Traveler by L.E. DeLano (book suggestions .txt) 📕

of the bag, setting it on the tripod as Dad puts on his headphones and tests out the sonar equipment. Then I reach for the sound sensors—these are attached to floating buoys. The dolphins are able to recognize them, and even approach to communicate on their own.

We’ve been talking to them for nearly eight years now, and what we’ve learned has helped us in so many ways—environmentally, scientifically … no one really thought it could be done, but my father was an important part of that breakthrough. He studied marine biology on a full scholarship, instead of dropping out for two years and marrying my mom, then finishing an entirely different degree in night school after Danny was born.

I get the last sensor affixed to the buoy just as Finn pulls up in the boat. He’s waiting just below where we stand on the top of the cliff face, about a half dozen feet above him.

“Drop the buoys!” he calls. I pick up a buoy each, and one at a time, we lower them down into Finn’s hands so he can place them carefully in the boat. Then I give my dad a wave and leap into the water. Once I hit, I swim over to the boat, and Finn pulls me in.

“You ready?” he asks.

I give him a thumbs-up while I reach for a towel to dry off my face, and he starts up the motor and steers us back out into open water. I sit at the bow, holding the buoys steady until we reach the drop point. Once they’re in place, I give Finn another thumbs-up and he takes the boat parallel to the coast, heading down toward the marina.

We pull up next to the dock, and he maneuvers us close enough for me to hop up and secure our mooring line to the post. He joins me on the dock a moment later, and we stand there, just looking at each other.

“So,” he says.

“So … this is cool.”

“I thought you might like it. Come on, I’ll show you around.”

I walk with him down the dock toward a row of shops set back off the marina.

“We can really travel anytime we want?” I ask. “I mean, every day if we wanted to? Dreamers don’t get upset about it?”

“Think of it like a big football game,” Finn replies. “Your Dreamer is your coach, and when it’s game time, he pulls you onto the field. He tells you the play that’s going to go down, and he tells you the part you’re going to take in it, and you play the game. You may put your own variation on the play, adjusting for events on the field, but when the game is over—when you wake up—the coach doesn’t follow you home to live with you.”

He stops us both in front of the door to a small shop. The weathered plank sign announces the name: GRACIE’S CAFÉ.

“You have a life outside the game,” he continues. “The coach might call to see how you’re doing or even come by to drop something off every now and then, but your life is still yours. And if you want to play a friendly game of football at the park with a bunch of friends or a group of strangers, all your coach—your Dreamer—asks is that you be careful and not do anything that could wreck you for your next game.”

“Believe me, I’m sticking to nice places like this if I can help it,” I reply.

“You hungry?” Finn asks. “Gracie makes the best clam chowder around.”

I make a face. “Ugh. I hate clam chowder.”

He looks surprised. “Really? It’s usually one of your favorites.” He opens the door and I walk through.

“I got sick on it once when we were on vacation. I haven’t been able to eat it since.”

“Ah. Causality.”

He nods his head as the hostess seats us. “It happens. One of the millions of little things that can alter a person in ways that can’t always be immediately determined. Which explains the need for Travelers.”

“Because of my aversion to clam chowder?” I ask skeptically.

“You never know. Maybe someday, some scientist in a lab will create a supervirus that wipes out most life on earth. Strangely enough, the cure resides in the chemical and organic combination of clams, potatoes, and cow’s milk. Clam chowder is the salvation of mankind—all except for you.”

He pauses a moment as the waitress hands us menus and takes our drink order. Once she’s out of the way, he continues.

“And when you pass away due to your aversion to the cure, we will have also lost any contributions your descendants would have given us as well, including a new fusion drive that would have enabled space travel at far greater speeds than we travel at now. So that peaceful alien culture we could have discovered is ignored all because you got sick on clam chowder once.”

The waitress takes our order as I mull all this over. I sip my Coke, trying to gather my thoughts.

“And Mario keeps track of all those repercussions?” I ask, finally.

“That’s what Dreamers do.”

I look around as the waitress puts our plates down in front of us. The other people in the restaurant seemed to be normal enough. Then I glanced down at my plate, and the bread on my sandwich is green.

“Yech!” I nudge the bread with my finger, almost afraid to touch it. “My bread is moldy.”

“No, it’s not,” he says. “Think about it. You know it’s fine.”

He’s right. It is fine. Bread is almost always this shade of green. They use a type of algae in it that’s supposed to be really healthy, and it gained popularity a decade before my birth, when a huge blight wiped out most of the wheat in the country.

But I still don’t want to eat it.

“Oh, go on,” he prods.

“What if I get sick on it and we never go to Mars and discover fat-melting chocolate?”

He raises a brow and toasts me with his soda. “Here’s to living dangerously,”