The Girl in the Road Read Online Free PDF Page B

more than a programmer, she’s a storyteller, a creator goddess. I’m crossing over a slow-moving green river and then the land turns to desert, where a caravan of trucks makes its way across the waste.
    I take off the goggles. I’m back in the Wood Gallery. The hologram sequence is right at the moment where the animal carcass burns. I watch it a second time and then a third time. I feel like I could watch it all day.
    I descend the stairs and explore the Water Gallery, where the walls are made of waterfalls, and eight mills pinwheel on the energy they make. The floor is crisscrossed with streamlets, each of which powers a display table featuring a notable world dam.
    Below these are the Coal Gallery (uninspired), the Oil Gallery (depressing), the Nuclear Gallery (neon orange and green), the Geothermal Gallery (my favorite besides the Wood), the Wind Gallery (I set all the turbines spinning), and the Fusion Gallery (a hologram of Enid Chung at her bench, making the discovery).
    The Solar Gallery is on the second floor. There’s a miniature array I’m invited to manipulate, a model of the Sun Traps in Sudan. I remember from the floating pie chart that they supply twenty percent of Europe’s energy and forty percent of North Africa’s, after ARAP (African Resources for African Peoples) repossessed the land their governments had sold off and forced new lease agreements. My euphoria increases: despite the snake, despite the terror, overall the world is only getting better.
    Now is the time for me to undertake a great journey.
    I float down the last staircase. I come to the same lobby where I’d first entered. I ask the attendant: “Where’s the Wave Gallery?”
    He points to a doorway in the wall behind the front desk. “Down one more flight,” he says. “It’s in the basement.”
    So this’ll be the room dedicated to the Trail. From the doorway comes a warm chlorine smell. This staircase is concrete, not crystalline. It looks much older than the rest of the building. I turn around to ask the attendant a question but he already has the answer: “It used to be a warehouse for fishwaalas. We preserved it and made it part of the museum.”
    I thank him. I wonder if he can see me glowing, if he can see that I’m a different person than I was when I first came in.
    I descend the staircase and come into a broad, low room. In the ground there’s a rectangular pool, maybe eight meters across. From this side to the far side is a pontoon bridge, each section bobbing with gentle artificial waves. I realize I’m looking at a prototype of the Trail.
    A young woman stands up from where she’d been crouching on the opposite side of the pool. She’s wearing a red swimsuit and holding a red foam buoy.
    â€œNamaste!” she calls.
    â€œNamaste. Are you the lifeguard?”
    â€œYes,” she says. “The pool is only two meters deep, but that’s enough to drown in. Have you watched the film?”
    â€œThe what?”
    â€œThe film in the cinema. About how the Trail works.”
    â€œI thought you weren’t supposed to call it the Trail.”
    â€œYou’re right! The TALG. Don’t tell anyone.”
    â€œI won’t.”
    â€œGo ahead and try it,” she says.
    â€œTry what?”
    â€œWalking on it, silly!” Even from this far away I can see she gets dimples when she smiles. “That’s what it’s here for. I promise I won’t judge you. Believe me, I’ve seen everything.”
    I can sense she’s eager to see me try. She probably sees couples and families, mostly. Not another woman alone, like her. I can feel she wants me to succeed.
    I take a step toward the edge of the pool. The concrete walls have been painted with murals: a sunset on the left, a moonrise on the right.
    I stall.
    â€œSo you just … walk across it?”
    â€œWell, you can explore it any way you want. You