Rigalios de Pequeñón #1

“Has the program started showing yet” Jun’s younger brother asked, skidding his slippered feet along the avocado tiles from dining room to kitchen.
The older teenage girl, his older sister, opened the lower compartment of the honey-gold refrigerator and crouched to sift around the contents inside. “Haven't even turned on the television set yet.”
The boy through his arms up in the air in dismay. “Why haven't you switched it on yet?”
Whipping her dark brown curls out of her face, she rose from the freezer and slammed the honey-gold drawer shut with her foot. In her hands was a bag of frozen pizza bites. “Nothing comes between me and my lunch.” She followed up this statement with an attempt to pry open the stubborn bag which soon devolved to her chomping down on the bag and pulling with her teeth,
A goofy grin snuck up along the twelve-year-old’s face, finding sadistic amusement in the spectacle. “Nothing keeps you from lunch, huh?”
She puffed passive-aggressively from her nose as she tore the bag open with a profound yank back of her head before removing the thing dangling from her clamped teeth. “Why are you still in your pajamas?”
The boy shortly scrutinized his clothes. Had the weekend plans brought him into the nearest town, about a twenty-five minute drive northwest over the hills, he would have dressed for the day. But being that this was a stay-at-home type of weekend morning, here he was into the noontime with his space-glob green button-up nightwear.
It was such an insignificant response, her little brother genuinely glancing over his clothes. And yet she found it hilarious. It was as if he had not even noticed he was still in his sleepwear.
Ken pulled his attention up to see her freckled russet-bronze nose crinkle, a tell that informed the younger boy she was holding back a giggling fit as she opened up the wood-styled spacemaker microwave oven above their gas stove and overturned the bag, pouring a pile of the bite-sized snacks with a series of ice-hard ‘clunk-clunk-clunks’.
“It’s 2:30, by the way.” She finally had the steady breath to say seriously—a straight-up lie to bug him with. Through the corner of her eye’s she keenly observed him dive his hands into his jet-black mullet.
“We missed it!” his pre-teen voice cracked worriedly.
“Nah, just kidding.” Jun slammed the microwave oven and twisting the timer for five minutes
She had on a faded denim jacket with leather images imprinted on it; orange poppies imprinted in the front and, on the back the seal of a Tyrannosaurus Rex with a mane of yellow flames in a roaring pose as if seconds from charging with a motto underneath reading ‘Born by luck, blessed by mercy, chosen by justice’. It had originally belonged to Izadora, an older cousin on their father’s side who got it as a souvenir during a visit The Zoo of Extraplanetary Wonders in Rigalios.
Jun spun around to lean on the island counter and look directly at her brother, pulling back a sleeve for the gray analog wristwatch she received as a holiday present—the one with the bitchin' solar cells. And finally answered. “It's five till.”
Kin rushed toward the family table in the adjacent dining room without another word.
Jun not removing her chin from her resting elbow, traded glances with her sizzling snack and her brother’s browsing over the dinner table.
The preteen found a novelty kettle shaped like the Southern Ness Tortoises that migrated to the warmer shores from the planet’s southern polar region. The island that grown onto this one’s shell had two palms acting as a handle and a neck and mouth acting as the spout. Also on the table was the porcelain figurine of a young princess acting as the centerpiece. It had belonged to their late abuela, who was very religious and had bought and painted the thing while she had enjoyed weekly tea-and-craft time with her other elderly friends.
One thing was missing from this table. Exactly the thing Kin was searching for. He was even tempted to hoist the tablecloth to check underneath, despite knowing it would not be there.
Jun was way ahead of him, “Mom stowed it behind the jars while replacing the cloth.”
Like The HMSS Lightning, a spaceship belonging to Mighty Matolez, the titular character of his favorite racing cartoon show, he zoomed onto the barstool at the corner of the kitchen counter so fast he rotated thrice on top of the thing. He pushed away the jars of rice, peppers, corn, flour, sun-dried tomatoes revealing the small box television he was searching for nestled deep into the corner. Kin scooted pull the thing out so that he could better access it.
