The family laughed as little George, the youngest Walton, tottered down the hill to the campsite. The waves splashed on the lake’s shore, the smell of charred marshmallows rising from the slowly dwindling fire; the family’s weekend retreat was always an adventure. As the sun set on the small campsite, the family retreating to their tents, they lay content for a while before falling asleep, knowing that the same adventure would await them the next weekend, and every one after that.
“Come along now, children!” Mr. Walton called, “everyone pile into the hovercar!”
The family, still laughing and playing as they went, all hopped into the side door, one after the other. The car whizzed away, the inertial dampeners cushioning the brisk motion of their ascent. George wondered, not for the first time, why they would have to leave? Why couldn’t the family camp there all day, living happily ever after? The moment soon passed, however, as George joined the family in their favorite roadtrip song, “99 Bottles of Pop on the Wall.”
Back at the Walton residence, George settled into the small chair in his room. Well, it wasn’t really his room: it had to be shared with all the other five Walton children. He looked out his small window, sad to see that the sky remained its monotone yellow haze, rather than the bright, vibrant blue of the campsite. He was just settling into his melancholy when his mother called from the next room.
“George!” Mrs. Walton’s shrill voice rang throughout the house, “school time!”
George sighed, dragging his feet as he walked to the door. School again, he thought, not for the first time.
In his classroom, George sat quietly, content to read his book quietly as the other children finished their work. George had finished his worksheet first, as usual, so he felt that the right thing to do was not to cause a disruption.
“George!” called the teacher, not for the first time, “just what do you think that you’re doing?”
The other children laughed.
“I’m reading my book, Miss.”
The teacher marched over, taking George’s book. “Exactly what good will this do you, George?”
“I like reading, Miss.” The other children laughed louder.
“Why won’t you learn, George?” demanded the teacher, “to be a good citizen…”
The rest of the class finished her sentence for her: “you have to work hard in the factories.”
“And to work well in the factories…”
The class finished the sentence again: “it’s best not to think that you’re smarter than the Directors.”
“Sorry, Miss,” George muttered, putting down his book.
Back at home, George sat with his parents and siblings for dinner. Not for the first time, George asked his parents why they had moved the whole family out to the Attempt? Why, when their room was so small, their family ration so little; when the sky was so smoggy, the ground covered in garbage, and when the schoolteachers were so mean? Why would we live here, George asked, when this was clearly no way to live?
For the first time, his parents answered him seriously: “structure, George. We needed structure. The rest of the world can’t give you that -- it’s too random, there are too many decisions. Here, we just get to live.”
George started on his next question, not for the first time, but Mr. Walton cut him off.
“Eat your peas, Georgie.”