Monday drags into the afternoon, a dreary grey cloaking everything like an unwelcome guest. I’m hunched over my desk, papers scattered in uneven stacks, scanning the year’s invoices with a growing sense of monotony. The house is silent, save for the faint ticking of a clock somewhere in the distance—Mom won’t be home until evening, leaving my quiet investigation into our expenses undisturbed. Pale light filters through the thick clouds, giving my room a washed-out look, as if even the colours have given up. I lift my gaze and peer through the window; the view of our unremarkable street in its sleepy neighbourhood offers no solace. A long sigh escapes me, and I let my eyes fall shut, surrendering momentarily to the greyness that seems to seep into everything.
"It's hopeless. It never adds up. Ever."
The numbers make my head ache, a bitter taste forming in my mouth. I rest my head in my right hand, rifling through the papers with my left, scanning one sum after another. Is there anything else we can cut? Unnecessary expenses?
My head spins again as numbers race through my mind in a desperate attempt to find a solution. My thoughts blur, and then I snap at myself:
"Stop!"
I slump back in my chair, tilting my head up toward the ceiling.
"Idiot. Ten or twenty dollars more or less won’t change a thing."
The truth is, people like us can’t afford a college education. That’s just a cold, hard fact.
The calculations show that the debt might be bad enough to threaten the house in the next three years. The bank would step in, force a sale, and we’d have to move into an apartment. But losing the house—and the garden—would destroy my mother. It would break her heart.
So, after one year of university, it looks like I’ll have to drop out.
It’s sinking in—the weird feeling of making a decision I never wanted. The subtle ringing of my tinnitus creeps into my awareness, and suddenly, the gray atmosphere outside takes on a distorted blur, like white noise. Breathe in, breathe out, I tell myself. It’s not the end of the world. Just a change in life plans.
Good grades don’t count for much these days. I was eligible to apply for a scholarship, but the funds are so limited that only students with connections get a shot at it. Connections we don’t have. My report card might help me land a minor lab job, at least. It’s not exactly what I wanted, but it’s close enough. Biology isn’t the most lucrative field, but it’s my dream. Especially genetics. Oh, how I wish I could get into genetics! But that’s for the rich kids, the well-connected ones.
It’s crazy how much my mother supported me. She knew all along it was an impossible mission.
“We’ve got a tradition in the family, you know. We always invest in education, no matter what,” she’d say, nodding at me with a reassuring smile.
And I’d sit there, bluntly realizing that when she says “family,” she means just the two of us. I don’t know who my father is, and my grandparents died when I was young. Mom was an only child, and that’s all there is. That’s how you end up as a tiny speck in the overcrowded United Nations. Insignificant, poor, but determined to educate yourself. Good plan. But not good enough to balance the expenses. Maybe I should focus on economics instead? Probably. But it’s not my dream.
So, lab work it is instead of university. You have to make compromises, and this is mine. Keep the house and the garden for Mom, fulfill your responsibilities, and do what you have to do.
Shifting uneasily in my chair, I wince. It’s not the most comfortable seat for hours of work, but enduring this little discomfort is just a metaphor for our lives. We make do with second-rate everything and still give our best. So, here I am again, ready to do what’s best for us.
Today’s not the day to tell Mom about my decision. I’ve got two more weeks before the final university report comes in. Then, with my impressive grades, I’ll happily tell her how they’ll guarantee me the best lab job out there. I’ll work, save up, and after a few years, I’ll return to school. I’ll be the fastest student on campus with all the experience I’ll gain in the labs.
Sounds good, right? Except, Mom’s smart enough to read the fine print in my plan. Inflation’s eating up any savings, and competition is so fierce that good grades aren’t a free ticket to success anymore. She knows it, and I know it. But for now, I don’t have a better plan.
There are still a few hours before she returns, so I decide to seize the quiet and run to the store, maybe surprise her with dinner. Rising from my chair, I smooth out the invoices, stack them into a neat pile, and return them to their place in Mom’s desk drawer. The small act feels like closing a chapter, if only for the moment. Grabbing my grocery bag, wallet, and keys, I step into the brisk, damp air outside. The sky hangs low and heavy, promising rain that never quite falls, and the faint chill nips at my skin as I pull the door shut behind me.
##
The fresh air outside does wonders, cutting through the fog in my mind. The air carries a crispness that feels rare—almost like a gift in these warming times. I stride down the sidewalk, the rhythm of my steps steady and sure, passing garden after garden, house after house, each one familiar, like characters in a story I’ve read too many times. As I approach, Mrs. Beck gives me her usual wave from her perch on the front porch. She’s always there, rain or shine, wrapped in her knitted shawl like the neighbourhood’s enduring sentinel. I nod and smile, as much a part of our unspoken ritual.
“Oh my, you’ve grown so much, haven’t you? A man now!” she calls out, as cheerful as ever.
I give her a broad smile, despite my 20 years feeling anything but grown up. Time seems to fly for her, and I wonder if one day, I’ll look back and feel like life passed me by too quickly. I like Mrs. Beck. She’s got a way of bringing a little light to this otherwise sleepy neighborhood. A rare constant in a world that feels like it’s always changing.
The further I walk, the more depressing the scenery becomes. Huge advertising billboards line the street, set up on abandoned lots that never sell. Some are plastered over the ruins of old houses, creating a grim contrast with the slogans on the signs:
"We win."
"Victory is near."
"The righteous will prevail."
"Demons defeated."
Yeah, demons. We’re at war with aliens that look eerily similar to medieval depictions of demons. The government leans hard into the religious framing, spinning it like some grand cosmic battle where wiping them out wins us favour with the universe—or something like that. I’m not a fan of the religious angle, but these aliens really do seem like dangerous predators. So, despite the over-the-top rhetoric, I get why the war’s happening. It’s about survival.
