felt like yelling out that I was the luckiest man alive, only Ruby didn’t believe in luck.
A few years back, Ruby hung a vision board on our bedroom wall. The vision board was a three-foot-by-three-foot corkboard, covered with a purple silk cloth—for prosperity—and decorated with images and words that conveyed our shared desires. Ask and the universe will provide, at least that’s what Ruby believed. I believe in relying on yourself to solve your own problems. The mountain has a cold and angry way of reinforcing that kind of thinking.
Still, Ruby pleaded with me to ask the universe to make One World a smash success. I thought it was silly at first, but I relented—Ruby’s hard to refuse, especially when pleading—and so I tacked up the logo of a prominent gaming blog onto the vision board. A few weeks later, I got a five-star review. Did I think the universe had answered my wishes? No, not in the least. Coincidence? Sure. Now, that’s something I can believe in. I have a degree in computer science from Boston University, so logic is the ruler of my world. Trusting in the universe is a heartwarming idea, but I’m a bigger believer in hard work, determination, and a sprinkle of talent.
A game designer needs to understand computers the way a general contractor must know all facets of building a house, which is why it took a team of people to put my game together, but now I manage the code and servers on my own. Anyway, the bloggers seemed to like the idea behind the game. Players are tasked with building the coolest, biggest, most awesome virtual world possible without pillaging One World’s limited resources. Oh, and you’ve got to do all this while battling marauding hordes of zombies, who come out only at night.
There was a time, not that long ago, I couldn’t muster the energy to get out of bed. I just lay there, hearing Brooks’s screams as he fell to his death. Dark years. Ruby plastered the vision board with every image of health and happiness she could find. Three weeks later, Ruby found a flyer for a local acupuncturist in the mail and urged me to give it a try. The results were so astounding that Ruby decided to quit her job as the in-house graphic designer for a finance company to concentrate on becoming an acupuncturist herself. I encouraged her to do it. We could squeak by on one income for a while. It’s amazing how far a few judicious cuts can take you.
Ruby returned and got her study materials together, but I wasn’t done trying to woo her into bed. I started rubbing the soles of her feet.
“Hmmmm,” Ruby said. “That feels nice.”
I removed Ruby’s cotton socks and dug my thumbs gently against ten years of jogging calluses. Ruby cooed some more, and I kept on massaging. I thought about the number—one hundred twenty-three thousand registered players—and couldn’t help but imagine how a million would alter our lives. I wondered if Ruby and I would start a family sooner than our current post-school thinking.
Brooks Hall would never have children, and I might. “Where’s the fairness in that, dear universe?” I switched from the right foot to massage Ruby’s left. My thumb traveled from the toes and finished at the heel. But my fingers brushed against something strange. A sensation that felt surprising to touch. I ran my thumb over the offending area again, and still again.
“Hey, the rest of my foot is getting jealous,” Ruby said, shaking it.
I raised Ruby’s leg and shifted position to get a better look at the underside of her foot.
“What is it?” Ruby asked. A touch of alarm seeped into her voice.
I went to the kitchen and grabbed the penlight flashlight I used to build or repair my computers. When I returned, Ruby was sitting on the floor cross-legged, examining the bottom of her foot. I got down on my knees and took a closer look with the penlight. Ruby’s eyes were wide, dancing nervously. I knew she hated when I went silent on her.
“What’s going on?” Ruby asked again.
“Have you seen this dark patchy area before?” I asked her. “Do you have any idea how long it’s been there?”
“I’m not checking out the bottom of my foot every day, if that’s what you’re asking. John, you’re scaring me.”
“I don’t like how this looks,” I said.
I had reason to be concerned. Mountaineering exposed climbers like myself to a greater degree of ultraviolet