Gifts Hard to Get To

Another installment in Work-Related Birthdays, ladies and gentlemen. Enjoy!

*

X,

            Quick! Say “MUTE”!

You hear that? That sound that you’re not hearing, is the next annoying song that they’ll play way too much on the radio.

            This card has just altered the universe so that you’ll never hear it!

I know! There should be more cards like this.

Happy Birthday!

*

X,

            Happy Birthday! It took me ten thousand years to find it, but I managed to unearth this very special present for you.

            This card can practice guitar for you!

                        It just can’t play it.

Happy Birthday!

*

X,

Seeing as how your birthday is coming up, I thought long and hard about the ideal present.

            And as popular as the usual gifts are – confetti, cake-shaped cars, and flying llamas – I figured you deserved something revolutionary.

Like this card. Because who ever heard of a birthday card?

Happy Birthday!

*

X,

            I figured the best thing to do for your birthday was to make you my patented

Birthday Stew Special!

 Nutritional information:

            Hot Fudge for sweetness

            Asparagus for some roughage

            Baked Beans for fiber

            Eggs for protein

            Strawberries for antioxidants

            A lime for vitamin C

            Bottled sunlight for vitamin D and a nice tan

And a dash of Cayenne Pepper for clear sinuses

Happy Birthday!

*

Patriotism

I'm a veteran.

My experience in the military wasn't a pleasant one. When I got out, I had trouble adjusting, and the people who smiled and told me I was a hero were ironically as much a part of the problem as the people who called me a murderer.  Because when it really came down to it, they didn't know anything about me, and didn't really want to know.

They assumed.  And instead of making me feel loved - or hated - it made me feel worthless.  Like my patriotism and my sacrifice had been cast off and replaced with a pastiche ideal.  Something so foreign to me, I couldn't even recognize it.

Loving a soldier because they served is like loving a chef because of his killer pork roast.  It's nice, but it doesn't count for much.

This story isn't about me asking for sympathy.  This is me trying to express some of the most central pains of my life.

*

I Want You

“The country needs us, Mom.”

“Mmhmm.”

“California might be captured. And if they get California, Florida’s next.”

“What would be after Florida?”

“Chicago.” He looked up, “This is serious.”

“And how many soldiers do you figure you’d need?”

He tucked his chin to his chest and said through a smile, “Five bags.”

“Five?!”

He giggled.

“Well, bad news for the troops, Tommy.  The country can’t afford that many reinforcements.”

“Really Mom, just one would help.”

“Hrm.  We’ll see.”

*

He opened the bag with a pair of blunted scissors from his backpack.  Each soldier was carefully disentangled from his comrades and inspected.  A few were already damaged.  Warped, dwindled, or malformed, and he placed them carefully aside.

A bucket in the closet was red, white, and blue.  A star-spangled elder with a face stern and inviting stared off the side, pointing a finger that spoke volumes of duty, patriotism, and need.  The aged patriot ignored the boy’s inventory, preferring to stare rigidly at the crossbow and foam bolts beside him.

Tommy finished his pageant and scooped up the castoffs. Carrying them solemnly to the closet, he nudged the door further open with his foot and dumped them in the bucket. He offered an unbalanced salute, and rushed back to his war.

Mouthed explosions and gunfire, heavy footsteps from a light body, shouted orders and Yes, Sir’s.  Tommy marshaled his armies, devastating each side with imaginary mortar strikes, napalm, mines, and missiles.  One was stepped on. Thirteen were crushed beneath a dictionary-shaped bunker buster.  One was lost when an explosion scattered them across the room.

The list of casualties was substantial.  And except for the one lost, Tommy extracted them all from the battlefield.  And before he went down for dinner he gave himself one last duty. 

He put them gently to rest behind the half-closed closet door.

*

Book Review: Places I Never Planned by Aimee Bontreger

Catharsis.  If any single word could describe Ms. Bontreger’s inaugural volume of literature, catharsis would be my choice.

