Lately I’ve been hearing the sound of feet on a treadmill. As much as I wish they were my feet, they aren’t. In fact, I hear feet on a treadmill in the middle of dinner, on my way to work, at the grocery store and in bed before I fall asleep. The feet are running and running. There is the smell of rubber tread, sweat, fear, but most important is the rhythm those feet make.
I am probably out of my mind. I’m okay with that. In fact I insist that I’m at least partially nuts. But the feet. The sound. They’re saying a name over and over, in a drumbeat that says, “Miranda, Miranda Baxter. Miranda, Miranda Baxter…”
I follow the sound in my mind to a laboratory and there is Miranda Baxter. She’s running on a treadmill. The doctors have taken away her name. The mutants have taken her humanity. “Who am I?” the foot steps whisper. “Miranda, Miranda Baxter. Miranda…”
“What am I? Miranda, Miranda Baxter. Miranda, Miranda Baxter.”
The Mutant, R-4, is with Miranda in the laboratory. There are scars and burns on him. He could attack the people who hurt him, but he won’t because they would punish Miranda.
Now there is another name being sung to the rhythm of Miranda’s feet on the treadmill. “Riley, Riley Fortune. Riley, Riley Fortune.” She has given R-4 a name. “Riley, Riley Fortune. Riley….”
Miranda and Riley have a long way to go. Their adventure has barely begun, and yet it is already as ancient as thought and free will.
I wonder what I am going to hear tonight when I’m waiting to sleep.