The Clay Lion Read Online Free Page B

caused me to
reevaluate my own life’s path and focus on not missing out on any of the
opportunities this world has to offer.  I have always been fascinated by
the prospect of traveling and feel that there is no time like the present to
take advantage of the valuable option presented to me by the government. 
So to that end, yes, my brother’s death has compelled me to want to travel at
this time.”
    Gina considered me over her glasses.  I
could not tell if she was considering the sincerity of my answer or whether she
was thinking about how much longer it was until lunch.  My stomach
lurched. 
    I could have very well been denied.  People
were.  Criminals.   The
mentally challenged.   Those people who the government deemed “unfit
for travel.”  Anyone who they thought might use their trip as an attempt
to change the past.  They could not take that chance.
    Again, I waited.  I heard Gina’s watch
ticking off the seconds.  I had not let myself consider failure.  Not
until that very moment.  I held my breath.  Gina closed my
file.  She took out a stamp pad and a stamp, and with a thud, placed the
word “approved” on my folder. 
    She handed me a packet of papers.  Lists of meetings and classes to attend.   Final paperwork to sign.  I took the papers and fled
the building so as not to give her a chance to change her mind.
    The mandatory classes reminded me of driver’s
education.  No one wanted to be there but everyone suffered through, a
means to an end.  There were quizzes on the equipment that would be
sending us back.  There were releases to sign.  There were rules upon
rules to be memorized and recited.
    Many of the people in my classes became friends
with one another.  I was not there to make friends.  I overheard them
sharing their stories of when they were returning to and why.  There were
those who wanted to relive favorite memories.  Some who had forgotten
something important that needed to be remembered.  A few were just looking
for something to do.  I wondered how many were actually on a mission like
I was but were choosing to keep it to themselves . 
I rarely spoke to anyone during the instructional period, lest I give up too
much.  I did not want to spoil my only chance before I even took it.
    Eventually, I was given my certificate of
completion needed to travel and in the days leading up to my scheduled voyage,
I made my final preparations.  I was given a psychological
evaluation to be sure I could mentally withstand the trip and I was forced to view “the exhibitions,” a
series of government sanctioned propaganda aimed at weeding out the weak. 
It showed clip after clip of families destroyed, friends forgotten, futures
irreparably damaged by travelers who were unwilling or unable to obey the laws.
 The videos were designed to convince a percentage of the population that
the risk was far too great and that it would simply be safer for everyone to
just continue along on their linear timelines.  The success rate for the
exhibitions was just over forty percent.  I was not a part of that
percentage.
    The night before my scheduled departure, my
mother, my father, and I sat down to dinner.  The three of us had not
eaten a single meal together as a family since Branson’s death.  My mother
made her homemade lasagna, which had always been my favorite, and my father
presented me with a gift. 
    “Brooke, there’s something I want you to have
with you when you leave tomorrow,” he said.
    He handed me a box.  I lifted the lid. 
Inside was a small clay lion.  I had not seen the lion in ten years. 
It was strange to be seeing it again.
    When I was eight and Branson was five, my father
took us to see a local production of The Wizard of Oz.  Branson loved the
lion.  We would pretend to be the characters from the story.  I would
always be Dorothy and he would always be the Cowardly Lion.  The rest of
the group was always performed by our imaginations.  Around the same