There’s something subtly elemental in the way she paints her protagonists.  The amnesia, confusion, and vulnerable rage in Forget Me Not.  The bitter taste of Jean’s self-absorption, suspicion, and vindictive inner dialogue in I Dream of Jeannie.  Endless, unreasonable hope in Over You.  Penny’s lofty viciousness (the revelation of whom was a high note in my reading) and Martin’s self-loathing in Let Sleeping Dogs Lie.

The last piece, Places I Never Planned, is by a large margin the largest piece, weighing in at forty-seven pages.  The extra length was not wasted.  The outrageous, and unenviable, family dynamics are explored at length – much to the distaste of the heroine.  The ending doesn’t feel unexpected, but it’s that feeling of catharsis that impressed me when I had finished it.  With each of the stories, really.

They felt intimate.  Raw.  A vaguely uncomfortable depth of emotion funneled carefully into the stories through the portrayals of the characters and the development of the respective plots.  The endings aren’t always happy, and they don’t always let the reader off easy.  But there’s never the feeling of being cheated.  The endings give you closure and satisfaction, right alongside the wishes that it might have ended on a happier note.

That said, it was not a perfect read.  As engaging as the narrative voices were, a couple of the stories started a bit on the slow side.  You didn’t really get hooked until after the plot started to develop.  A few of the plot devices felt familiar as well, particular the amnesia in Forget Me Not.  To be fair, I greatly enjoyed how the story developed, but it did delay my entrance into the fictional environment.

Not perfect, but an excellent first collection.  Certainly an author to watch.

Amazon Link - Places I Never Planned

To the Land of the Rising Sun, Part 4

The Waters Below

Her body lay under the outcropping.  Lips cracked, her clothing heavy with dried sweat and stain.  Shallow breath moved her chest, and she tried to pull her legs into the shade.

The heels of her boots scraped against the salt floor of the Ocean Waste.  An inch – then stopped.  Her eyes opened, bloodshot and raw from their lack of moisture.  She swore quietly, a broken rasp from a throat no longer accustomed to sound.

*

Sunset.  An hour of cooling air and seething ground.  Her feet were scalded, the leather of her boots heating to a dry boil after hours in the sun.

She ripped a spare shirt into strips of cloth and wrapped it around her peeling skin and the caked paste of partly evaporated blood.  Her swollen feet were forced back into her boots, and she limped westward for eight hours.

*

The next day there wasn’t any shade. She made a makeshift shelter out of her clothes, and huddled naked beneath it.  The shade was enough, barely, for the steaming ground and her exhausted body to keep out of the light. 

Leg cramps kept her from sleeping most of the day.

*

That night her diminished strength was all but lost in dressing and repacking her spare clothes. 

The Ocean Waste spread out around her, no break in its pale monotony.  The moon spun over the horizon.  The clean white light drew luminescence from the sun-bleached waste.  She slung her rifle over her shoulder and watched the moon climb the sky before it raced above her.  It was larger than it had been in California.

Her hand went to her revolver on an impulse, but her skin split between her fingers on the draw.  The shot ricocheted from the ground in front of her and she rocked back from the recoil.  Blood fell slowly, half dry and reluctant.  She put her revolver back in the holster and stumbled west.

*

Her eyes were half closed.  The moon had moved far up and east, and cast an imitation shadow over her path.

A deeper shadow opened before her and she stopped, blinking her eyes in an attempt to moisten them.  She knelt and her eyes closed.

*

Her eyes opened, and she realized the sky was growing lighter.  She leaned forward before she realized that a ravine was only inches in front of her, stretching into shadowed obscurity.  A gasp left her lips, and her fingers scrabbled against the ground to push herself back.

Her body twisted and her shoulder met the loose white dust of the waste.  She rolled away from the edge of the ravine, and lay on her back.  Bloodshot eyes watched the dawning sky, and her parched lips drew back in a grimace.  She sat up, took a deep breath, and began climbing into the ravine.

*

The ground was cool to the touch, baked by the sun only a few hours each day.  Her legs hung over the edge of a ledge, and she fought to keep her eyes open.  She stared downward.  About twenty feet down, on the other side of the ravine, there was an opening in the ravine wall.  A thin stream of water flowed out of it, the water slipping out into the ravine with hardly a whisper of sound.

