My parents named me Zenna, as in “zoo.” Which is…not great. I get made fun of all the time. They always joke that they wanted me to learn the entire alphabet before I could learn my own name—and to their credit, it almost worked. But I said, in all my five year old bluster, that all I really had to do was learn the alphabet backwards.

So I did.

And I got made fun of for that.

Now I’m ten, and I don’t mind it quite as much. I’ve got more important things to worry about than alphabets and numbers. Okay, yes, numbers come up quite a lot, especially in the games I write. Yes, write. Or code, really. I’m a coder.

See?

Nothing to make fun of.

At least I learned my name.

Sigh. I wish there was nothing to make fun of. See, girl coders aren’t exactly in the top spot. Are my glasses a bit too old-fashioned? Sure. Do I tend to speak in awfully complete sentences, when half the kids around me can’t be bothered to even pay attention in class? Definitely. Am I the only game programmer my age, who actually has a shot of making a finished game, who has been doing it since the ripe old age of seven, and who actually knows what she wants to do with her life?

Yup. That’s me.

Zenna. As in zealous.

I had to learn that word when I started from the end of the alphabet. Zealous: showing a strong and energetic desire to get something done or see something succeed. Yeah, that’s me, alright. I’m just full of zeal.

I roll my eyes as I stare at my MacBook Air. Nice, right? My parents get me all the nice things. I roll my eyes again. Not really. Most times I’m lucky for a few good t-shirts and a bike that actually works.

But this thing, they did. And I love them for it. This MacBook has seen me through a few good years of…well. Let’s just say I wasn’t exactly popular for it.

Stop coding, Zenna.

Act your age, Zenna.

Girls shouldn’t be making games, Zenna.

I’ve heard it all.

At least they got my name right.

“Doing okay, kiddo?” Mom asks as she sticks her head into my room. Her name is Vella—another end-of-the-alphabet type thing. I guess all the parents in my family tree thought they were being clever.

I finish the line of code I was typing before I answer, hitting Enter with a rather furious amount of strength before I turn to look at her, trying to plaster a smile on my face. My head’s still in the game.

“I’m good, Mom.”

I think about telling her more, about how the kinematics on the player character’s model aren’t working at all the way I want them to, about how I don’t have enough assets to really flesh out the world in the way I’d imagined…but no.

It’s not that she doesn’t care. She does.

It’s just that she can’t possibly understand.

“Dinner is in an hour,” she says. “It’s lasagna.”

It’s my favorite, actually. I feel my spirits rising as I imagine how it’ll taste. “Thanks!” I manage, turning back to the game. We’ll talk at dinner. We always talk at dinner.

Right now I need to figure out this stupid game.

“It was your grandmother’s favorite, too,” Mom says, and I turn back to her. Guess she wants to talk right now. “And her mother’s. And mine. Every woman in the family line has loved lasagna.”

She looks at me a little wistfully.

“Mom?” I try. “Is something going on?”

She’s being kind of weird. No one talks about lasagna this much.

“Are you feeling okay?” she asks. “It’s just that…you know. Sometimes things start to change at your age.”

She stresses the word change, as if it means something other than what I think it means. And actually, I’m not quite sure what I think it means.

“I’m fine, Mom,” I say. “Just working on this game.”

“Always working,” she says. “I’m glad you’ve found something you enjoy.”

The smile on her face is faint.

“What’s wrong, Mom?” I ask. Something about all this doesn’t feel right. “Is Dad okay?”

“Dad’s fine, sweetie,” she says. “I’m sorry to worry you.”

She closes the door, and I pretend I don’t notice the sad look on her face.

But I can’t ignore it. Not really.

Something’s going on.

I just hope it’s not some problem between them.

I look outside my bedroom window, out at the wooded neighborhood my parents bought into in their forties. They think they’re old, for parents, but that’s actually kinda normal these days. They always say how lucky I am to live out here on Briar Ridge, how hard it is to even get a house out here, how happy they are that I can bike to school, or up the hill, and the town of Castro Valley is just so safe, and look. I know they’re right. It’s just…

I really have a game to make.

