Somewhere between Snake River Crossing and Fort Boise, my wagon wheel broke. This, in and of itself, was not a major concern, as I’d managed to wisely trade three hundred bullets for a spare from an Indian outside the general store at our most recent trail stop. We’d be moving again in a matter of seconds, that I knew, but the pace of the repairs were hampered by my notion that this setback was, perhaps, a sign. Gran still swelled with fever, curled up in the back, the damp rag on her forehead long dried from the heat that had beaten down on the canvas for days. That, coupled with an ox that had been visibly limping since morning, would normally have me setting up camp to rest for at least forty-eight hours. But, as the mess of black clouds that had clung to our tail began to peak over the horizon, I glanced over at our paltry supply, a mere shadow of the stockpile with which we’d left Independence at the beginning of our journey. Pa continued to doze, unfazed by the jolt and drag of the wheel collapse. Ma looked up from her sewing to offer a less than convincing smile before returning to her work, attempting to rejoin the mess of frayed threads that had once been Pa’s socks. And, as the lot of them disappeared behind the close of the front flap, I was left alone.

There was no doubt that each one of us would welcome the rest, but even with bare-bones rations there was no way the food reserve could be stretched over two more days. With only sixty-five miles left to go, I knew I could get us into Boise by tomorrow morning, if I kept us at a grueling pace. But with the trail ahead tricky and uneven, the slightest mistake could assure our arrival with a lame ox, a cracked axle, and a fresh corpse. So, here I was, a young man of twenty-seven, on the edge of a decision that would ensure either the survival of my family, or their annihilation.

That’s when the world went dark. So to speak, anyway. Save the drips of light spilling through the venetian blinds of the window on the far wall, and the glow of my laptop screen, the room was otherwise blackened. The heat kicked off in the utility room with a rather violent shudder, sending its final wheeze rattling through the air vents before it, too, joined the silence. My eyes, however, remained unmoved, locked onto the monitor that screamed back at me in bright neon:

The Oregon Trail (as crudely rendered in the Minnesota Educational Computing Consortium’s version 1.2) splashed across my corneas in all its two-dimensional splendor, thanks to a Windows 95 emulator I’d pirated some years before. But just before my fingers could rush to the aid of my beleaguered, pixelated kin, a soft knock pulled me toward the door. On the other side stood my mother, wearing an expression of desperation that one might expect to get from a prisoner on the opposite side of a glass partition.

“What are you doing in here?” she asked, speaking barely above a whisper.

“Just on the computer,” I nodded toward the device breathing hot air into a pillow on the narrow bed.

“Well, could you come out here and help me?”

The look in her eyes required no explanation. Following her out, I left my 1884 family hungry, tired, and stranded on the plains of Idaho.

The midday air hung heavy with gray, punctuated by flashes of green from outside the windows as neatly groomed shrubs and ornamental trees twisted in Hurricane Sandy’s gale-force harrumphs. The New Jersey coastline hadn’t seen a storm like the one meteorologists were predicting in over a century. Not knowing what to expect, I’d driven down the day before to help my parents ride out the storm in their new home on the Barnegat Bay. They’d moved in just four months prior, after Pa’s release from Columbia Presbyterian where doctors had removed a tumor, half of his pancreas, and a whole host of other digestive organs for good measure. The recovery thus far had been rather brutal, hampered by weekly infusions of atomic-grade chemotherapy that made it impossible for his system to heal from an already punishing operation.

With my father laid up, I’d spent the morning moving the cars to higher ground, tying down the porch furniture, and rolling the barbecue grill into the garage. Though we’d hoped the forecast was an exaggeration, doing nothing was too great a risk. So, when the power conked out for the third time and gave no inclination of an imminent return, our sullen brigade had piled into Pa’s Chrysler. And, as the bay churned in the rearview mirror, we’d heaved inland toward the relative comfort and warmth of the Holiday City Adult Living Community.