“Why didn’t you write the number down the last time the program aired?” His older sister wondered, crossing her arms. An electronic bell chimed the finishing timer on the microwave oven. With her tongue sticking out she pulled out a plate from a darkly-glossed wooden drawer.
“I didn’t think to...again.”
“Didn’t have any trouble remembering the number when you stole mom’s credit card to order those swatches!”
“That was long ago!” Kin’s face would’ve begun to softly steam if it were biologically possible.
“Yeah. Like five years!” With a ready plate and a big cheesy-scented whiff, the teenager positioned her hand and transferred the pile of slightly burnt bites from the microwave to her plate with a silent ‘New home. Ouch, hot!’
“That’s 45 years in boy time!” Kin mumbled to himself, switching ‘ON’ the upper knob marked ‘POWER’.
“Spiraling Space Sprockets!” The hamfisted shouting of underpaid voice actors blaring from the television speakers proceeded to fill the kitchen. After five seconds of warm-up, the black screen faded into the image of bubbly-eyed cartoon dinosaurs.
Jun figured Kin had left the television on this channel from his morning binge, usually accompanied with chocolate grits. Kin, at his fragile age, wouldn’t admit it, though. A twenty-something woman in a leopard-print bikini flashed shrieking in a slow-motion sprint away from an exploding dogfight along a sandy shore; Kin’s attention pasted onto the screen like freshly dried crazy-glue.
Jun rolled her eyes. Clearly, her younger brother was in desperate need of an intervention. “Kinnie?”
Like the plunger of a pinball machine, his hand sprung for the lower of the two knobs numbered ‘0’ to ‘14’. He had muttered something about the network usually showing nature documentaries about other planets at this time while skimming through all the available channels. Although from Jun’s position she neither heard him nor saw the light blush forming on his face; she knew it was there.
The highest channel fizzled onto the screen before he starting his search backward with an irritated groan. “Which one is the news again?”
“You don’t remember?”
“I have no reason to leave channel 3 for the VHS and the Entertainment System, and channel 2 for the… evening wrestling.”
“And morning cartoons.” Jun made sure to add.
Mrs. Urlarez could be heard from the basement stairs, shouting as she ascended, “Channel 7 news is on Channel 7.”
“Oh yeah! Thanks, mom!” He turned the channel three notches up to that channel. “You’re going to watch the telethon too, right?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world… at least not this time!” The mother squeezed through the entryway from the hall into the kitchen, lugging two large plastic baskets full of wet laundry, a tangled coil of clotheslines, and a plastic zip-locking bag with a variety of chip clips with brands and cartoon characters on them. “Was just in the middle of some of the usual chores. Haven't missed anything, have I?”
“No, not yet.” Kin answered exuberantly. His the ambition and cheer in him was damn contagious. Not at all to underplay the altruistic desires of all the Urlarez family lately. But Kin’s heart for others matched his lack of money or perceived inability to act charitably, fed the engine of his yearning soul and resulted in a boy the most driven for this cause as his parents had ever seen of someone his age.
Speaking of engines, as well as parents, a rough purr along with the crackling of heavy tires over gravel could be heard outside. It could only be their father returning from town in the family’s Woodie Wagon!
Jun took her plate over to a window and parted the blinds to peek outside. Parked in the gravel driveway leading straight up to their garage, was a station wagon with a bulky gray frame and a wood-panel stripe along it. ‘The Woodie Wagon’ as they called it, belonging to the family since Jun was an infant.
“Oh, dad and the Newsboy both arriving at the same time. What timing!”
Some dude Jun vaguely remembered attending a class with, suited up in a postal-blue jumpsuit with The Pequeñón Post company logo of an atom with an exclamation point inside printed on the chest center, company logo, greeted her father with with a firm handshake and handing him a floppy disk the size of a beverage coaster from his shoulder-strap bag. It wasn’t the news-dude that impressed the sixteen-year-old as much as it was his ride. Parked on the dirt road directly in front of their home; the true candy for Jun’s eyes. A shimmering specimen of modern single-person transportation as only a major news media distribution company could afford for all the employees in their delivery service; A 50cc, hovering economy moped! The smooth modern design of the bubbly-rounded frame! The glossy darkly crimson finished with thin pale-grey stripes! Jun practically drooled with envy. And, watching newsfloppy delivery boy drive off for their neighbor's farm home and rice patty until out of sight beyond the fat palms, her eyes would have turned an emerald green, if it were biologically possible.