She stood and stretched, forcing her muscle into movement.  Deep breaths, high steps in place. 

She spat into the ravine.

And leapt across it.

Her body hit the far side a few feet above the opening, and she clawed at the rock.  Falling past the cave entrance, she caught hold of the stone at its base.  Her momentum arrested, and there were many footholds.

Her eyes blurred, and she croaked a laugh as she collapsed into the darkness.  She put her face close to the small stream of water, then cursed as she caught the scent of sulphur.

*

Her canteens were empty.

She had climbed back to the top of the ravine.  The sun had just set.  Her rifle was loaded.

The moon jumped over the horizon, huge and bright.  The stock leapt to the crook of her shoulder and she fired.  Then twice more, leading by larger distances each time.

She sighed as it soared upward, then blinked as a shower of sparks sprung from the brilliant sphere.  It faltered in its upward motion, then bent groundward.

Dean took off her hat and gaped as the moon crashed to the floor of the Ocean Waste and burst into flames.

*

Full Story

If Only...

I have a chronic illness.  For those of you who have one as well, you know that we probably wouldn't do so well without our medication.  Some of us would die.  Some wouldn't be able to function.  A few could handle it, but it would be extraordinarily difficult.

I have a student with Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder.  I teach him for a full hour.  It's fun, I enjoy it, but there are certainly times when it hits the upper edge of my patience.

He was recently put on a new medication, and his mother asked me to let her know if it helped.

That lesson went remarkably well.  We got a lot done, he was focused, he was attentive.  And I couldn't help but think that whatever he had taken had somehow switched my student out for someone else.

I mean, what is it exactly, that makes people decide what kind of behavior is socially acceptable, and kinds are not?  Are we just collecting enough substances to make sure everyone remains the same?  And that any sign of abnormality is brutally suppressed?

