Drive-u-7-home

U-7 is home. And so, briefly, are you.

There is a peculiar intimacy in guiding something home—especially when that thing is not a person, but a fragment of a person’s will. “Drive U-7 home.” The phrase arrives like a coded whisper, half instruction, half elegy. U-7: not a model number, not a drone, but a name given to something that once had a pulse. A small, stubborn rover built in a garage by hands now trembling. A prototype of hope. drive-u-7-home

The road is unmarked. No GPS locks onto this frequency. U-7 rolls on three functional wheels, the fourth a dragging memory of better engineering. Its headlights flicker—not from malfunction, but from hesitation. It has been to the edge of the map, sent to collect soil samples from the crater where the old transmission tower fell. Now it carries only a vial of rust and the last unencrypted log: “I think I forgot where I started.” U-7 is home