She had applied for a newsgirl position two summers ago only for the sole purpose of being able to hopping into one of those babies and drive around town on her own hover-moped. She was the most ecstatic in her young life when they accepted her for an interview! But when they only offered the positions making and receiving calls at the front desk or sorting the floppy disks by streets and addresses, she politely declined. Eventually, the local business discovered the boy they hired instead of her was two years underage when they investigated him suspecting he was using the vehicle outside of work. Perhaps it was karma, not her place to judge.
“Have an awesome piece of modern transportation just to outrun vicious pet lizards three hours a day?” Her head bobbed with so much sass. “No way, Jose!”
As if to punctuate her internalized statement, she popped two pizza bites mouthward. “Shuuut!” She attempted to cuss with a tongue juggling the searing snacks before launching them right back onto the plate.
“How was your trip, Herdanon?” The mother stepped over into his embrace as he entered the kitchen, and pecked a kiss on her cheek,
“Well, Claroza. I didn’t get abducted.”
She giggled in a whisper. “What a shame!”
The family man walked with his wife into the dining room to land a seat at the table.
He spotted his children huddled around the television set and checked his wristwatch with a hand on scratching his short hair, “Certainly we haven’t missed the fundraiser again, have we?”
“No” both his children shouted in near unison.”
“But you did set up our bank accounts, right?” Jun ventured to ask.
“I just visited First Interplanetary Bank to double check.” He grinned, “An account for Jun Urlarez and a joint account for Kin Urlarez, under his parent’s names, course!”
“Aww why a joint account?” Kin whined.
Jun graciously explained, “Because you’re twelve and not allowed to have your own account yet.”
He pouted, “That’s bogus!”
“It’s the law!”
Unlocking his suitcase, he produced a thick and bulky handheld device; a datapad--This one specifically for homework, work, and reading the newsfloppies. The family datapad was probably tucked hidden somewhere between the sofa cushions currently.
Holding down a large red ‘POWER’ button beneath the green tinted screen, the thing blooped its booting-up process, accompanied with the image of a 16-bit hourglass at the center of its LED screen. He gently tossed the thing onto the table in front of him with a heavy thud, causing the holy princess to jump and the kettle to ting softly.
The father lifted the tin tortoise and curiously peeked inside. Only a fifth of the lukewarm coffee left from breakfast. He turned to his wife, his eyes expanded in shock at having finally noticed all of the laundries she had been hauling. Had he really been that distracted? He scratched his head nervously turning to his children; one with his nose nearly touching the television screen and the other and the other sitting across the table from him with an untouched plate of steaming-fresh pizza bites playing with her tongue as though she had just burnt it.
“Children,” He announced. They adjusted their gaze towards him. “We are all going to hang laundry after this.”
“Sure thing dad!”
With a chime of the datapad, Mr. Urlarez’s afternoon ritual commenced. He inserted the pastel-blue floppy into the FDD with an audible shlink and the device proceeded to hummed softly as it read and upload the data.
“The mind-boggling wonder of laser technology.” The father recited an old radio advertisement he from some twenty-five to thirty years ago.
After four monotone bloops, a list of headline titles automatically appeared on the screen. At the top of every screen was ‘The Pequeñón Post’ on the right corner and ‘3-24-1993’. Several clicks down with the arrow pad and the list became subject categories such as ‘COMICS’, ‘SIGNS’, ‘JOBS’, ‘DEATHS’ etc. Mr. Urlarez highlighted and selected ‘STOCKS’ and, after a speedy five second load, found himself looking at another list of abbreviated company names. From this list he chose ‘TNZLSPL’, short for ‘Tanzal Supply’, which was the company he worked for as the Manager of three districts.
