Short Story: Zoom In North America

We start our search here, galaxies upon galaxies away from Earth, looking upon the rest of the universe as if we have some idea where x could be in this unending mass of darkness and light. Zoom in. Stop. There, right there. Now take a moment, let the sight of the Milky Way Galaxy, our home, soak in. Watch as this galaxy swirls and changes; infinitesimally small compared to the universe we looked at moments before, yet large beyond our comprehension. Zoom in. More, even more. Stop! We almost missed it. Before us we see Pluto, large in its closeness, disgraced and cast aside. The rest of our Solar System spread out ahead of it, most of the planets mere specks in the distance. Zoom in. Race past Neptune, Uranus, then Saturn and Jupiter.

While there is so much of the world that we could explore, there is no need. This mass of land, a home to millions of people, is magnetic, drawing us closer, guiding us. Going West is our best option. Zoom in. Forget the rest of North America. Focus only on where the waters of the Pacific meets the land. Zoom in again. There, that bay. The bay divided from the ocean by a red bridge. This bridge, with its two towers barely peeking up above the thick fog, is where we begin to search on foot. Face the city, not the hills dried and darkened by drought. To your left is a bay filled with the white specks of sail boats and a floating island with bars on windows. Walk forward. Through the fog and into the green of the Presidio. The highways split in different directions, leading some people east toward the Palace of Fine Arts, and others, like us, through a tunnel blue like the sky and south towards Nineteenth Avenue. Speed through the park, forget the Eucalyptus trees and the old military residences. Leave them all behind. Exit the park and turn left. As the avenues descend in number you see another park ahead, with green trees and tan, dry grass. Towering columns and a track red like clay on our left, steep inclines on our