Wake Up, Dave
Chapter 11
Ordinary Orbit
1,436 Words
8 Min Read
18 Sept 2026
[SQUEAK]
Saturday morning doesn't need a speech.
Two alarms?exactly what I set Friday night after the fair. The first [TRING]s; I kill it. The second winds up; I silence it before it peaks. Same double protocol, different day. From Monday I'm going back to one. Today I still owed the pair a wake.
I sit up and put my feet on the floor like the floor is a launch pad that only works if I use it.
Pocket card on the desk. Cleanup gloves dry and weirdly noble. Map notes. Torn bag slumped like a defeated sidekick.
I don't whisper "wake up" again. Last night already said it. Today I have to mean it with breakfast.
Kitchen. Pancakes. Mom's spatula clicks like a soft metronome.
"Fair hero returns," Dad says from behind the newspaper, deadpan.
"I smelled like trash bags," I say.
"You smelled like effort," Mom corrects, and slides a plate toward me. "Eat. Then we talk about that bag."
The bag.
I've been treating the tear like weather?something that happens to me. Last night's reflection in the classroom window didn't look like weather. It looked like a kid who stayed. Staying might include fixing what keeps ripping.
"Okay," I say.
Dad's newspaper dips. Approval without a parade.
I eat standing again, then force myself to sit for three bites because sitting is also a choice. Imagination tries to turn the syrup into plasma trails. I let it for ten seconds, then park it. Not forever. Just not as the whole morning.
[ZIP]
The zipper fights me like always. I win half the track, lose the rest, and dump the bag on the table.
Mom produces a needle kit from a drawer that apparently contains every adult solution I pretend doesn't exist. "You hold. I stitch. Or you stitch and I hold. Pick a mission role."
"I stitch," I say, surprising myself.
The needle is tiny and mean. Thread keeps escaping. My first three attempts look like a dreadnought repair done by a raccoon. Mom doesn't take over. She narrates angles like Leo narrates thruster upgrades?patient, technical, weirdly kind.
Leo texts while I'm stabbing fabric: Saturday sim? Or are you still famous for garbage?
I type with my non-needle hand: Bag first. Then sim. Don't leave me flying solo.
He sends a thumbs-up so fast it feels like he was waiting with his finger already on the icon.
The fourth stitch holds. Ugly. Working. Same report I gave Dad last night, now in thread.
When we finish, the tear is a scar instead of an open wound. Still my bag. Still not designer. But it closes.
I run a thumb along the stitches. They itch already. Proof does that.
[THUP]
I set it down like it might change its mind.
Afternoon. Leo's house. Carpet cockpit. Controllers.
We fly the Vanguard through an asteroid field that used to be my favorite kind of lying to myself. Today the lying feels thinner. I still love it. I just notice the edges.
"You were quiet at the fair," Leo says between waves. "Quiet-good, not quiet-disappear."
"I stayed," I say.
"I know. I was there. Sticky. Proud. Slightly traumatized by cup mountains."
We laugh. The laugh docks clean.
On the next wave I almost freeze when a rock cluster fills the screen?old habit, Ch1 freeze dressed as a game. Leo doesn't grab my controller. He just says, "Burn left," and waits.
I burn left.
We clear it. No montage music. Just two kids and a screen and a choice that took half a second longer than it should have.
After the win screen, Leo elbows me. "Monday. Cafeteria. Sit where people can see you for five minutes. Not a speech. Just? orbit."
My stomach does a micro-asteroid flip. "Why?"
"Because Invisible Seat is a system error," he says. "And you said your name out loud this week. Systems notice."
I want to vanish into a comic panel. Instead I nod. "Five minutes."
"Engineering accepts," he says, grin soft.
Walk home. Sidewalk cracks. Bag scar holds. Sky going the color of cooling engines.
I pass the school gate even though I don't need to?habit loop. Courtyard is empty now, fair ghosts gone. In my head I still see Amber's wave: See you Monday, Dave.
Monday has my name in it. That used to sound like fiction. Now it sounds like a checklist item with teeth.
At home Mom asks if the bag survived. I show her the scar. Dad nods once from the couch like I've filed a successful maintenance report.
Night comes early because Saturday nights always do when you're tired from being brave in boring ways.
I set one alarm. Not two. Not theater.