His wife scrutinized her man reading and calculating the numbers, financial formulas, and a collection of charts. He brushed over the Chevron mustache above his lips four or five times a frown sinking lower on his face each time his fingers moved away.
“Figured they dip a little.” She could have sworn was the words she had read silently hiding behind her husband’s lips.
It was something they had both feared; the overall trend in Tanzal’s stocks had been decreasing ever since the wave swept through the planet’s capital damaged two main foundries and multiple warehouses, and swallowed an undisclosed amount of expenses in lost product. Rumors of layoffs and other abrupt terminations had been circulating throughout the company. From what Herdanon had been told by an alien immigrant whom recently transferred to one of the mines under his leadership, this was the word spreading the company on neighboring planets as well.
Holding down the POWER button on the datapad closed the program and ejected the floppy from disk drive. Not wanting to even know the new’s existence, Mr. Urlarez unceremoniously tossed the disk into old plastic breadbasket above the refrigerator containing a collection of older NewsFloppies, The last two months wrapped neatly together with rubber bands, the recent weeks in an unorganized pile.

A hip-hop beat slammed on the television. A turntable record was screeching and screaming, and spinning and dancing throughout the ad was the disco and pop sensation to rock the nations, Zenn-Flo. An ungodly skinny individual with cream-pale skin and smokey black eyes like the charred stripes on healthy-grilled bird meat. A spiky head of curls glowed a bright orange above coal-black roots like embers under a barbecue.
Kin anxiously wiggled about on the rotating stool “Wish there was a way to skip commercials!”
“Dream on, buttmunch!” Jun snarked. “Never gonna happen.”
The music dipped in volume and overlaying the dancing was a voice that sounded either like a masculine woman or a feminine man depending on the listener. “Krystal Kleer is partnering with me, Zenn-Flo, and is a proud sponsor of the Seria Brite Foundation and the Tsunami Relief Fund.”
“Oh!” Kin exclaimed in shock. The ad was over a year old, but the narration dubbed over the dancing and music accompaniment was new.
Also new was Zenn-Flo’s involvement with Channel 7 News’s program.
“I heard about this in one of my magazines.” Jun pointed out.
This superstar constantly touring the clubs and underground disco and clubs of multiple metropolia within the solar system and now attending this weekly fundraiser Mr. Urlarez asking wondering, “When does Zenn-Flo sleep?”
Mrs. Urlarez humphed with the admission, “I still can’t tell if that Zenn-Flo is a girl or a guy.”
“He sings about taking his lovers out on a flight over the city in his song, ‘A Night in the Sky’” Jun pointed, “He has to be a dude!”
“Nuh-uh!” Kin rebuked, “Look at her! There are definitely boobs under that suit.”
“Kinnie!” His mother blushed. “Don’t talk like that until you’re at least sixteen.”
“What?” the pre-teen continued, “I’m just saying, she’s too hot to not totally be a chick!”
The mother looked again, Zenn-Flo did seem to have a prominent generousness under their flashy golden costume.
Finally, the commercial concluded with its usual jingle. “Fill your life with bubbly cheer! To drink like the stars, the choice is…” The jingle paused with a close-up shot of Zenn-Flo gulping the dark-red can of soda with its silver-circle lightening-font logo in clear view of the camera. “Krystal Kleer.”
Mr. Urlarez scratched the back of his neck. Between the ominous charts and the soda ad, he was thirstier now than when he had first returned from town. He rummaged around the refrigerator, plucking a gray aluminum can from the six-pack and gauging its temperature with the back of his hand.
“Damn machine doesn’t cool drinks anymore.” He griped to himself in a tone only his wife and daughter had picked up on.
They inconspicuously leaned in their ears towards him, listening to him scoop ice into a glass from the cupboard and pouring his drink without another word. Although the husband and father had never had drinking problems, he usually wouldn’t crack a cold one until the evening soccer game. Being this eager to break into the beer was concerning. For his girls now sharing a concerned look, this implied something sour on the family man’s mind.
Mrs. Urlarez straightened up and slightly slid the stool she was seated on. Her finger and opened her mouth to speak.
“It’s coming on!” Kin rose to his knees on the seat and leaning onto the counter.
