Another week, another story. I hope you’ll let me know what you think.
By Laura McHale Holland
Sam and Sharon hustle down the boulevard in their electric car. He is driving, tapping his fingers on the wheel to the beat of Lady Gaga’s “Born This Way” playing on the oldies station. Sharon looks out the window at the median, its palms, poppies and daisies meticulously maintained. This she appreciates.
They stop at a red light. Sharon is soothed by this routine switch from green to yellow to red, even though there is no need for traffic control. Rarely do more than four cars zoom along the boulevard at any given time. She is bolstered by the lore about the elders, who put aside their differences, dismissed their PR firms and lobbyists and figured out how to maintain a semblance of normalcy back in 2020, when people were rioting throughout the world because no human baby had been born alive since 2015.
That was almost three decades ago. She and Sam were among the last born. They speed past sparkling high rises, once bustling with life, now empty, but still washed, lit up and manicured for a future everyone hopes will come. The hospital is four blocks away. Sharon’s pains are three minutes apart. The obstetrician awaits.