In the kitchen, my grandmother rooted through her fridge, evaluating the inventory from which to concoct a menu for her newly arrived company. I didn’t have to glance inside to know dinner would be an eclectic smorgasbord. By then, she’d all but given up driving and relied on bi-monthly visits from my aunts, who would take her grocery shopping and to one of the litany of doctors’ offices she frequented. Still, even if the shelves had been recently replenished, she wasn’t known for coming home with much more than some loose fruit and deli meat. We decided it’d be best to just lean into the mystery.

Ma called me over to the couch where Pa had taken up residence not long after our arrival. It being the only piece of furniture purchased after the Reagan administration, the cushion still had some bounce and thus was our best chance at maximizing his comfort. He’d already lost a good third of his original body weight (though we tended to round that figure down in front of him), so keeping warm had become a high-ranking priority, one that called for an increased effort with each passing day. My mother returned from the master bedroom with a stack of mothball-marinated blankets, and we set to work smothering his shivers, fluffing and tucking until he was nothing more than a head in the mouth of a paisley python. “Thank you, Maria,” he offered, lifting his eyes to her with love, gratitude, and, lately, a small measure of unwarranted apology. Her absolution came, as always, as she cradled his face and pressed her lips to his forehead.

I sidled up next to him, hoping that he might siphon some of my heat and began my watch so that Ma might find a quiet corner and a few minutes to herself. Instead, she set to work emptying the cabinets and proceeded to wash every single piece of upturned glassware that sat on the shelves.

“There’s nothing wrong with those!” Gran interjected with a slam of the refrigerator door. The woman, whose back had been turned almost completely toward the sink, had the twisting range and binocular vision of a desert owl.

“Ma, look at this!” My mother extended her hand, in possession of a juice glass with water stains that would’ve had Jackson Pollock consulting lawyers.

My grandmother snatched it from her grasp and scuttled off to hide it somewhere. She’d insist on drinking from that glass—and only that glass—for the duration of our stay just to prove her point.

Quietly seething at her inability to stop the unsolicited deep clean of her kitchen, she relocated to the mud-brown recliner in the family room, which she’d maneuvered earlier so that it was facing the couch. Settling in, she rested her chin on an upturned fist and proceeded to stare at her ailing son with wide, wet eyes that never blinked. This had become a habit of hers, ever since Pa’s diagnosis, and one that she felt she had a right to. Pa had learned from earlier protestations that engaging her on the matter would only result in a prolonging of the activity. So, in an effort to skirt the impending argument, he’d simply close his eyes and will himself invisible.  

In short order, he’d slip beneath consciousness with my grandmother following, as if she could trail him even in his dreams. I did my best to stay close for a while should Pa wake up in need of anything. It didn’t take long, however, for the five available channels of network television to be stretched to their absolute limits of entertainment. As the octaves of symphonic snoring deepened, I softly extracted myself and made my way to the living room. On the far side of the unlit reach, my mother stood silhouetted against the gauzy draperies, peering out at the sky, looking for any sign of the storm’s waning. Meanwhile, Sandy was merely settling in, raking her fingers across the aluminum siding and thwacking the metal doorknocker like an uninvited and most unwelcome guest.

Back in the guest room, I lifted the lid of my computer to find my fictitious family of pioneers just as I’d left them: still hungry, still tired, still stranded, and desperate for instruction or intervention from a higher power. Somewhere there, between human and human representation, between design and configuration, it became increasingly difficult to separate the real from the simulation. Both scenarios were inordinately randomized. Both were seemingly subject to the rules and limitations of a game of someone else’s creation. Both were preset at levels equally severe. And, if the musk from the bed sheets were any indication of the last time they’d been changed, both shared a certain aromatic unpleasantness. The most apparent difference for my trail-going faction was that, with the stroke of a few keys, I could bring about salvation. For one family I could right the course. I could make things better.

And with a flick of the space bar, that’s exactly what I did. Into the evening, again and again, I ferried my simulated kin through the hills and pitfalls of 2D terrain toward a new life. With each reboot, my skills grew sharper and my sight grew blurrier until eventually the true task became discerning what was real and what was the game.