His mother immediately repositioned her seat, zeroing her sights on her son, whose face was now inches from the screen.
“Oh, no you don’t” His mother walked over and tugged him away from the screen by the back of his azure cotton-polyester collar. “Your brain will rot out your eyes!”
After this, a silence fell upon the country-house befitting a temple in prayer. Thick in the atmosphere was an intoxicating reverence and pride. And a magnetic draw pulled the family towards their television set. They, in unison with countless other viewers on this planet and other planets, were eagerly awaiting participate in this program and aid this cause. Knowledge that swelled in their hearts with patriotism.
The image was black. If it wasn’t for the faintest buzzing from it could have been mistakenly assumed that the thing broke down again. Then, breaking the empty signal, a spokeswoman spoke solemnly with the gentle coo of a pigeon in her sugary voice. “For about 70 Millicredits, you could buy a can of soda; regular or diet.”
The unflashy white text reading, ‘A can of soda’ faded onto the screen and then faded out.
She continued, “For about 70 Millicredits, you could buy a cup of coffee; again decaf or regular.”
The same in-and-out fade of wording repeated for the words ‘A cup of coffee’
Next on the screen faded the image of a small boy with tears trickling down his cheek. He looked away somewhere left of the camera’s perspective. “For about 70 Millicredits a day, you could provide a child like Jaumal with a nourishing meal.”
With a transitionary fade, the text, ‘LIVE’ was now superimposed on the corner of the footage. Two hosts sat in a makeshift soundstage in what appeared to be en elementary school auditorium. On the left was Seria Brite, a cocoa-skinned philanthropist considered as generous in her body as she was in her soul and a large dollop of silvery-white curls melted down the side of her head. The host on the right was Zenn-Flo, in decidedly a much more appropriate uniform than the family expected, exemplified by what had been shown earlier. Without all the boogie and dancing, provided the Urlarez’s a better glimpse of their smokey-black eyeshadow and their pursed lips as deep red as the Mayridad flag. A dirty-faced little girl with enormous purple glasses was seated uncomfortably onto both of their laps.
Roughly carousing the girl’s long black hair with her two-inch-long artificial fingernails, Seria proceeded to speak, “On the first of Direphet, a tsunami swept our coasts displacing approximately four-hundred oceanside residents from their home, like this young darling here.”
“I wanna see my mommy.” The girl pointed to someone off-screen.
Seria cooed, “Ooh, she wants to see her mommy! Like so many other children whose family have seen the mercilessness of this disaster.”

The family had taken barely noticed how their house had been shuddering more than usual, already living in a lively region of the seismicly-active dwarf planet of Pequeñón. Mr. Urlarez had just received the NewsFloppy for that day and his mug of Deep Dark Roast-brand coffee, Mrs. Urlarez continued chugging through the post-breakfast dishes soaking deep within the suds of her sink, Jun had only adjusted the new tripod and camcorder she got for her birthday before resuming the recording of her spring break school report, and Kin put all his hovering racecars back onto his neon-orange looping track.
Then came that day, two-and-a-half weeks ago when these earthquakes finally culminated in a wave that swept along the eastern coast of Mayridad. At that time, Jun and her father had been on the roof making repairs while Kin was on his mother’s shoulders attempting to help her reach the sugar to surprise their favorite hard-workers with a full pitcher of an iced pineapple-mango drink. The quake began to knock spices off the shelves. It took the combination of both of their reflexes to catch the jars and bags and prevent sugar, spice, and totally-not-nice glass shards from spreading all over the pantry floor. Mr. Urlarez, however, had not been so lucky. The shaking hand knocked the ladder over with him on it. The sprained ankle resulting from this placed him on bedrest that following week.
Of the cities and towns on the Southeastern shore was the legendary metropolis of Rigalios, The planet’s official capital. Izadora had moved to that area years ago, she didn’t reside within downtown area or in any of the outside boroughs. Instead resided in a studio apartment in the further-landward Los Tlalnulos. But she did, however, mix and serve cocktails in evening shifts at Broken Coconut Island Lounge within the prestigious Marianna Resort, one of the major hotel resorts among many found on the capital city’s galaxy-famous Leisure Row.
