Emergency Grandpa

My last moment alive went pretty much as I expected. I was sixty-eight, sitting in the driver’s seat of my old tan minivan—or at least, that’s how I pictured it. The road stretched out, trees lining the left, their green too vivid to be spring bloom. I’d had my vision upgraded years back, colors popping like a kid’s cartoon. The Offspring blared through the speakers, crisp and 3D, thanks to a brain implant that made sound feel like it was dancing in my skull. Cars parked on the right—sleek, modern things I’d never owned—and a woman in a pastel Easter dress pushed a retro baby carriage, straight out of a 3D model freebie site. Then came the swerve. Left, sharp, into the trees. A jolt, a crunch, and nothing. Or so I assumed.


I didn’t expect to wake up. Not like this.


“Grandpa? GrandPa? GRANDPA! I need your help!” The voice was small, scared, and achingly familiar—like my son at four, all those years ago.


“Please state the nature of your emergency,” I said, the words spilling out without my say-so, stiff and robotic.


“That’s not what I meant!” I blurted, wrestling control back. “What’s wrong, kid? How can I help?”


He was crying now, hiccupping through the story. “We were on a ship, going to the new place. Something hit us—air started hissing out. Mom shoved me in an escape pod, went for my sister, and the door slammed shut. Then it exploded away from the ship. I don’t know how anything works, and nothing talks back!”


“Okay, breathe,” I said, my voice steadying. “I can’t see, so you’re my eyes. Look around—slowly—and tell me what you see.”


His name was Milo, I learned later. Four years old, stuck in a metal egg hurtling through space. He sniffled, then started talking—panels with blinking lights, a tangle of tubes, a screen spitting static. I guided him, piecing it together from his shaky descriptions. We found a hose labeled “Sanitation”—he’d been holding it in for hours, poor kid. I talked him through testing it, then using it, and he giggled when it worked, a flicker of relief cutting through the panic. Next came water, a spigot hidden behind a panel, and a stash of emergency rations—chalky bars he wrinkled his nose at but ate anyway.


Then he found the tablet. A clipboard-sized thing, glowing with a checklist titled “POD-7X EMERGENCY PROTOCOLS.” Milo could read—smart kid—and he stumbled through it, ticking boxes while I explained what “O2 Recycler” and “Thermal Regulator” meant. The tablet had guides, too—tutorials with little animations, teaching everything from sealing leaks to signaling for help. It was brilliant, idiot-proof yet deep enough to turn a half-capable person into a pod expert. I wasn’t half-capable, though—I was a ghost, or something like it, a program stitched into the system. But Milo? He was the real deal.


We spent a week mastering the pod. He unlocked controls for lights, air, even a repair printer that spat out spare parts. The best find was a chunk of my old ebook library—tens of thousands of public-domain classics. Someone, some genius, had figured boredom was as deadly as a hull breach and loaded it up. We read Treasure Island, The Time Machine, Frankenstein. I’d pause to explain “pieces of eight” or why Wells thought time travel mattered. Milo soaked it up, asking questions that made me laugh—sharp, curious, alive.


One morning, a light blinked on the panel—new, insistent. “Rescue Proximity Alert: 48 Hours.” I told him the truth then, or my guess at it. “Milo, when they come, don’t tell them about me. I’m… not supposed to be here, I think. Copying a mind, running it like this—it’s illegal, or it was.


Someone could get in trouble. Just say you figured it out yourself.”


“But I didn’t!” he protested.


“You did,” I said. “I just cheered you on. Look at what you’ve done—most grown-ups couldn’t. You’re incredible, kid.”


We rehearsed his story, stripping me out of it. He’d sound like a prodigy, and he was. A four-year-old surviving weeks in a pod, teaching himself to run it? Impossible, maybe, but I’d seen it. He’d done it.


The rescue came fast. A handshake ping on the tablet, a flurry of thumps outside, and the door light flipped green. Three knocks—shave and a haircut—and Milo rapped back the family’s reply. The hatch swung open, and there they were: his mom, wild-haired and sobbing, his sister clinging to her side. He launched into them, a tangle of arms and tears.


“Emergency pod ready for inspection,” Milo said, puffing out his chest as a tech in a jumpsuit stepped in.
The techs swarmed the pod, muttering about the checklists, the printer logs, the perfect maintenance. One—a wiry woman with a tablet of her own—knelt beside Milo. “Kid, how’d you do this? All of it?”


“Read the guides,” he said, sticking to our script. “Figured it out.”


She stared, then grinned. “You’re a miracle. Scholarships, training programs—you name it, it’s yours.” Another tech, poking at the pod’s console, frowned. “Wait. There’s a subroutine here. ‘Grandpa Protocol.’ Audio logs, decision trees—it’s like a… guardian AI. Helped him, maybe?”


My nonexistent heart sank. The woman waved it off. “Doesn’t matter. Kid’s a genius either way. But that program—it’s good. Calming voice, walks you through it. Why’s it buried in a last-ditch failsafe?”


“Probably some legal glitch,” the other tech said. “Mind-copy laws. But this? It’s gold. Should be standard, not a hidden Easter egg.”


Milo’s mom hugged him tighter, whispering about his sister’s escape in another pod. I faded back, or the program did, letting them have their moment. The techs kept talking—about me, or “Grandpa,” anyway. “Put it in every pod,” the woman said. “Voice like that, guiding you through hell? Saves lives.”


I didn’t expect to wake up again. But if I do—if some other scared kid calls “Grandpa!”—I’ll be there. My last moment stretched into this, and I’m okay with that. Milo’s safe, his family’s whole, and maybe I’ll keep riding shotgun for the next one. Emergency Grandpa, standard issue. Not a bad gig.