Albany, New York. November 1996.
Quiet…Got to be quiet…
Carefully, the ten-year old crept through his home. Tiptoeing up to the front door, he hesitated, pushing a lock of his blond hair out of his eyes. The flute-case rubbed against his back, the strap digging into his shoulders.
It was eerily silent in the single-story house, the quiet breathing of his parents drifting over to him in the velvety darkness. Rigel's face twisted.
Do I really want to do this?
No, he didn't want to leave his comfortable home. He was happy in this town, with loving parents, friends, and a dog. This life was all he knew, and all he wanted to know, for now.
But at the same time, he couldn't stay. Something was stirring deep inside him, something that filled his heart with warmth and resolve. Whatever that something was, it was making him leave.
No! I'm not leaving! I belong here, and I'm not going!
Rigel whirled and started to walk back to his room. Suddenly, the strange warmth jumped from his heart. Flying up his spine, it burst behind his eyes into a cacophony of images and voices.
Crops dying in dried-up fields, failed marriages, abandoned children, sickness, death, pain.
People needed him. He may not know why, or what he could do to help, but he had to go. He had to do something. Turning back to the door, Rigel opened the door, slipped outside, and closed it behind him. He walked down the driveway to the sidewalk.
Looking up one last time at his home, Rigel sighed. He began to run.
Somewhere in Mexico. Five years later.
Stretching, the wiry teen yawned. Unfolding himself from the little camping cot that the villagers had been so kind to let him use, he blinked. "Well, it's hot out." And so it was. The cheap little thermometer hanging by the small window was already up to the hundred-degree mark. The heat in the spare room would be stifling if he wasn't already used to it.
He swung his feet over the side of the cot. Reaching down, he picked up his only pair of blue jeans. They'd gotten small over the years as he had grown taller. Now, they looked more like capris then pants.
Oh well. Capris are practical around here anyway. It's not like it's going to snow anytime soon.
Pulling on his pants and worn T-shirt, Rigel stood. Looking around, he couldn't find his sneakers anywhere. That was strange. He was sure he'd put them right next to his flute stuff…
His eyes traveled to the black box case. That was still there, from when he'd put the flute back in after playing for those little kids at the church last night. Picking it up, he slung it over his shoulders. Making sure the room was neat and orderly, he strode outside. "Excuse me. Has anyone seen–"
WUMP!
Rigel walked into a young woman standing just outside where he'd slept. She immediately blushed, backing away and stammering. "S-so sorry, M-m-mister Kokopelli, sir." Rigel rubbed his shoulder. "It's okay. It was just an accident. Hey, you're Miss Rosa's daughter, right?" "Y-yes." He smiled. "Your mother was very kind to let me stay for the night." The girl blushed even more, her tanned skin turning pink. "It was nothing, Mister Kokopelli." "I wouldn't say that. I got a good night's rest because of your family's kindness."
The girl smiled. Then, she flinched, gasping. "Oh, I'd almost forgotten!" She pressed a pair of brown moccasins into his hands. "This is from us. My mother saw how worn your shoes were, and made these. Please accept them as thanks for bringing rain to our farm."
Rigel blinked, looking at the moccasins. "They're very nice." Bending down, he pulled them on. They fit perfectly. "Thank you very much."
After thanking the Rosa family for their hospitality, the blonde teen set out on his way. After an hour of walking, he lost sight of the farm. Sitting down on the side of the road, he thought for a moment. Where should I go next? There was always Texas or Nevada… but he'd already been there twice in three months. In fact, he'd been everywhere in the area in the past three months.
An idea soon struck. He'd go and check on his parents. After all, he had left so long ago. Yes, he'd go back to New York, and see how his parents were faring.
Getting up, Rigel pointed his face to the North and began to walk, whistling merrily.