The first day had passed. Mr. Urlarez, stuck in bed, kept a close ear on the phone when his family was away, to listen to answering machine in the hall as astutely as possible. Unfortunately, the only call of significance the majority of that week had been from his workplace. Among the docks flooded by the surge were three of the company main foundries and several of their warehouses. Mr. Urlarez was shocked. The receptionist continued to describe the millions of credits in ores, metals, materials, and varieties power crystals had been lost to the Mzulotlian Ocean.
A new day seemed to deliver no news to soothe the families aching worries. They began to dread the worst. That the next time that phone would ring, it would be either a city hospital, or the Planetary Guard.
Ring, Ring, Ring
All the family eyed the phone both like an albertadromeus in the headlights and month-starved raptors, before Mrs. Urlarez finally inched over to the thing and swallowing nervously, proceeded to lift the receiver.
“Oh Izadora!” She gleefully shouted. Of course, the entire family sprang to their feet to rush over, but nobody’s sprint was stronger than Mr. Urlarez. His sprained ankle be damned!
“Ouch, ow, ooh!” The man leapt from his bed and tore through the bedroom and down the hall, beating his children who were both closer to the phone and had a head start.
By the time he limped to his wife with a polite albeit shaky-spoken, “Excuse me, dearest!” He was fighting back tears.
“I was in the presidential suite,” She had recalled, “helping a bellboy with some luggage before clocking in.”
It was certainly a joy to learn that Izadora was alive, albeit strained in a hotel surrounded by water. However, helplessness and inability still choked them like a lump of sick in one’s throat. Feelings shared throughout the solar system, as described in political magazines. Then along came the Seria Brite Foundation to remedy them, announcing she would schedule a weekly fundraising telethon on Channel 7 News.

Now it was Zenn-Flo’s turn to read the teleprompter, expertly ignoring the little girl, who was curiously dragging her hand up and down the superstar’s boney feminine arm. “This elementary school’s stadiums and hallways are lined with tents housing the citizens of the Chezpote borough who have lost their homes to the surge. Without no food or running water, they have had to ration while they wait for supplies from The Maryidad Disaster Defense Corps.”
The shot returned panning the secondary school’s soccer field lined with rows of mud-stained tents to the duo.
“But you can help!” Seria added, “A donation of any amount, even 70 millicredits, can help us make a difference in lives of folks like this girl, here!”
Zenn-Flo smiled down towards the girl. “Wouldn’t you like that?
The girl stopped stroking the superstar's arm. “You’re as cold as ice.”
The star of indeterminant sex flashed an awkward grin of slightly yellowed teeth toward the live-recording camera and motioned his head towards some crew member behind the camera.
The program abruptly cut to a slideshow with the number in bold yellow at the bottom of the screen.
“Don’t wait!” Seria’s pre-recorded voice urged, “We will only be receiving donations for the next 20-minutes. Call now at 1-800-555-7143.”
“There it is!” Kin shouted, placing his finger on the screen.
Jun dropped a pencil and an entire stack of repositionable notes in front of the boy. Mrs. Urlarez picked up the receiver and began dialing.
“That number, again, is 1-800-555-7143.”
Kin frustratedly scratched out the incomplete number on the on the note. “I didn’t get it, again!”
Slamming her plate of cold bites down and wiping the sauce on her jeans, she scooted Kin’s stool out.
“1-800-555-7143”
The teenager scribbled briskly and neat logging both the entire name of the fundraiser and the number before the Seria’s final repetition and depositing sticking the adhesive note on the upper corner of the television.
“Now comes the waiting game.” The mother announced as she switched the phone to speaker mode, allowing the voom of electric drums and cool bouncing synthesizer blips to fill the kitchen
Jun placed a finger on her bites. Happy to learn that they won’t burn the inside of her mouth swollen now, tossing a bite into her mouth only to chew into the chilled saucy-cheesy filling.
Seria and Zenn-Flo reappeared on screen one final time with a new wide-eyed child on their lap. “We will still be receiving calls, but please enjoy this concert by Zenn-Flo.”
