“You must hold them all. Hurry! Every
second counts.”
The wind yanked objects away just as I
got close. That imaginary cat’s playing with
me like a toy mouse, I thought.
I’m not used to running. Who runs on
Earth now? Too much danger of falling or
colliding with someone else. But each pound-
ing heartbeat meant one less second to finish
this impossible task.
So I ran, chasing things down one at
a time, frantically stretching for anything
within reach. Once, I even jumped to grab
a piece of paper. (Wish I’d remembered to
bend my knees when I landed.)
A worse jolt was discovering that grab-
bing one thing often meant dropping another.
Finally, I tucked things under my sweater, the
smallest ones under my hat. Moving became
harder, but I stopped losing things.
The buzzer sounded. The fans stopped. I
was two items short. Worse, when I handed
in what I had, the examiner said, “You didn’t
ask permission to use the protective gear that
way.”
Over my stammered apology, he told me
I had fifteen minutes to report to the rain test
room.WEATHER TEST #3: RAIN
Believe me, the weirdness of a sweater and
hat is nothing compared to anti-rain gear.
The “raincoat,” made of shiny, stiff fabric,
covered my clothes. The too-large “boots,”
also sleek and shiny, went on my feet.
Imagine a stick with a bunch of thinner
ones spreading from the top and covered in a
fabric to make a meter-wide waterproof circle.
That’s an “umbrella”—a portable roof I held
over my head.
All this equipment would keep me
(mostly) dry, I figured. Which was a relief,
because like practically everyone on Earth,
I’d never been wet. With sonic cleaners, why
waste water?
The door slammed shut. The floor was
uneven, almost bumpy in spots, and still slick
with water from the previous test. Listening
for directions, I walked into the center of the
room. Instead of the simulated rain, a familiar
purr began.7