In Loving Memory of Jason Chairez Moore.
1970-2022.
Nova McNaughton rubs his eyes as the morning light disrupts his sleep. It opens a floodgate to the blaring noises of the neighborhood outside. He stretches before rolling to the right of his pillow and then peeps at the alarm clock on his nightstand. It says 06:24 a.m.
Great, he sighs as he rolls out of bed, scratching the itch in his short chestnut hair. That's six minutes of sleep I'll never get back.
He rolls out of bed and feels the peach fuzz on his sculpted face. Another week and I'll have to shave.
Despite waking up early, Nova's emerald eyes gleamed with anticipation. A small smile breaks across his face. Thanks to that little light, he might get a good spot in the dining hall.
By the time he's out the door, the sun is already high in the sky. His smile widens. Summer is just around the corner. The chirping birds in the trees along the sidewalk agree with him.
It's a quick walk to his high school, and with the extra time on his hands, Nova decides to stop by the nearby Starbucks first.
Only a few people are ahead of him. It seems he beat the morning rush. He chuckles as more than a dozen mindless drones fall in line behind him before he's able to order his Mocha Grande.
Six minutes make all the difference in the world.
Nova blows on his hot coffee and slides into the dining hall away from the crowd. For once, he's actually able to enjoy the plastic eggs, the overly salted sausage links, and the laxative-based bran muffin that is at least three days old.
Six minutes between a good morning and a bad one.
Of course, traffic is congested in the mornings as everyone tries to get to work on time. It doesn't bother Nova, though. While everyone in town is usually in a hurry, Nova idly strolls toward the English building.
He halts at a crosswalk and waits patiently for the signal to turn green. An exasperated sigh interrupts Nova's train of thought. He turns to see the source of the commotion. A brunette woman stands nearby, straining to make the ATM accept her card. Next to her, a small brown-haired girl with blue eyes and a pink dress bounces a red rubber ball on the sidewalk.
With a lovely grin, she bounces it higher and higher. Six minutes. The difference between witnessing what is about to happen or reading about it on the news casually later.
The ball hits the curve of the sidewalk at a twisted angle, grazing the island of grass next to it. Six minutes which lasts an eternity.
In a second that to Nova lasts a lifetime, the ball careens into the street. The small girl dashes to retrieve her ball in less time than it takes Nova to blink.
Six minutes. The difference between life and death.
Nova leaps into the road, his legs moving on his own. It's just an instinct, an instant of self-sacrifice.
An approaching car honks its horn for a moment that lasts an eternity. Nova can't hear it. He can't hear anything. All Nova can sense, all he can see, is this little girl on the road. He stretches his hand out, each inch feeling like a mile.
Six minutes. The difference between her life and his death.
A car approaches the girl, and Nova leaps into the road, pushing her out of the way and back onto the sidewalk on the spur of the moment. Nova had intended to get out of the way, but it was too late.
YOU ARE READING
Rosetta Dagotto and the Fight for the Underworld
FantasyA sixteen-year-old student named Nova Tyler McNaughton died on the way to school. Nova was hit when he saved a little girl who had been chasing after a ball. The last thing he saw when he died was the little girl and her Mom hovering over his dying...