Weather: rainy
Health: fair
Food: <5 pounds
Next landmark: 57 miles 

By night the power had returned and, thanks to the foresight of city developers who’d buried the lines, it would stay that way. Sandy continued to air her grievances out in the streets. I pounded the dirt, pulling my wagon down the ridge toward Soda Springs for what must’ve been the twenty-fifth time. I was quickly becoming an expert at  nineteenth-century pioneer life—at least the interpretation as presented by the MECC. Not since mid-afternoon had I unintentionally stewarded a family member to their death and, thanks to my sharpshooter’s eye, I’d hunted more than enough game to ensure no one’s portions would be meager. The strategy was pretty simple: maintain a grueling pace; rest two whole days for every passenger who falls ill; ford every river unless it’s deeper than your oxen are tall, in which case caulk the wagon and float. That was it. Grueling pace, rest times two, ford or float.

Outside my fortress of solitude, grueling took an altogether different form, one more emotional than motional. In the den, Ma straddled the arm of the couch watching to make sure my father guzzled down every sip of his protein shake. Her eyes glossed over as she deflected my grandmother’s repeated objections to the fact that Pa had elected to sleep on the couch that night. Convinced that he would surely turn over in his sleep, tumble to the tile and shatter into a million pieces, her offerings of the master bed nonetheless were met with polite but unyielding rejection. And so, gathering up her powder blue nightgown, she marched off in a cloud of indignation, returning minutes later to line the floor with bath mats and throw pillows.

Dinner that night was about as rough-hewn as predicted and edible in only the most abstract of terms. At the center of the table sat a paper plate upon which towered a stack of bread slices, each one a different hue, shape and level of freshness; each one clearly the individual butt end of loaves that had once been but were no longer. Pulling a selection from the top, Ma packed its concave center with a few tomato slices and a whole bunch of hope. To my right—and to my amazement—my grandmother worked her way through a dish of over-nuked baked beans and lettuce leaves as if it were the most normal thing in the world. The three of us ate quietly, filling the void with percussive ice clinking and the rake of our forks.

From the communal plate, I snatched what appeared to be a semi-soft shard of Swiss cheese and clamped it between my molars. Applying an unanticipated amount of pressure, I broke through the skin with only the briefest of seconds to celebrate my victory before the force of the rebound snapped my head back against the wall. In the living room, my father turned his face downward in an attempt to bury his chortles into the blanket cocoon. Even Ma had to shove another slice of bread in her mouth to muffle the laughter. Whatever the genesis, the comedy was a welcome relief, an unlabored breath. It felt good to help, even in the most insignificant of ways. So, as I rubbed the back of my head, I proceeded to gnaw on my cheese with the subtly of a Labrador, hoping for an early checkout come breakfast.

Weather: cloudy
Health: fair
Food: 0 pounds
Next landmark: 4 miles 

As a touch of blue began to seep into the gray of the morning sky, Sandy departed, leaving only a stiff breeze in her wake. Out in the street there wasn’t so much as a single branch askew or a roof shingle displaced from the stretch of prefabricated, mass-produced single story homes that could’ve doubled for game pieces on a Monopoly board. It was a typical October day, a new game. The world had hit restart. 

Inside, Pa waited on the couch, watching Ma empty concerned whispers into her phone as she pinged back and forth across the room. Next to him sat a neat pile of sheets and duvets that he’d clearly folded out of great optimism the moment he’d awakened. That optimism would be tempered by word from their neighbors that the houses on their block remained without power. And with no power, there was no heat. And with no heat, there was no going home. The three of us stood in a vacuum for an indeterminate amount of time, perhaps hoping that our concentrated effort might will a solution out of the air. Revelation by osmosis is impractical. The cold hard facts pointed toward an indefinite extension of our stay, tossing my mother and I right into survival mode. And as the familiar smack of house slippers echoed down the hall and sent our ears to throbbing, we hugged Pa, vaulted into our coats and leapt for the car.

When on the Oregon Trail, it’s sometimes necessary to leave your kin to fend for themselves in order to serve the greater good. When provisions wane, the able-bodied break off from the path and use their wits to track and hunt game: whatever it takes to keep their clan in the bacon. In that moment, driving down Highway 9, my mother and I were similarly tasked. There being no discernible greater good than laying our hands on sustenance that would see us through at least the next few days, we sailed past empty strip malls and through desolate intersections in search of perishables that had yet to pass their sell-by dates. Radio reports squawked about power restoration in patches of town that included stores, some of which had already re-opened their doors for business. Without much knowledge of the landscape, our north star became the traffic signals, lifeless and colorless and about as useful as charms on the arms from which they swung. That is, until a clap of bright green announced that we’d stumbled our way onto a section of the grid with some juice.

