The Day the World Changed

8:15 am

Flanked by two husky men in suits, our young prime minister stares into the camera. His eyes are wide with fear, and his voice trembles as he speaks.

"People of Canada, I regret to inform you that I have been placed under the protection of the American government."

Behind me, a dish clatters to the floor.

"What's happening, Taylor?" Mom asks, entering the living room.

"I have no idea." I use the remote to turn up the volume.

". . . has declared a state of emergency. It is not safe for me to return to our country. I shall remain here in Washington until the virus is contained."

No, no, I think. This has nothing to do with the virus. This has to do with —

"From now on, our government will be taking direction from President Fitzgerald," he adds, looking sad. "Follow his directives, and no harm will come to any of you."

"What in the hell is that supposed to mean?" Mom demands.

"How should I know?"

But I do know.

It means life as we know it has changed.

"This is how it happens," I murmur, watching as Prime Minister Dumaine retreats from the podium, not taking any questions from the members of the press, who are clamouring for more information.

"Do you really think this new virus is that serious?" Mom asks, picking up the remote and changing the channel. "I've got to get some more information. Surely CBC must be saying something about this. In the meantime, you're going to be late for school."

I pick up my backpack and slip it over my shoulder. "I'm taking the bike today."

Mom sighs. A deep sigh that tells me exactly how she feels about my motorcycle. Well, not exactly mine. It used to be Dan's.

"This is foolishness," she says. "That damn bike killed your brother, and it'll kill you too, if you're not careful."

"I am careful," I tell her. I want to add -- that's not the bike that killed him. The bike that he was riding when he had his accident is in the wrecking yard. No one's ever going to ride that crotch rocket again.

But I don't. Mainly because I don't want to be having this conversation with her right now. Our prime minister is in the custody of the American government. What does that mean? All I want to do is get to school and see what Mr. Reynolds, my history teacher, has to say about it. He's been predicting this sort of thing for months. 

Mom is totally absorbed in CBC coverage at the moment, and I use the opportunity to slip out the door that leads to our deck. I hurry down the stairs. The sidewalk is still wet from last night's rain. The air smells fresh. It's the perfect morning for a ride, even though it'll be a short one.

Dan's first bike, a 2009 Low Rider, is parked in the car port beside our single car garage. My helmet is jammed on the backrest. I strap it on, swing my leg over, and fire up the engine. I love the sound of that fifteen hundred plus CC's reverberating through a set of Vance and Hines slip-ons.

"Loud pipes save lives," Dan told me.

Too bad they didn't save him.

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When I stop at the stop sign, a jacked-up grey Dodge truck draws beside me on the right. I look straight ahead because I can already guess who's driving.