Ethan’s seven-year-old fingers hovered over the keyboard of his apple computer, small but precise. On the screen, ChatGPT’s interface glowed calmly, waiting for his next question. But tonight there was only one. Perhaps the most important he would ever ask.

  "What percentage chance would you give for humanity successfully changing its ways to prevent catastrophic climate change?"

  His heart thumped as he pressed Enter. The reply appeared line by line:

  "Avoiding catastrophic climate change is estimated to have a 40–60% chance, assuming effective green energy rollout, sustainable industrial investment, and widespread recycling. However, this may be optimistic given short-term thinking, reliance on fossil fuels, and political and media resistance to change.

  The actual outcome depends on how quickly and decisively global action is taken in the next decade."

  The words struck him like a sentence passed down. Ten years.

  Ethan quickly consulted Gemini, then Grok 3. Both confirmed the same grim prognosis. He shut the computer into sleep mode and turned to the window. The night sky shimmered faintly with the northern lights, ghostly curtains of green and blue. For a moment, their beauty soothed him—those dancing, ghost-like magnetic sentinels that guarded the planet from the solar winds, the unseen protectors that had allowed Earth to flourish. But still, the weight of the answers lingered.

  From downstairs drifted the sharp edges of his parents’ argument—Trevor’s Scottish cadence against Lorraine’s northern lilt. Oil money, fossil fuels, politics. Ethan closed the door, but their words echoed in his mind. He had turned to the AIs for clarity. Instead, he found dread.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  A knock broke his trance.

  “Chess night, lad. You ready?” his father called.

  “Yeah, Dad. Coming.”

  Trevor’s new Tesla purred along wet roads as they collected Ethan’s best friend, Danny. In the backseat, the boys plotted their latest schemes.

  “So, I need to come up with a way to stop global warming,” Ethan declared.

  “Can’t this Saturday,” Danny replied gravely. “Got football, then gran’s.”

  Trevor smirked, half-listening. The absurdity of two seven-year-olds casually planning to save the planet amused him, but it also worried him. Lorraine was filling the boy’s head with nonsense.

  At the chess club, Ethan’s reputation preceded him. He dispatched his father and Danny quickly, leaving only Nancy, the sharp thirteen-year-old he secretly admired. His strategy worked; his father retreated outside for a cigarette, coughing into the cold air.

  Inside, Ethan checkmated Nancy, his pride glowing. Later, the Tesla hummed through the dark streets. At the drive-thru, Trevor couldn’t resist showing off “Fart Mode.” The boys howled with laughter, tears streaming. Trevor grinned despite himself. Seven-year-olds shouldn’t have to carry the weight of the world.

  Back home, Ethan collapsed into bed, planets dangling above him, science books stacked by his side. Northern lights spilled through the curtains, painting the room in ghostly hues. Trevor crept in to check on him. The computer still glowed faintly. Curious, he tapped the space bar.

  The words Ethan had asked—and the AI’s response—flashed across the screen. Trevor read them slowly. They hit harder than he expected.

  Oil had paid for everything—the mortgage, the new car, even a holiday home in Spain. But now, staring at the prognosis, he saw his son’s future at stake. The laughter in the car earlier suddenly felt fragile, fleeting.

  He powered down the computer, kissed Ethan’s forehead, and closed the door softly. In the hallway, his decision solidified. He would retrain for renewable energy. Not someday. Soon.

  For Ethan’s future, the sooner couldn’t come fast enough.