Under the emerald beacon, our wagon deposited us into a Shop Rite parking lot whose already limited capacity suggested we were far from the only settlers in dire straits. Managing to squeeze into a narrow corner spot, we made our way toward the entrance, zigzagging through carts that flung themselves erratically like loosened cattle. Their drivers, too far out of earshot, craned their necks as they wrenched open their trunks, sharing clandestine reports with passersby who would then break into a sprint. Sure enough, inside, a melee was in full swing. Bleary-eyed staff fielded queries and grew extra sets of arms, doling out guidance to the hungry, the crazed, and the sweat pant-ed. Down each aisle, shoppers plucked from half-empty shelves, not even looking at what it was they’d just thrown in their baskets. Apparently, word was the storm had stalled all incoming supply trucks and the stores had already taken a major hit from doomsday preppers in the days leading up to its landfall. With the next shipment not scheduled to arrive until midnight at best, Ma and I shared a look that said “Damn the carts” and peeled off in opposite directions.

When on a hunting sojourn away from your encampment, rules still apply. Though you may be flush with ammunition, it’s important not to be overzealous, as no matter how many kills one may amass, none may carry more than one hundred pounds of meat back to their wagon. As such, pragmatism must always remain a guiding principle. Sidestepping screaming toddlers and narrowly avoiding a concussion from a wayward swinging door in the freezer section, I traversed the aisles, stacking up my kills. Over one shoulder I flung an economy-sized bag of Colossal Crunch, over the other a pack of frozen boneless honey barbecue wings, steaming like a fresh carcass. Under each armpit sloshed a gallon jug of Diet Peach Snapple. The more I picked up, the more my run slowed to a waddle, leaving myself more and more vulnerable to hazards that sprung like weeds.   

However, now and again detours can drop you exactly where you didn’t know you needed to be. 

After dumping my haul and taking another frantic pass, snatching up some chips and salsa in the process, we piled our spoils into the wagon and sped home to rescue Pa from the elements to which we’d left him exposed.  

Triple-bagging each hand, I elbowed open the front door to learn we’d arrived not a moment too soon. “Ma, stop staring at me!” my father’s frustration rattled the tchotchkes and sent the clocks in the hall chiming out the hour. We filed into the kitchen, the shish of the shopping bags on the counter proving to be the exact diversion necessary to defuse a shouting match he’d never win. Immediately, my grandmother’s ears pricked up and sent her shuffling from her perch in the living room. She proceeded to fuss about the two of us, bemoaning our need to go shopping and taking the tacit rejection of her cuisine as personal affront. Ma stocked the fridge as I emptied the contents of the bags, locking eyes with my father’s glare. The crease of his brow accused me all the way from the other room. How could you leave me here alone? But as we stepped into the line of fire, absorbing the shock of my grandmother’s deflected dissatisfaction, I caught relief creeping out of the corners of his eyes. 

Weather: cool
Health: poor
Food: 25 pounds
Next landmark: 162 miles

Day three played out much in the same way as the previous two, with dreamy pupils twisted tight in the sober light of morning. 

Ma and I worked to keep Pa comfortable, fed, and ungawked. We drew from our supplies and filled ourselves at the table while my grandmother staged a silent protest. Refusing to acknowledge our invitation to share in the bounty, she pulled a spoon from the utensil drawer and spent the next half hour excising the remnants of white flesh from an otherwise rotted pear.  

Empty seconds turned to hours that, by and by, we managed to fill. Pa sat with his arm around Ma, her head resting on his shoulder until the absurdity of court show after court show resolved unconsciousness an inevitability. At select intervals, we woke him up and pumped calories into him—sugary drinks or soft-boiled eggs. Anything that slid easily down the gullet. I changed his pillows. Ma played solitaire in the kitchen. I filled myself on iced tea and shuffled my two box sets of The Office through my disc drive until they were lightly toasted. My grandmother found hidden vantage points from which to stare at her son. We took turns acting as his human shield.