The pop-star whipped out a synthesizer and lifted straight into the air from the sound stage, soaring above the small audience by some wires assumably erased by an FX team.
Although Jun was fixed on her celebrity crush, sadly chowing on her unsatisfyingly tepid pizza bites, Kin had laid his head on the table, lifting and examining the porcelain figurine acting as the table centerpiece. He was vaguely familiar with the 20-centimeter depiction of some holy princess, but couldn’t name to save his life. With a pot named ‘Vida’ cradled in one hand and short trident outstretched in the other, she seemed kind of cool though, he wondered if she had used the three-pronged weapon in battle. A tiara dotted with flecks of turquoise settled like a golden bridge crossing straight sea-storm navy jettison of hair and complimented the beach-sand tan dress wrapped and hitched with knotted sail-ropes.
Images of his abuela painting the dress and sleepy expression on this figuring while gossiping with elderly ladies friends at a tea-fueled get-together, came to the bored boy’s mind. Mostly because he had only ever found figurines such as these in places where huge droves of the elderly congregated, especially the retirement home their abuela had eventually stayed at for her final months, which had an entire collection!
Kin was certain if had he the strong enough interest to do so, he could just ask Jun about myths behind them all. She loved to learn about things like that. She even spent a chunk of her younger summers biking to the nearby temple to listen to the monk’s scriptures and teachings, although she professed she had not necessarily believed any of them.

Ba-Da-Ba-Dum! They were finally connected. Knocking over chairs, the family scrambled back over to the phone.
“Hello.” An automated voice greeted. “You have reached the Seria Brite’s Tsunami Relief Telethon. Would you like to make a donation today?”
An irritated sigh escaped the mother.
“Is that a receptitron?” Kin beamed excitedly.
“What’s the deal, mom?” Jun ventured to ask.
“If they are going to hold a fundraiser, the least she could do is have living breathing humans man their phone lines! Especially considering how long it took for an answer!”
“The entire planet of viewers might be responding.” Her husband conjectured. “Multiple planets possibly!”
Finally the robot interjected, “Phone lines must be reserved for donations.” There was neither a tone of impatience or irritation; in fact, there wasn’t a tone at all, only a machine pre-programmed to present an informative reminder at a set amount of time of inadequate or undetectable responses. “Would you like to make a donation?”
Mrs. Urlarez seemed to become red in the forehead. “I would like speak to somebody else, please.”
The response was swift, “Transferring your call.”
“Thank Goodness!”
“Hello? You have reached the Seria Brite Tsunami Relief Telethon. Would you like to make a donation?”
“Swell!” She groaned melting into her barstool.
“Please, please, please! Let me speak to it!” Kin begged. Out a thirty minute drive the nearest village, the boy rarely got to personally interact with robots, usually being two Maid-bots his father would rent for his mother during cleaning seasons.
She glanced at the boy hesitantly before something inside of her caved “Alright.”
“Donation, please!” The boy immediately shouted into the phone.
“Minority detected. Immediate adult authorization required.”
“I need an adult.” Kin frowned towards his parents.
His father merely leaned towards the phone in his son’s hand. “I am an adult.”
“Adult authorization accepted!” the receptitron continued where it had left off, “You said, ‘Donation’. Is this correct?”
The boy giggled before puffing up his chest proudly with a very faux-adult “Yes.”
“Would you like to make the 70 Millicredit donation or a custom donation of some other amount?”
“Custom?” He passed another glance towards his parents, who silently nodded affirmatively.
“You opted for a custom donation. Is this correct?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Urlarez answered abruptly. “It’s like speaking with abuela when she lost her hearing.”
“Please state your donation amount.”
“25 credits.”
“You requested a twenty-five hundred credit donation? Is this correct?”
“...No.”
The mother struck her forehead with the palm of her hand. “Where did it even get hundred out of that?”
“Please state your donation amount.”
Mr. Urlarez stepped over and held out his hand. He worked very closely with robots in various aspects of his management job, especially above or within the mining sites and facilities of the three districts he oversaw in the local region.
