Now Playing: Glass House – PawPaw Rod

Breathe in. Breathe out.

In front of me there is a large metal… capsule? Or maybe you’d call this a pod? It has what looks like a computer display, but it’s far too beat up and caked with sand for me to make out what it says. There’s an almost unnoticeable, cyan light emanating from behind the glass cover of the container, like a single matchstick being lit under red stage lights. And behind that see-through barrier is…

Breathe in. Breathe out.

I’m keenly aware of what I look like. If I close my eyes, I can vividly picture my chestnut-color hair, brown eyes, chapped lips, crooked glasses with a loose screw in one of the temples; and so on. I’ve seen a kaleidoscope of people on various album covers – men, women, androgynous people, of different ethnicities, wearing radical clothing, subdued clothing, no clothing, and each one making their own, unique facial expressions. I’ve seen old recordings of those artists on interviews, on stage, on the red carpet, and their fans crying out in joy, excitement, and overwhelming emotion.

So why is just looking at her so difficult?

I try to avert my eyes again. I’ve heard of these pods before, although I’ve never seen one in person. When the meteor showers first started being treated as an event of apocalyptic scale, research into otherwise niche branches of science found themselves a newfound market. One of those branches was cryogenics – specifically, how to feasibly freeze a living person for years at a time. Scientists who promised cryonics as a way to ‘skip past’ the apocalypse found themselves sponsored by the billionaires of the world, all of whom did so in exchange for a vacancy when the project reached completion. Even the least-reputable vendors made out with hundreds of millions of dollars, either via funding or sales. It’s supposed to feel like you’re taking a nap.

This particular capsule must’ve been charging inside one of the buildings nearby before a meteor-sized chunk of it got blown off… And if that’s the case, it’s a miracle that everything’s still intact. The pods are supposed to remain plugged in, but even the trash-quality ones can remain operational for months without power. So, I guess I’ve at least uncovered how the nearby mall had running electricity for years and years – it’s been feeding off of the electrical grid in the area.

…

It’s only getting more difficult to ignore the obvious.

I look at her.

If I had to bring up a comparison, then the artist PJ Harvey comes to mind, although the person inside of this tube looks more gauntly, or otherwise haggard. Her ragged, brunette locks extend not just all the way down her nape, but stretch out to cover her forehead and ears as well. The stray hair strands that have frozen in place look just like thin spindles of caramel, and help distract me from the uncanny matter of her eyes being open. Should they not have been closed during the procedure? Her sunken eyeballs give the impression of a resentful glare, and because of the greenish-blue light emanating from the capsule, I can’t make out their color at all. She has a very symmetrical face, save for a slightly misshapen nose – as though it’s been broken in the past, and never healed properly. She looks to be about my height and age, but it’s difficult to discern her figure; she’s wearing a full suit made of what looks like foam, probably to keep her body heat stable while frozen.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

So, what now? The pod doesn’t look to have any method of opening it, so my options are to troubleshoot a solution, or wait until either the timer or battery expires. That could take a month, or it could take years. The woman inside is completely unconscious until she’s thawed out – effectively a comatose patient with an extra layer of protection. Whatever I choose to do next is irrelevant from her perspective; she literally can’t perceive or influence the world around her. Not to mention, the capsule is hefty. I can barely lift it off the ground, let alone drag it somewhere to relative safety. And what happens if she does thaw out? There are too many variables to consider. Leaving the pod behind has more merit to me than moving it would have.

***

The sun has long finished setting, and while the overpowering heat has subsided significantly, the expanse of dunes and rubble has become almost impossible to navigate. My feet sink into the sand as I walk up and down inclines, and my vision has become restricted to an area of two meters, illuminated by my torch. In ideal circumstances, a trek back home under the cover of darkness is something I always avoid. Today, alongside my heavy equipment, I’m also dragging a Carrefour shopping cart, inside of which is a massive capsule made of metal. To my dismay, the rusting wheels belonging to my mode of transport don’t really help when being pushed across stretches of sand and cement. I’m just praying that I can stumble onto the highway soon, and that it hasn’t been ruined by the meteor shower.

Why did I even decide to help? Sympathy? It’s possible, but the woman isn’t even conscious, and won’t be for the foreseeable future. What would separate her from the countless sun-bleached skeletons I’ve come across thus far?

Then, perhaps it’s just personal interest. I’ve never come across a living human in person before, regardless of the fact she’s essentially catatonic. So then, is it my curiosity?

Why am I helping?

I’ll have to think on it. She’s lucky – getting to see the world’s last radio presenter live on-set. Perhaps that’s the reason. I’ve always heard of TV personalities having a live audience on stage while they tell their tangential stories and jokes. I bet it’ll feel different from now on.

My very own live audience.