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The rainmaker drone soars over the field to a chorus of curses and shouts from the clump of men in ancient, tattered Buffalo Bills jerseys. Number Twelve on the offense owns the turtle we’re here to see, and he won’t talk to us until the game is done. He might be playing halfback. I don’t know. From wet seats on rusty bleachers we watch the men line up to bash each other again and again in the muddy earth until the field is reduced to Agincourt.
Echo’s history lectures must be wearing off on me. My joints ache, but at least my brother’s enjoying the rain, heedless of the dirty looks from the few other spectators, those who don’t differentiate between rainmakers and quadcopters, those who look at any drone with suspicion. He’s humming a tune of little electronic warbles with h... Read more