Probably not.  But this story was how I worked out the thought.

~~~

Pharmacology

The IV pulsed.  Heart rate increased, chemical signals sent through the brain, and his thumb twitched to the surface of his Attention.  He pressed twice, and opened his eyes.  Once more, and felt life roll through his body.  He shifted, reached out a hand and increased the flow of the IV.  His heart responded, and he lay back for five more minutes.

*

Water ran down his face, diluting the residue of night sweat and sleep.  The medicine cabinet and its catalogue of choices taxed his interest in the day, and he pressed the button, hitting the ceiling of his hourly proscription.

A few minutes before the reset.

*

He opened his Daily Planner; three Wit, and extra strength Professionalism, ten Motivated, thirty Sociable.  His regular mix of Amusing, Confident, and Creative.  Relaxed for lunch break.  Satisfied for the drive home.
The lid clicked shut.  He’d left out Sensitive on purpose.  He just couldn’t fit it in today.

*

A glass of water washed down the Professionalism.  He checked his watch – ten minutes till the business meeting.  A few casual taps of his Attention.  His heart was being monitored, of course, but he would need the edge.

*

Lunch break.  She was talking to him.  His Relaxed kept him bored, so he swallowed a few Sociable to compensate.

*

The conversation had been a disaster.  His Confident suppressed most of his frustration, and his Satisfied kept him focused on the business meeting – where everything had gone perfectly.

He was on the phone.  His best friend’s wife had just filed for divorce.

He hung up.  He’d call back when he got home and took a Sensitive.

*

He forgot.

*

He plugged in the IV and felt a lethargy flow through his body.

*

They shut off his vitals.  Subject Liam, version 347, had performed below expectations.  A few tests for overall health and toxicity levels revealed side effects of Professionalism and impurities in his generic brand of Sociable.

They would adjust his medication.

Abortion, Contraceptives, and Women's Health Issues

When we talk about the flu, about cancer, about heart attacks, we're usually safe with calling them health issues.  Breast cancer is a bit more specifically female - even though guys can get it too.  But when contraceptives and abortion are brought up, you suddenly find yourself in a discussion about women's health.

Women's health is important.  This isn't a story about how gynecology should be banished from the modern mind.  This is more about a particular branch of gynecology and how some people use it to justify their ideology.

*

In Good Health

“It’s good you came in when you did.”

Aiden took Sophia’s hand.  “It’s not anything serious, is it?”  They exchanged nervous glances.

The doctor smiled, politely, “Sophia, have you had unprotected sexual relations within the past three months?”

The young woman glanced at her husband, “A couple of months ago – I forgot to take my prevention supplement…”

“I thought as much,” a nod, and a few notes on her clipboard, “Even one missed dose leaves a window of vulnerability.”

Aiden shifted his weight in his chair, “What does she have?”

“When a man’s sperm makes contact with an ovum it can occasionally trigger the growth of a genetic abnormality called a fetus.”  The doctor adjusted her glasses as she took a seat at her desk.

“A fetus?”

“Yes, a parasitic organism that attaches itself the woman.  Its feeding process creates a hormonal imbalance that triggers nausea.”

Sophia had gone pale.  Aiden let go of her hand and rubbed her back.  He turned distressed eyes to the doctor, “Is it treatable?”

“In most cases.”  She was typing information into her computer, “The condition eventually results in fetal expulsion, but the chance of complications rises the more mature the parasite becomes.”  The doctor paused in her typing to give the couple a pointed look, “In rare cases, failure to remove the parasite can be fatal.”

“Is the procedure dangerous?” Sophia asked in a weak voice.

“Oh no.  Minimally invasive.  The organism is removed.  Two weeks recovery.  A short checkup, and you’re better than ever.”

The couple looked relieved, and the doctor noticed their change in attitude with a mild dissatisfaction, “This could have been avoided, of course.  A fetus is a great deal worse than most sexually transmitted diseases.  It’s nothing to take lightly.”

“Of course not!”

“No, we understand!”

The doctor nodded, and turned back to her typing.

To the Land of the Rising Sun, Part 3

Over Iron, Salt, and Sea

Jackson raced through the stalls of thin cloth and dry fruit, the 4 bore clutched awkwardly in his hands, the barrel sweeping past the passerby as it jerked with the swing of his arms.  The stalls opened into a clean swept merchant square.  He panted to a halt then stumbled to an elderly tin hawk.

“Seen a woman?”  He struggled for the breath to speak, dropping the stock of his double rifle to rest on the ground.  “Blonde, thick sweater,” he tookHe H another breath, “Glasses.”

The woman nodded, “The men with her didn’t like the edge of her tongue, I take it.”

“Like as not.”  He tried to force a smile, “Never did figure how to blunt it.”

She peered at him, “I have something you might need if you want to find her.”

He straightened.  “Oh?”

“I do,” she turned to her table, bending over laboriously, and rifled through her haphazardly arranged tools, containers, and trinkets.  “Here!”  A triumphant smile lit up her face as she held up a rusted paper cutter.  “Never safe in a brawl without a blade, young man.”

“I’m in a terrible hurry, ma’am.”

She shrugged, “I’ll not have the life of a handsome boy like you on my conscience.”

Jackson bit back a curse and grabbed some coins from his pocket, “You’re right, of course.  You’re kind to offer.”

She raised an eyebrow at the coins but nodded, “They were headed to the bunker at the foot of the island.  And be careful shooting that cannon of your’n.  They were wearing rank.”

“Dammit.  Sorry!  I mean thank you, ma’am.”

He hefted his weapon and hurried off trying, unsuccessfully, to tuck the paper cutter into his pocket without cutting himself.  The island was a slow mountain of sand, stone, and dead coral.  A few paths had been cleared to the top.  It was said that an outpost was kept at the top, the last real military installation in the ocean waste. 

She wanted to see it.  Figured.

This was worse than the Hawaii. 

He rushed through the last few shanties and into the ordered square avenues of C-huts and barbed wire.  Most were abandoned.  Not much reason to be a soldier anymore.

No pay.  Not enough food to go around.

Only a handful of bullets.

