How to Freeze the Sun

6:11 AM

Junior wakes with a secret simmering behind his eyes. Today, he's going to freeze the sun.

Both of his alarms go off fifteen minutes before dawn. He dresses quickly, gathers his grocery bag full of granola bars and superhero umbrella, and clears the junk from his desk. The junk has fulfilled its purpose: hiding Junior's secret ritual for freezing the sun.

The paper is old and crinkled, like a treasure map made for the high seas. Everything Junior needs to accomplish his mission is on this paper.

He stares at himself in the mirror. Every inch of his eight-year-old body is trembling in anticipation. This may be the most important day of his life.

"You can do this," Junior tells himself. "For Dad."

6:27 AM

Setting the stepladder beneath the attic hatch, Junior stretches his fingers as high as they'll go. He grabs the dangling string and uses it to pull the hatch open. The stairs that fold out from the hatch are old and creaky, but if Junior goes fast, he'll reach his destination before anyone comes to check on him.

He checks his watch. Sunrise was a minute ago. He's late.

The attic is dark, but dull sunlight from the lone window built into the slanted roof illuminates Junior's target. Balancing his gear in both arms, Junior uses one booted foot to kick open the window latch. He squeezes through the gap and emerges into the sunlight.

6:40 AM

Junior thinks he heard voices in the house. He can't say for sure, but from his perch on a relatively flat section of the roof, it sounds like they came from the kitchen.

Then the panic hits. They'll find him on the roof and force him to come down, force him to accept that—

Junior sets his wobbling chin and shakes his head. They'll do no such thing.

He stands, legs shaking, hands sweating, to read the incantation.

Sunlight, you will move no more / I command you now to stay / Sunlight, brilliant and pure / Shine eternal, light of day

7:17 AM

It's working, Junior thinks.

The sun hasn't moved. At least, not much.

Birds chirp in the trees. Old Mr. Mathers washes his car across the street. No one yet realizes what he's done.

Then the window creaks open again.

"Junior?"

Junior's shoulders sag. "Hey, Dad."

Dad's head and one arm stick out from the window. He's far too muscular to fit through the narrow space.

"Are you doing the solstice ritual?" he asks.

Junior almost drops his granola bar, he's so shocked. "How did you know about that?"

Dad wiggles his fingers. "Magic," he says spookily.

When Junior clamps his mouth shut and turns toward the sun, Dad's voice grows soft. "Do you want me to go?"

Junior shakes his head, a tiny gesture.

8:30 AM

Mom comes out to the front yard to say hi. Junior gives her a little wave, his only concession.

The sun isn't quite frozen yet, so he recites the ritual again. As if in response, a cloud moves in front of the sun.

Dad is still waiting at the window.

9:58 AM

Dad is content with the silence, until he breaks it.

"Can I try to do the ritual with you?" he asks.

Junior acquiesces. He hands the page to Dad, whose deep baritone resonates in Junior's soul as they read together.

"Sunlight, you will move no more; I command you now to stay. Sunlight, brilliant and pure. Shine eternal, light of day."

Then Dad folds the ritual into a paper airplane and tosses it to Mom on the front yard. She reads it with a hand clasped over her mouth, then gives Junior a teary smile.

"Can I try?" she asks.

11:11 AM

Half the granola bars are gone before lunchtime.

Mom disappears to make a phone call while Dad remains in the window. Junior can't look at him anymore, though he desperately wants to. But his stomach growls and his frustration rises with the sun, which is anything but frozen.

Old Mr. Mathers wanders over. "Can I try?" he asks.

Junior recites it for Mr. Mathers three times before he memorizes it. They say it together, Junior and his dad and their neighbor.

It's not working.

11:43 AM

Junior lowers his umbrella when two minivans pull into the cul de sac. A horde of boys in dirty soccer uniforms spill from the sliding doors.

"We missed you today!" shouts Evan.

Junior doesn't say anything. He's happy they're here, but sad too. These feelings are too big for a boy like him.

Mom emerges from the house with icy pops. "Are we ready?" she asks the team.

They nod. Then a dozen little voices burst forth in dissonant song. Apparently, they think the ritual was set to music. At least they get the words right.

1:22 PM

Folding chairs and refreshment tables cover the front lawn. A dozen cars and at least fifty people crowd the cul de sac.

Junior has had enough.

"Stop!" he screams, cutting off their conversations. "Why are you here? Just leave me alone!" In the absence of a response, he turns to Dad, who's sporting a fresh sunburn on his balding temples. "Leave me alone," he whispers.

Now Dad's chin wobbles. "Is that what you want?"

Junior's heart rattles his rib cage. "No. It's not."

4:30 PM

The town has descended with vigor on Junior's cul de sac. Police sirens beep and wail, fire trucks shower the children with miniature rainstorms, and of all things, a high school marching band plays crowd favorites in shaky harmony.

Slowly, then in a furious rush, Junior suspects all of this is not for him.

The sun has traced a defiant arc across the sky. Junior's spent half an hour muttering the ritual under his breath after finishing the last granola bar.

"I can't do this," he whispers.

He turns to the attic window. Dad has been wedged in there for over nine hours without complaint. He should be enjoying his freedom while he can; he'll be trapped soon enough.

"Hey, Junior?" Dad's voice is kind, laden with compassion.

"What?" Junior mumbles.

"I'm gonna go," Dad says, and Junior's mind bursts into panic. Then Dad continues. "I'll be right back. I promise."

He disappears until the house. Moments later, the crowds below silence themselves. The hoses sputter to a stop. The sirens peter out, and the shrieking piccolos die away.

Junior stands on the roof in the afternoon sunlight, tears streaming, lip wobbling. He doesn't understand why they're so happy. Sorrow comes with tomorrow's sunrise.

Then the top of a latter plunks against the gutter at his feet. Dad climbs with sure hands and soft eyes. The town's gaze follows him as he crests the roof and sits at Junior's side.

"Join me," he says.

Junior sits. As the celebration resumes, and as the sun arcs westward, Dad doesn't speak. Junior's anger remains locked up, frozen like the sun should be, waiting to be released.

"I can't say anything to make this better, can I?" Dad asks.

Tight-lipped, Junior shakes his head.

"Is there anything you want to say?"

Junior lets a dribble of anger leak out. "It's so far," he whispers.

Dad nods. "One hundred forty million miles is a long way." Then he points to the sun. "What was your plan, bud?"

It sounds so stupid in Junior's head now. "If the sun stops moving, tomorrow never comes."

Dad hums sagely, as if Junior's logic is unbreakable. "It was a good try." He points to a patch of sky several degrees east of the sun. "Mars will be right there in about three months. And so will I. We can wave to each other."

Junior buries his face in his hands.

Sighing, Dad rests a gentle hand on Junior's shoulder. "The sun will be back tomorrow. And the day after that. And, one of those tomorrows, I'll be back too."

"Four years, five months, and sixteen days from now," Junior says.

"So, then," Dad says, leaning close to Junior's ear. "Why don't we enjoy the day we have left?"

8:36 PM

The celebration has ended. The people have gone. And Junior has accepted the future.

He knows how important Dad is. Dad had told him—sixteen billion dollars and four hundred thousand man-hours have gone into this mission. Junior can't compete with that. He's only one boy.

But tonight, as Dad snuggles with him beneath the glow-in-the-dark constellations on his ceiling, Junior knows something else.

Dad will go to the stars.

And he'll come back.