The posters show the aliens in all their terrifying glory. They’re humanoid, except for their legs, which are more like those of a horse, goat, or dog—depending on who you ask. Some say they have hooves like horses, others swear it’s split toes like goats, and still others think they have paws. Whatever they’ve got, no one’s gotten close enough to find out. We haven’t captured any of them alive, and we haven’t recovered any bodies. Just blast them with atomic weapons and call it a day.
Meseteem. That’s what they’re called. The cruel Meseteem. They look almost human, except there’s something inherently unsettling about them. I should feel empathy for them, being a biologist, but I don’t. They seem like the antithesis of nature. And yet, scientifically, they’re part of it.
As much as I despise the propaganda, I can’t help being a little fascinated by it.
Today, two of the billboards catch my attention. They’ve been freshly pasted, their messages bold and direct:
"Join the final attack! Help us gather samples before the last blast."
Oh, my God. They’re really going to wipe them out. Another poster nearby reads:
"Last chance."
All of them point to one thing: a final strike that could lead to the complete extinction of the Meseteem. It’s persuasive. And for some reason, I feel a pang of regret at not being part of the last chance to study these creatures. What about their genetics? Could we learn something from them? Why do they look so much like us? Is it just a coincidence, or is there more to the story?
Maybe we’ll never know. Maybe they’ll collect some DNA samples, and someday, I’ll be able to read about it in a public archive. But still, there’s this pressure in my chest, a nagging feeling that I’m missing out on something important. Why do I feel this way?
I’m not one to believe in signs, but sometimes I can’t explain the impulses I get—like when I felt compelled to attend that new genetics professor’s lecture, not knowing what to expect. He was middle-aged, with a spark in his eyes, and his ideas were fascinating. "DNA is the library of life," he’d said. "Nature has left us an entire compendium of development, waiting to be read."
He’s right. It’s all there, right in front of us. And I want to be one of the people who reads it. The library of libraries. Life itself.
Lost in thought, I find myself at the grocery store. It’s a modest place, built for the essentials, yet it hums with the quiet rhythm of the neighbourhood. Locals gather here like clockwork, more for the company than the shopping. By the coffee counter, a few regulars nurse beers instead of lattes, their voices a soft murmur of traded stories and light banter. The shopkeeper, ever patient, listens to their tales with the grace of someone who’s part confidant, part therapist. She ought to have a degree in psychology—or at least an award for keeping this little corner of the world stitched together.
“So, chicken again, Eric?” the shopkeeper asks with a smile.
“Yeah, Mom loves it,” I reply, grateful for the familiarity.
As I fumble with my grocery bag, one of the regulars calls out to me,
“Hey, kid! You hear they’re looking for young folks like you with a science background for the final push against the Meseteem?”
I nod, offering a polite smile. “Yeah, I saw the posters. Looks like good news.”
“It is, son!” he says, standing up from his chair. “Aren’t you studying biology? They’re offering good money. Could pay off your student loans.”
He’s caught my attention now. This isn’t just some old drunk talking.
“They’re paying that much?” I ask, surprised.
“Sure are,” he confirms. “I passed by their stand on Main Street. You should check it out. Might be a real chance for you.”
“Thanks, I’ll look into it,” I reply.
“Good luck, kid. You’ve got better odds than I ever did,” he adds, sitting back down.
I pack up the chicken, my mind racing with new possibilities. Could I end up like that old man someday? Someone who once had dreams but never saw them through?
A chill runs down my spine as I leave the store, wondering if this war is my only way out.
##
Two weeks later, my interim report from the university arrives, but the story I’d planned to tell Mom changes.
“Mom, guess what? Thanks to my great grades, I’ve got a special opportunity!” I say, a little too excitedly.
She looks up from folding clothes, her expression distant. “What is it, Eric?”
“It’s a lab job! With a monthly salary!” I beam.
She furrows her brow. “But what about your studies?”
I shrug. “I can go back later. This is a one-year opportunity at a prestigious lab, and the pay could really help us out.”
Her face darkens with concern. “Offers like that sound too good to be true. What exactly are you doing?”
I hesitate, keeping my tone casual. “I can’t share the details—it’s classified research. But it’s safe, and after a year, I’ll be back at university.”
The look she gives me—I’ll never forget it. A mix of panic and resignation. Her breath catches, and then she says, almost too quietly, “Alright, you need your chances. Just make sure you come back.”
“I will, Mom,” I promise, trying to sound as convincing as possible.
Some might think she’s being naive, but anyone who knows my mom would understand. She’s not naive. She’s just wise enough to accept things she can’t change. Not because they’re good, but because the alternatives are worse. Her acceptance isn’t blind faith; it’s the result of knowing that if she stands in my way, I’ll feel trapped. If I took some dead-end job instead, I’d never go back to school at all, and she knows it.
I can’t bear to tell her that the “lab job” is really a recruitment for the final offensive against the Meseteem. And it’s not entirely a lie—the recruiter did say that my experience could lead to future research opportunities.
But deep down, I can’t shake the feeling that Mom already knows. Maybe she’s seen the recruitment posters plastered on every corner and pieced it together. Maybe she’s just pushing the thought away, choosing to believe I’m telling the truth, because that’s what she needs to hold onto.
I wish I could tell her the whole truth. But I can’t.
It’s just one year. The war’s almost over. And after that, our financial problems will be behind us. I keep telling myself this until the day of my departure.
##
Mom stands in the doorway, waving, her smile bittersweet. I grin back, trying to reassure her.
“I’ll call when I can, Mom!”
“Take care of yourself!” she shouts as I climb into the taxi that’ll take me to the airport.