He heard gunshots, several in quick succession, and forced himself a little faster.  The bunker swerved into sight from around a corner and his boots slipped against the sand as he tried to stop.  His knee scraped against the ground, tearing the cloth before he managed to catch himself and dive awkwardly back out of sight.

He stood and took a long look at the thin metal of prefabricated aluminum his shoulder was resting on, then sighed and sprinted for the door of the bunker.  The road was quiet, and as much as he cringed, no shot rang out from behind the barred windows and narrow slots that broke the solid wall of concrete.

A kick to the door was about as effective as a knock, so he leveled his 4 bore at it and fired.  The butt of the rifle slammed again his shoulder and threw him backwards.  His head hit the ground and he blacked out.

*

Blonde hair.

“Dean?”

She glanced at him, then pulled her hair back into a messy bun, roughly pinning it with a sheathed knife before putting her hat back on.  “I’ve never seen a bigger hole blown through a door.”

He sat up, winced, and put a hand to the back of his head.  It felt wet.

“Especially when the hole was two feet away from the lock.”

He blinked.  “Oh.”

“I’ve tried to think of a man more useless with a gun than you.”

“Wonderful.”

“I had plenty of time.  Since you had knocked yourself unconscious.  By shooting a comically oversized gun incorrectly.  And missing your target at point blank range.”

“Please tell me you didn’t kill anybody.”  His eyes failed to focus on anything beyond an arm’s reach away.

“’Course not.  You told me it’d bring you trouble.”

“How many were here with you?”

“Oh, ‘bout ten.”

“Ten!”  Jackson flushed, then squinted across the room, “Where’d they go?  We should get out.  Now.”

She sniffed, “They’re still here, Dr. Door Breach.  Don’t you worry none.”

            He paled as he made out the blurry forms of men scattered about the room.  “You shot them.”

            “Only a little.”  She raised an eyebrow.  “They said I looked twelve.”

            A sigh.

            “Oh come on.”  Dean helped him to his feet, “It’s not near as bad as the Hawaii.”

            “It might well be, Ms. Constance!  You can NOT just go into a town shootin’ people and telling them what they’ll do for you.”

            “There’s only ten this time, Jackson.” She looked a little put out, “And I didn’t kill any of them.”

            “And they’re liable to be a mite upset when they wake up.”

            She smiled, “There comes a time in the life of every man –ˮ

            “Don’t even.”

            “ – when they have to start realizing which fights they’ll win, and which they’ll lose.”

            He shook his head, “You still going to that outpost?”

            “I am.”

            Jackson looked at his feet, “And after?”

            Her smile softened, “West.  As far as I can get.”

            “You don’t have to,” his hands found his pockets, “You’re already further west than most of the world.”

            She put a hand on his shoulder.  “You should get back to the train, Jackson.”

            He nodded, and she walked to the door.  “Dean!”

            The blonde gunslinger stopped and looked back.

            “You could stay with me.  We could ride the Rail together till we’re old.”  He met her eyes, “It wouldn’t be a bad life.”

            A silence.

            “It’s not for me, Jackson,” she looked at him from over the edge of her glasses, “You keep yourself safe.  When I come back I’ll want to see you again.”

She walked out and left Jackson alone.

*

Full Story

To the Land of the Rising Sun, Part 2

Westbound Rail

A few coals added their grey heat to the stifle of the cab.  The windows and the open end let in a fitful breeze that cooled the sweat covering his face, neck, and arms. 

He held a leaf of kelp over the coals, waiting for the edges to curl.  The tip burnt too quickly, so he broke it off and ate it, holding the rest of the leaf a little higher.  Voices drifted from the station.  He sighed and tossed the leaf into the coals, watching it smolder before he hefted his 4 bore double barrel and stood.

His bowler went back on his head before he stepped to the edge of the cab, and leaned against the thick metal of the coal bin.

The Constance gang lined the road, some in sight, most already hidden.  Didn’t take them long.  Old man Constance and a woman were walking through the station.  He took a deep breath and reminded himself that these were good people. 

“Mr. Constance?  Another shipment to the farms?  I have some foodstuffs I can pass along to the San Franciscans.”

Neither replied until they were a few feet away from the locomotive.  The old man squinted up at him, “Still an elephant gun, eh?”

He grinned, “Biggest I could find.”

“Takes too bloody long to reload, Jackson.  Damn foolish.”

“There’s only one of me on the train, Mr. Constance.  And I’m a smallish man.  Smallish men need bigger guns than the biggish men.”

Noah sniffed, “I can get the food to town.”

“Any cargo for the farms?”

“Sheet metal, a box of bullets for Midway, batteries.  Not much else, I’m afraid.”

Jackson leaned his rifle inside the cab and looked over a clipboard.  “Have it packed in Car 3.  Lots of produce there.  You can take as much as you can carry.”

“All Frisco?”

“Sunnydale’s full up.  Oakland’s already been, tried to take Frisco’s food, too.  Said they’d drop it off on their way.”

“That’s a joke.”

Jackson nodded, “And not a very funny one.  Which just leaves Mount Free, and they don’t much like kelp.”

Noah gave a whistle and waved, turning back to the station.  A few men started grabbing bundles off packhorses.  “One more thing, Jackson.”

“Yes, Mr. Constance?”

“My daughter will be going with you.”

He blinked, “Uh.  Where to?”  He looked at the woman, her eyes studying him behind her spectacles. 

“The Salt.”  She replied, “Or as far west as the rail goes.”

“Well, that would be the Salt.  But,” he called to Noah, who was already walking away, “I don’t take passengers!”

“You’ve done it before.”  She raised an eyebrow, “This is no different..”

Jackson met her eyes, then glanced at Noah’s receding form.  Old man Constance was a dangerous man to cross.  He sighed.  “You can stay in Car 3.”

She looked amused, “You want me to bunk with the cargo?”

“Come again?”

“I’ll be staying here in the front.  I’ll be more useful than that cannon you tote around.”

Jackson blinked at his rifle, “Ma’am, I am in charge here!”

She stepped lightly past him, striding into the cab.  “A mite cramped.  How far is it to the Salt?”

“About a month.”

She nodded then turned to him and held out her hand, “I’m Dean Constance.  I’ll be taking over security for the Westbound Rail.”  She looked at him over the rim of her glasses.  Waiting.

So he shook her hand.

*

Full Story

To the Land of the Rising Sun, Part 1

Let me know what you think!



