There was a simple pleasure in life that Grant made sure to take part in every day he could: the art of sliding around town on wheeled shoes that did not require padding and a helmet. Heelies were underrated, that was a sad fact. Why would someone not want to glide around over flat surfaces when they could, instead of just walking?

Not that there was anything wrong with walking, of course.

There was something almost indescribable in the way skating on his wheel-heeled shoes made him feel. It was not anything profound: it was not like he had epiphanies or deep, overwhelming insights about himself each time he put his shoes on or leaned back in that teetering way to get the wheel engaged and rolling. No, there was nothing like that to be had.

He just liked skating around. It was faster than walking, it was fun, and it was easy. He did not hurt anyone in this little habit, and he made sure to follow all the rules stores and gathering places put out about them. He was always conscious of the people around him, and where he was for any possible dangers he could think up. The last thing he ever wanted to do was upset someone, even when it meant stopping his own fun. He could always have fun on his time: it was no great loss to stop what he was doing if it was upsetting or hassling someone else.

At the moment, though, there was no one around. It was just Grant and the long stretch of smooth, recently paved sidewalk that rolled effortlessly, almost seamlessly, down the hill. He smiled as he looked down it, thinking about what it would feel like to skate down it. Unfortunately, his sad little wheel embedded in the back of each heel would never be able to handle the slope of a proper hill without him either gaining too much speed and smashing into someone or just making him topple due to the momentum not getting along with the way he had to balance on the wheel itself.

Yet every time he walked home from school he stopped at this hill and looked down the sidewalk, pondering the possibilities, telling himself that one day he would just try it. When everything was right. When there were no people around, so he didn’t upset anyone or risk crashing into them. When it was dark but not so late that it was going to make too much noise as he clattered down the side walk. When he was feeling light and unstressed from a surprisingly easy day, and had no heavy books with him.

Really, the night he always told himself he was waiting for seemed to be upon him. All the conditions were right.

He didn’t move.

Some things were meant to go without being experienced. There was a certain kind of happiness in the what if, in imagining something amazing and fun, something dancing just on the border of unobtainable and within grasp. Sure, his version of this phenomenon was impossibly simple and, really, stupid, but he also did not feel the need to have it be something anything more profound than this moment, wondering about a hill and how fast he could Heelie down it. Still, it was a thought that he could apply to other aspects of his life, particularly now that it had changed so much.

Maybe when he got home he would begin to wonder about his new role in this war that he had only just begun to truly experience. And maybe he would dream of things he wanted, that just brushed the tips of his fingers when he reached out to take them. Or maybe he would make himself some toast with butter on and watch a movie.

Philosophy was not Grant’s calling. He wasn’t so deep as to ponder these things for longer than a few seconds. They were fun to think about in the moment, but dwelling often brought his mood down and he was not the kind of guy who let his mood fall. So he was always on the move, always thinking of new and bright things. This war, his role in it, they were all important to him, but as long as he was told what to do he would do it.

Smiling at his hill and its promises, he hummed to himself and wheeled away, scooting on his heels every few steps and gliding through the darkening evening toward home. And then he would go on patrol.