I came to save lives — now I’m praying I don’t end them

I

think the sun is shining today, though it’s impossible to tell through the thick sheet of smoke that blots it out of the sky. There are clues: a faint glow to the smoke, like a halo around dark clouds; the way the ash rains down a little faster, coating my sheitel with white powder; that I can glimpse the movements of children playing across the street without flicking on my flashlight.

We’re not supposed to turn on flashlights unnecessarily. The United States is importing batteries at a rapid pace, but shipments are stilted by the lack of electricity and limited gas power. We’re in crisis mode, and people who waste power for no reason during the Dark Spring are subject to judgment and fines.

But I can see the kids as I walk to work: two little girls jumping rope in the dark, their singsong chanting breaking through the glum dimness. “In came the teacher with the big, fat stick, I wonder what I got in arithmetic….” It’s like a twisted memory of my own childhood, jumping rope with Avital Kruger and singing at the top of my lungs.

I don’t like to think about my childhood. I don’t like to think about Avital.

I walk into Mishkan Ohr and immediately notice a dim glow coming from the conference room. We have a high-tech generator, the kind that works with the minimal gas we get, but we’re meant to use it sparingly. No chesed organization should take advantage, right? Imagine what the neighbors would say if they saw unnecessary lights on.

But one internal room is lit with a dim glow, and I stride toward it, about to snap at whichever hapless assistant has left it on. A moment later, I rethink my irritation, exhaling with relief at the light. Sometimes, I have to blink a few times just to ascertain that my eyes still work. There is something reassuring about the light, about faces and seeing without straining.

“Chanala Price.” Mindy grins at me. “Woman of the hour.” She raises her phone.

I look at it with instinctive disapproval. “It’s still on. Mindy, when will you learn?”

Mindy cuts me off before I can get worked up. “I didn’t use the generator,” she says. “I used it. The Q-Flow.”

“What?” I snatch her phone. Check the battery percentage. It’s at 92 percent, which I haven’t seen since the Dark Spring began. “VoltaQ’s prototype came in?”

“Right off the shipping container this morning. I got the notification and came straight here.”

And there it is. A sleek, silver rectangle of a charging deck. It’s got vents on one side with turbines that are supposed to channel wind power at a hyper-efficient pace, enough to power the outlets on the other side of the prototype.

The Q-Flow. It’s strictly experimental. Still in early testing stages and already has its share of detractors, but it’s everything. And Mishkan Ohr has one.

“It’s a little shaky.” Mindy pats the prototype. “Fades in and out. But it works.”

I look up at her, my head thrumming with ideas, with the breathless awareness that we’re about to change the world. Me, Chanala Price, former outcast who barely clawed my way to adulthood… I’m the one who’s going to change the world. “And VoltaQ says…?”

“They’re in,” Mindy assures me. “Ten thousand free prototypes, distributed by Mishkan Ohr to Jewish communities in the United States and Canada.” Her eyes shine. “Thanks to you, we’ll have light again.”