Page 7 of Wayfarers

They said the only path to purity was to be

absolutely free and the only way

to achieve that was to never stay

put. To be still was how

the Beast caught you and chewed

you up in its teeth. Made you

servant to glowing screens and ephemeral signals.

Sapped your will. Robbed you

of your untamed birthright.

So maybe a couple of months at a commune

in Arkansas, then picking avocados in California

until we had just enough money for a rebuilt

Jasper V8 that Ratchet and Hawk would drop in one

of our two RVs, then working for cash off the books

as day laborers in Florida or selling firewood in Louisiana

or weed and shrooms in Wyoming for gas money

to the next place, the next place, the next place.

Never an entire season anywhere. No addresses.

No phones. No tablets. No ID cards. No school. No government

records. No bank accounts. No real names. No vaccines

that would put microchips in our blood that the Beast

could then use to track us. We didn’t need much; we could subsist

on what the larger society—the masses of servants and drones—

discarded in their dumpsters and thrift shops

and donation bins. We would simply take what we desired

from the places that briefly employed us—

bleeding the Beast. We were free

of all bonds but for the shackle of unfettered

freedom. All this liberty was like air.

You need it to live, but too much of it