. So if you need training, say, on milling machines, you’ll find someone there to train you.”
He smiled at her. “Are you telling me about this for personal reasons?”
“Maybe,” she said with a smile. “I’ve nothing specific in mind, though.”
Chris surveyed the bustling hall for a moment. “Grades and tests?” he inquired.
“Definitely not around these activities.” Sandra tsked and motioned with the sweep of her arm. “These projects genuinely matter to the young people,” she said. “They have the freedom to fail, the time to persevere, and space to imagine. Grades and tests are incompatible with that; they create a risk-averse culture in their wake.”
Sandra led Chris back to her classroom, where he waited until the bell rang, signaling lunch. While some students headed home to eat, most remained at school.
Within minutes, two dozen young people retrieved folding tables from a closet and arranged them into a few communal tables. They swiftly set out plates, utensils, and cups, then unpacked their lunches. The room buzzed with lively conversations, punctuated by sharp bursts of laughter. Chris ended up eating food from the cafeteria, which two designated students fetched for those without a packed lunch from home.
Sandra was besieged by four girls, eager to chat with her about some personal matters.
Chris struck up a conversation with a few boys sitting nearby. As he listened, it slowly dawned on him: School here was only a part-time affair—two days a week, for most. Some worked a few mornings at the bakery or helped shelve books at the library. Others restocked inventory at the shoe store, or sorted mail at the post office. But that was only part of it.
One boy described the telescope he’d built with his grandfather and how he logged constellations from the hilltop behind the schoolhouse. Another had a little woodworking setup in his garage and was crafting stools and side tables for the community center. Others were making soaps, filming short documentaries, writing illustrated storybooks, or painting murals on brick walls. It wasn’t that anyone did all of this—just that, over time, kids gravitated toward what piqued their interest.
As with work in town, helping at home was part of the rhythm of life, especially for younger children. Sweeping floors, folding laundry, peeling potatoes, and helping with younger siblings—many started pitching in as soon as they could see over the counter. For tweens with town jobs or steady projects, the load at home often lightened. Some still pitched in every day; others, only here and there. It varied. But whatever the rhythm, there was no mistaking it: In Americana, being part of a family meant carrying real weight—early, and with pride.
There was time, too, to just be kids—lying belly-down on the grass with a book, skipping stones, trading jokes, or showing off a new sketch. It wasn’t leisure carved out from responsibilities; it was part of the whole.
As lunch ended, the students rose and restored the classroom with practiced efficiency. Some gathered dishes while others wiped down tables and desks, each corner attended to without fuss or fanfare. They finished by sweeping the corridor floor. Chris watched it all unfold, a faint pang rising in his chest. It was a far cry from the careless halls he remembered.
A chime announced the end of the break. The two of them got up, and Chris kissed Sandra. “I’ll let you go back to work.”
“Sounds good,” she said and drew Chris to her. “You liked what you heard and saw?”
“Yes,” he said simply, holding her gaze. “Thank you for showing me your world.”
“No,” she said. “Thank you.”
They shared a smile.