I turn back to the screen, checking the function I’d just finished for any errors. Seems fine, but bugs have a tendency to crop up when you least expect them. This game engine makes things pretty easy, at least. It’s called Harmony, and it’s even free. Great for kids my age. Even better for their parents.

Satisfied I’ve done the best I can, I hit Command-R to start things up.

The game launches in a few seconds, a magical forest springing up in front of me on screen. Trees tower over me, green and waving in a simulated breeze. A burbling creek meanders past my vantage point, sparkling yellow fireflies emerging as the virtual sun sets. It’s taken me months to get this far, but I’m quite pleased with it. It’s rewarding, seeing a world take shape before your very eyes.

I use the keyboard to step into the forest, knowing that the scene is scripted to spawn an animal in three…two…one…now. I smile as a deer steps out from behind a tree, looking in my direction. A trio of glowing amber stripes runs down the top of its back, giving it an otherworldly appearance. This is a magical deer, after all, and the three stripes signify the Power of Three—the three powers each player must gather in order to beat the game. That’s the plan, anyway.

I still have a lot of work to do before it’s done.

I lean back in my chair, hitting Command-Period to stop the game. My screen returns to the development environment, HarmonyScript code filling up one half of the screen while a wireframe representation of the scene fills up the other. I pause to take a drink of water, glancing out my bedroom window as I do.

I nearly fall out of my chair when I see a deer standing just outside my room.

Looking at me.

This one isn’t magic, of course. No amber stripes of three. It’s just a normal deer, and they’re pretty common here on Briar Ridge, so it’s not that unusual. Still, something seems different about this one. As it turns to lope away, I see it limping.

It’s been hurt.

It walks out of eyeshot before I can say or do anything, and I just shrug. Bit of a coincidence, I’ll admit, seeing a deer right after programming one. But that’s all it is—a coincidence.

Maybe I’m imagining it, but something about that deer had seemed unusual.

Whew, that lasagna sure smells good.

I can smell it wafting through the house, creeping in under my closed door, and I feel my mouth watering as I turn back to my computer. Mom’s a great cook, and tonight’s gonna be no exception. Just another in the long family line of lasagna lovers, apparently.

I check my watch: twenty minutes until dinner. Just enough time to tweak the particle effect on the magic deer, making it a little bit more obvious. I pull up the particle designer, and immerse myself in an endless stream of numbers. Most kids would probably hate this stuff. But me?

I’m in heaven.

I’m not sure how much time has passed when there’s a knock on my door, and Dad pokes his bearded face in. “Has your mother spoken with you?” he asks.

It seems an odd thing to start with. “Yeah, a while ago,” I say, glancing at the clock. Whoa—it’s an hour past when dinner was supposed to be. I must have really gotten zoned in on my particle effects.

I turn to face him, taking in a breath through my nose. No lasagna. The house feels cold.

I feel a shiver run through me, and I don’t know exactly why.

“Did I miss dinner?” I ask, knowing the answer but afraid to even think it.

When Dad’s head solemnly shakes, I feel my heart pounding in my chest.

“I was hoping you’d seen her,” he says.

“Who?” I ask, knowing the answer but not wanting to admit it to myself.

“Your mother.”

I feel the dread inside me burst into particles of fear, coursing through my blood as I surge to my feet. I brush past him into the hall, tearing toward the kitchen where the lasagna should be.

There it is, sitting on the counter, uneaten. Just a lump of pasta in a glass baking dish, poised for all the world like the layers of some cold, forgotten dream.

The kitchen is empty otherwise. No Mom. No voices. Nothing but the frigid silence of an empty room.

Somehow I just feel her spirit has left this place.

“There,” I say, spotting a little piece of paper on the counter. I rush to pick it up, Dad hot on my heels.

“I swear that wasn’t there before,” he says, concern breaking in his voice.

I pick the paper up, hands shaking as I see the way it starts:

IF YOU’RE READING THIS, I’M GONE.