“May I, son?” Urlarez was giving the phone. He pressed a button to deactivate Speaker Mode and placed the receiver against his ear.
“Yes, I’d like to make a 25 credit donation through the account of the Urlarez Family of Villa de Sol and another 9 credit donation through the account of Kin Urlarez of Villa de Sol.”
The receptitron comprehended smoothly and without error. "Please hold again while your transactions are being processed.”
With this statement, an encore of the tacky holding music made its return. Mr. Urlarez found smiled proudly at his success towards his family before actually opening his eyes and spotting two glaring faces belonging to his son and his wife. He shrugged at his boy, brushing into his puffy jet-black mullet and flicking at one of his freckled nose. A smile breached on the brown face full of freckles reminiscent of Hardanon’s own mother and grandfather.
He then looked straight into the eyes of his wife. “Brace for impact!”
She sat up straight, presenting her left cheek, “Landing pad ready for the approach.”
He snickered at the inaccurate piloting lingo, which caused her to raise her hand to hold back her own laughter.
She then straightened up and he returned to leaning in again.
“Ring, Ring, Ring! Video Call! Video Call!” Faintly echoed the obnoxiously high-pitched automated voice of the video-phone from his study on the third floor. Both of their eyes burst wide open, zeroing in on the depth each other’s fearfulness.
The looked at their children, who were now pretending to watch the jump-roping cheerleaders performing in the telethon. But the parents had spotted their children’s heads turning away for the television the corner of their eyes seconds before.
“Ring, Ring, Ring! Video Call! Video Call!”
The discord of noise from the technology in the kitchen hid the loud swallow of the father. He turned towards the hallway that would lead to the stairs and the study, then again to his family.
“It’s probably nothing.” She attempted, but even she didn’t believe herself. Only official calls were made by video; business, medical, and emergencies. The economic climate and the trend of the company’s stocks promised nothing good for Herdanon.
Jun had turned down the volume on the television.
“Ring, Ring, Ring! Video Call, Video Call, Video Call!”
The corners of Mr. Urlarez’s mouth pulled back, lips flattened casting a moue of hesitation over his face. With shoulders lifted high and tight he grabbed himself another tall can of alcohol. He exited through the kitchens entryway with a long draw of breath. His steps creaked out of the room up the stairs and into the study.
“Your transactions have been processed. Thank you for your donation! Goodbye!” Followed by a click and a dial tone.
“What’s is it?” Asked the youngest in the family clan, who detected the tension, and gauged that it was sourced on the possible video call from his workplace.
“I’ll tell you later.” His sister whispered from behind him as she hung up the receiver.
The next few minutes clocked by on their abuela's old grandfather clock in the hallway. But Kin and Jun’s mother hadn’t said a breath, but rubbed at one of her shoulders or scratched her elbow. Once or twice she looked herself over in a tiny mirror next to the kitchen exit into the hallway.
Kin could have sworn that from two floors up, it vaguely sounded like there had been a metamorphose from muffled speaking had into a sobbing and groveling.
‘Is dad crying?’
It didn’t sound like a bad question, but when his mother rose from her chair exhaling sharply as if she had been stung by a wasp, he immediately regretted having asked it. The children wisely stepped back as she stormed past them, grabbing the kettle. One loud clamber after another accompanied the hissing of the sink.
“Damn, damn, damn” she scrubbing into some plates. “Damn, damn, damn.” She scraped a metal pad into some pans. Then she picked up the kettle, “Damn, damn, d-”
Snap! The heirloom of their late grandparent’s retirement trip tumbled around in the hot water of the sink. The handle remained in her grasp.
“Mom.” Kin finally spoke up.
Mrs. Urlarez’s mouth and nose soured as if about to burst. Her body deflated until her head hid under her arms at the edge of the sink. Kin grimaced towards his older sister for some sort of cue, following her over to their mother prostrated against the sink. The warmth of her children’s hands landed on Claroza’s shoulder.
She giggled raising her head. “Mommy’s OK.”
The depth of solemnity on Jun’s continence remained. “Let’s hang up the laundry and get some fresh air.”