That’s what we learned cancer to be: a lot of waiting. Players in a game, we fell into a preordained set of circumstances and bought into the illusion of control. Biding our time until the next prompt flashed on the screen and called for a response, we filled the moments between scans and infusions and specialists and therapists. A thousand little choices between the big ones to convince us the game could be outsmarted.  

It should be noted that the little choices are not arbitrary and at the very minimum serve to distract from the situational severity. Upon reaching the Big Blue River Crossing the game will ask “Do you want to look around?” And, while it offers nothing more than a poorly animated landscape against a tonal melody, the vista obscures the fact that eight sets of clothes were washed away in the last river and two passengers are showing symptoms of typhoid. So it was not hard to give into the pure entertainment offered by my grandmother as she spent the afternoon straw polling the three of us with respect to what we wanted for dinner. The choices were simple enough: spaghetti or bow tie pasta, yet the absence of an opinion allowed what should have been a snap decision to derail the entire evening. One by one, she’d ask us the same question and, one by one, we’d offer back some deferential iteration of “Doesn’t matter, Gran. Whichever you like.” But the computer is not programmed to understand indifference. Until the question is answered, game play cannot proceed. Which is why, when upon the seventeenth cycle I chose to make the executive decision, we learned a lesson in what can happen when time and energy are squandered on the senseless.

Weather: warm
Health: fair
Food: 10 pounds
Next landmark: 17 miles

Like a canary sunrise over Chimney Rock, day four smothered us with light. Whether it was my laptop overheating at the foot of the bed or the news that power had been restored to my parents’ block, an unseasonable warmth railed against the November chill. With one hand I shoveled gobs of cereal into my mouth, stuffing the still-open bag into my backpack along with the rest of my belongings. In the hallway the front door stood open, veiled by the exhaust from the car idling at the foot of the driveway. I left the surplus of the foodstuffs to our host and, with kernels of Malt-O-Meal spinning in my dust, joined in the goodbyes and supplemental waves as my mother tried not to leave tire marks on the street.

Another hill conquered in the series of hills that sit between Independence, Missouri, and Oregon’s Willamette Valley. Another bend in the trail that we angle into because the game was never about how quick to the finish line but, rather, how many cross it. So we fixed the wagon wheels and adjusted the rations and bartered for clothes and rested when needed and did whatever it took to get us to the next depot, all the while believing that we were catching up, catching on. Because we failed to realize that the program already knew everything it was going to throw in our way long before we hit START.

Pulling off the parkway, the town looked more or less untouched, save for some off-kilter mailboxes and the occasional displaced pool tarp. It wasn’t until the tear of rubber through standing water that things began to seem amiss. With each block passed, splash became splatter became snarl until squelched into silence against the underside of the car. As we slowed to a stop, tiny waves lurched forward from the grill, continuing on without us until the surface was still as glass once again. From where we sat it was impossible to tell the depth and, not wanting to choke the engine, my mother turned to park down a dry street just a couple of blocks away. Walking through the yards of nearby homes, the three of us took assessment, not speaking, not even looking at one another. We mashed our dread into the mud and grass under our shoes.

Across the pebbles of our neighbor’s driveway, the footsteps ceased. Before I lifted my head, I knew what I was going to see, but I wasn’t prepared for the order in which I would see it. First the roof, then the second-floor windows, then two-thirds of the front door . . . then two-thirds of the front door, then the second-floor windows, and then the roof. The house was sinking, ankle-deep in a reflecting pool with nothing to do but watch itself slip beneath the tide. From the corner of my eye, my father wavered, steadying himself against a wooden piling before nearly collapsing down upon it. Here it was, the moment I was supposed to help. That was the prompt awaiting my response. But I couldn’t ford this river. I couldn’t float us across it. There, with no task left to distract me, I looked at the crouched figure of my father and saw not the man who started the game, but the two-thirds that remained. And, for the first time, I wondered if he’d even see Oregon at all.