Paul Tomkins whistled while he worked. Maybe it was the weather: the bright sunshine in the crisp Autumn air. Maybe it was watching his wife Mary smiling as she hung the laundry and watched the little Brandon play with Paul’s father in the yard (their daughter, Anna, was off to school for the day). Maybe it was just the knowledge that God was good, and seemed to be smiling upon the Tomkins family. All of it, perhaps. Paul reflected that contentment was often its own reward, muttered a quick prayer of thanks, and got back to work.
The Tomkins Family Farm had been a staple of the community at The Forks for generations -- nearly as long, in fact, as the settlement itself had been in existence. Nestled snugly into the split of the River, the farm took up half of one of two islands in the small town, which was built around several forks in the winding river. Hence the name. The fields provided enough crop to feed the family and generate a little extra income through the seasonal Farmers’ Markets. The family also canned and sold their own salsa which, Paul was happy to say, was pretty popular with their neighbors every year.
Mary was an ER nurse at the local hospital, and Paul farmed his land for most of the week, except when his other duties called. He also pastored the small church across the river and, though he didn’t keep regular office hours, was always just a phonecall away. On those days, he was grateful to his Dad who lived in the spare room of the large farm house.
Paul, content in his simple life, walked his corn fields with a wheelbarrow, handpicking his crop, as his father had, and his father’s father, and on and on before him. It was warm for mid-autumn, and Paul was enjoying the feel of the sun on his face when he heard his wife’s voice.
“Paul!” He could hear the alarm in her voice, and turned to her quickly. “Paul, on the radio. The President is speaking.” She held out the small battery-operated radio so he could hear.
“Sure he is,” Paul said, confused. “He’d interrupt a school play to hear himself talk.”
“No, Paul. It’s bad. Listen.”
“Citizens,” the President was saying, “particularly those within a few miles of the Donor centers, are urged to stay inside, doors locked. If you actually SEE a Donor, please call your local authorities and tell them where.”
Paul stared blankly at the radio. “I don’t --.”
“Just listen,” said his wife.
“Remember, Donors have no hair, will be pale-skinned, and are wearing silver bodysuits. If you see one or more, do NOT approach them, as they may be dangerous. Simply walk slowly away, get to safety, and call the police.”
“Donors,” said Paul. “Is he--?”
“The clones, Paul,” Mary said. “They’ve gotten out of Stasis.”
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