2) The Town of Curious Habits

Leaving the meadow behind, Spi followed the path into the forest.

She expected conversation. On her world, trees hummed with slow, deep thoughts and birds could trade a piece of gossip as easily as a seed. So she stopped before the first oak, placed a palm on its bark, and said, “Hello. I'm new here.”

Silence.

She tried a bird perched on a low branch. “Good morning,” she chirped. “Have you caught the early worm yet?”  The bird chirped a response then flew off.  Spi was confused.  Though the bird had spoken she didn’t understand a word.  

After a moment she thought, “Of course! I need to learn to speak bird.” Chuckling to herself, Spi continued to follow the path.

Presently the forest opened to a road. Paved. Cracked in places. A metal box on wheels rattled past.  Blue, dented, with a tailpipe held on by a bent wire. Spi watched it disappear around a bend. “That's a car,” she recalled from her preparation. But that one sure sounds unhappy.

She walked along the shoulder. More cars passed. Some shiny. Some sputtering. One backfired and she jumped, then grinned. “Drama,” she thought. “Even the machines have personality here.”

Then she saw the sign: WELCOME TO OAK SPRINGS. POP. 4203.

Below that, someone had spray-painted: Fix the potholes.

With eager anticipation, Spi hurried down the road into town.

It was morning and the town was bustling. A woman hurried past, phone pressed to her ear. "No, I said the blue one, the one with the – hold on, I have another call." She never looked up and Spi marveled that she didn’t run into anyone. A man sat on a bench, sipping coffee out of a paper cup as he absently scrolled. A boy of about eight rode a scooter on the sidewalk, and fifty feet behind him, a woman in workout clothes jogged, eyes fixed on him like a hawk. He's eight, Spi thought. On my world, an eight-year-old would have built that scooter themselves and ridden it to the next village alone. She filed that away.

A teenager walked by, two phones in hand, a wire dangling from each ear. He muttered to himself, then mumbled “No,” to someone on the other end. Spi smiled. Talking to the absent, she realized. Like prayer, but faster.

She passed a parking lot, slowing her pace to notice the myriad of automobiles.  So many different shapes and colors! She counted 12 different brands.  Cars, trucks, SUVs, just like home.  But wait, something was different. One car had a trash bag for a window. Another had rust all around the wheel wells. And a third had a hood and door that didn’t match. “Wow!” Spi thought.  “I sure have a lot of work to do!  These people haven’t even learned how to create basic car repair.”  She took a mental note, “what you drive is a reflection of your identity.”  For a brief moment she wondered if maybe the person with the trash bag window actually wanted it that way.  “No,” she told herself firmly. “These people really don’t get it… Yet.”

Spi looked up as a drone buzzed overhead. Then another. They carried small boxes, deliveries, she guessed. On her world, people delivered things in person because they liked the excuse to see each other. Here, they send machines, she observed. And then they wonder why they feel lonely.

Turning right out of the center of town she came across a small park. A father pushed a toddler on a swing, but the father kept glancing at his watch and then at his phone. The toddler said, "Higher!" The father said, "In a minute, sweetie," and didn't move.

Spi sat on a bench across from them. She watched. She didn't judge – she was here to learn, not lecture. But she noticed. The fear. The hurry. The way everyone seemed to be looking at a screen instead of one another.

A squirrel ran past her feet. She whispered, "Do you know a good place to sit and think?" The squirrel chattered and climbed a tree.

Still learning the language, she reminded herself.

She stood up and looked down the street.  This must be the business district, with coffee shops, a library, a grocery store with a cracked sign, a church and a barbershop with a red-and-white pole.  Spi realized she hadn’t had breakfast yet.  Spotting a cute looking cafe, Spi turned toward it and as she crossed the street she projected a single thought, “breakfast, paid for.”  Almost instantly a $20 appeared on the sidewalk, slowly tumbling in the breeze.  She picked it up and looked around, seeing if she could find the owner.  She tried to ask a couple people but they were so intent on where they were going or lost in their phones that they completely ignored her.  Smiling, Spi did a half skip and stuffed the $20 in her pocket. “Identity just bought me breakfast,” she thought. “Just like at home.”