Pocket card under the pillow edge. On the blank side I write, small:
Mon ? 5 min visible. Bag closed. Homework before comics.
Three lines. Kid-sized war.
Imagination tries to upgrade it into a galactic treaty. I let the upgrade play for a minute?Vanguard bridge lights, amber warnings cooling toward green?then shut the fantasy hatch with a breath.
"Ordinary orbit," I tell the dark. "Hold course."
I sleep. No asteroid dream. Just the soft knowledge that Monday will ask for a smaller courage than Friday, and that smaller might be harder.
[TRING]
Monday.
Bus. Leo saves the seat. I sit before the second thought can invent a delay.
"Five minutes," he reminds me, like a co-pilot reading a checklist.
"Copy."
School hallway. Designer backpacks. Cologne. Ryan's laugh somewhere?weather, not weather-control. Maya's pastels flash from a locker collage. Bro says "bro" at a jammed hinge and somehow helps.
Body part 4 of 5:
I keep walking. Bag closed. Scar visible if anyone cared to look. Nobody does. That's fine. The repair wasn't for them.
[RING]
First period. Ms. Carter's eyes find me for half a second?not a trap, a continuity check. I meet them. Then look at my notes.
Between classes I almost take the long route past the quiet corner of the courtyard where Invisible Seat used to live rent-free. My feet try to negotiate a treaty with cowardice.
I take the short route instead.
Cafeteria. Noise like a crowded hangar. Leo gets trays. I stand with him in the open for a count that feels like an hour and is probably ninety seconds.
A kid from ticket-booth orbit?someone who saw me with gloves?nods. Tiny. Real.
Amber appears in the line two people back, hair clipped, tray empty. "Hey, Dave. Bag's less tragic."
"Field repair," I say.
She almost smiles. "See you at booth shift signup later? Optional. Not a trap."
Optional. Not a trap. My brain files both under suspicious and hopeful.
"Maybe," I say, and hate how small it sounds, then add, "I'll look." Better. Not perfect. Open channel without full throttle.
Leo bumps my shoe under the table when we sit. Docking complete.
Five minutes become seven because leaving on an exact number felt like gaming the mission. I stay until my tray's empty. Then I go to class like a person who exists in hallways on purpose.
World History. Ryan slides a joke toward my desk?cleanup captain?soft enough that Ms. Carter won't catch it, sharp enough that I do.
I don't vanish.
I write one extra sentence on the Silk Road worksheet that isn't required: ideas travel farther when someone carries them on ordinary days.
Ms. Carter collects papers. Her eyebrow lifts at mine. "Keep that habit."
Keep. Habit. Not hero. Better than hero.
After class Maya says, without looking fully at me, "Your fair signs were less pastel than mine. Still readable." Soft missile. I'll take it.
Ryan pretends not to hear. Bro says "bro" at my repaired zipper like the zipper did something athletic.
Last period study hall. I open homework before comics. The comic waits on the desk corner like a loyal dog. I pet it with my eyes and do the math set first.
Numbers behave. My brain wants drama. I give it none.
When I finish, I allow ten pages of space war as reward?earned, not escaped into. The difference sits in my chest like a new instrument reading.
[BELL]
Bus home. Leo reviews the day like engineering QA. "Visible: pass. Bag: pass. Homework-before-comics: pass. Booth signup: pending."
"Pending is not fail," I say.
"Pending is a thruster warmup," he agrees.
[SQUEAK]
Home gate. Mom smells less trash, more school. Dad asks how the ordinary orbit held.
"Mostly," I say. "Ryan weather. Amber maybe. Leo solid. I didn't disappear for five minutes. Then seven."
Dad's newspaper lowers all the way. "Seven's a good number."
Night. Pocket card. I check the three lines. Two done. Booth signup still blank.
I don't force a heroic decision in the dark. I write under the blank:
Look tomorrow. Don't decide from bed.
Then I set one alarm again.
In my head the Vanguard doesn't roar. It just holds a quiet course through ordinary space?no dreadnoughts required for a Monday that stayed.
The war against my own laziness isn't a fireworks episode.
It's this: stitch, sit, stay, study, return.
amber to green?not a leap. A click.
I turn off the lamp and let Monday's small win be enough fuel for sleep.
Tomorrow will ask again.
I'll try to wake up for that too.