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The sliver of orange and white fire grew to a half moon, and then was whole. She didn’t know why, and she couldn’t explain it, but immediately, she wanted to cry. It was the most amazing thing she’d ever seen.
    The next electronic photographs were just as powerful. The classroom saw a city. It wasn’t like their city, though. While the remains of their buildings were caked in heavy resin to protect the concrete and the supporting iron from the looming salty fog, the city in front of her had towering glass sculptures, like upright mirrored fingers touching the sky. It was an amazing city, with highways threading in and out, like the spun sheep-yarn in her mother’s knitting basket. There was no ugly, foul-smelling fog. There was no concern for mordant salts invading everywhere and everything, eating at the metals, and flattening what had once stood tall.
    Another electronic photograph showed groups of people and families gathering in a vast park. Large blankets made of luxurious materials were laid with care on the groomed lawns. She noticed that some of the blankets bore flashy red colors that matched her unusual hair. Smiling, she reached up, and rolled a strand between two fingers; she unexpectedly felt a little less lonely. The blankets were covered with baskets of food. There were mothers and fathers of different shapes, sizes, and colors; a few even resembled her, with the same pale skin, bright eyes, and sun-colored hair. They watched their children, who were running about freely. There was no hesitation when they moved; nobody was afraid to walk or run. There were no worries of stumbling over something, no fear of falling, or crashing into obstacles that were hidden by the fog. There was just blissful freedom to move.
    The open expanse was greater than any distance that Sammi could ever dream of. Her dreams were always the same as her reality, with fog-laden walks that slowed her step to a mere crawl. She thought of how they measured distance here: by the number of hands you could see before your fingers disappeared into the fog.
    It would take a million hands to cover the distance of that park . As she considered this, the elation she’d felt earlier suddenly drifted away, and she was left saddened by their circumstance. Sammi cast her eyes down to her desk. She’d seen enough.
    When the sound of crying reached Sammi’s ears, she knew that she wasn’t alone in what she felt. To her, the crying sounded like the whimper of a small animal that had been trapped by a hunting team, and seemed to know its fate.
    “Thank you, Andie. I think that is enough,” Ms. Gilly said in an anxious tone, while the sound of crying continued. As quick as a blink, the world in front of Sammi disappeared, and they were back in their classroom. Andie was already lowering the glassy orb that made up his projector, and Declan was stepping forward to comfort the younger children. Tabby Wetton held her palms to her face, and sobbed.
    “Tabby? Tabby, what’s wrong?” Declan asked, kneeling down so that his face was even with hers. Tabby paused for a moment, but then shook her head, reluctant to lower her hands.
    “Tabby,” he started, and then moved closer to put his hand on the young girl’s shoulder. “Tabby, it’s okay. Those were images of our world a long time ago.” She lowered her hands, and turned to face Declan. Sammi could see that she’d probably been crying since the beginning: her eyes were swollen, and her cheeks were wet.
    “It’s so big,” she said, her voice shaky and choked.
    “What is?”
    “That world!” she cried. “It’s too big! If the VAC-Machines work today, then how could we ever live in a world that big?” Declan consoled her, rubbing Tabby’s shoulder. Sammi could tell that he was considering what Tabby had said. She was considering it, too. Ms. Gilly, who was tapping a finger to her mouth, must have certainly been considering the profoundness of the little girl’s words. Generations