~~~

Taking Leave

The asphalt had long since been ground to dust.  The rust of the steel mesh stained the gravel a pale red, and mile markers worn down to crooked spindles, cracked through with weeds and age.  It had taken years to clean off all the cars, many resting on rims or chassis.  It had been worth it.

Noah Constance wiped his face with handkerchief, looking over the team of ten oxen pulling the semi flatbed trailer.  A kevlar blanket was draped over each of them, thick enough to stop a single shot, but not much else.  He glanced at his daughter, her rifle slung across her back.  One shot’s warning would do.

The sun was about two-thirds through its cycle.  The cool of the day approached with a sluggish nonchalance.  They might make the White House before nightfall.  The House sent out the occasional patrol, but they didn’t have the bullets to do it frequently.  Noah had spoken to the San Franciscans, but they had their own troubles with munitions.  They sent what could be spared.

The ocean waste spread out to the west, with its small settlements and sprawling kelp farms.  He wondered what it would have looked like when there had still been water there.

“A word Noah?”

He nodded at his daughter, and she moved away.  “What is it Hollis?”

The big man wiped his hands on his sleeve, something he often did when talking to Noah.  It was difficult to tell if it improved the cleanliness of his hands or his shirt.  “Are you sure about letting her go?”

Noah’s eyes went back to his daughter.  “She’s grown, Hollis.”

Hollis shrugged, “My dogs are grown.  Don’t mean I let them bite me if the notion strikes.”

“I’ll let you explain it to her, then.”

Hollis paled, “I didn’t mean no disrespect, sir.”

“I understood what you meant.  But Dean’s still young.  Liable to the violent humours.  There’s no telling what she’d do if she heard you comparing her to a dog.”

“You won’t tell –ˮ

“Course not.  But finish what you were saying.”

“Well,” Hollis seemed less sure of himself, “She’s your daughter, is all.  She has weapons that would do us good to keep.  Weapons you’re not likely to take.”

Noah turned a frown at the man.  “She earned them, Hollis.  Makes them hers.  We’re not a bunch of outlaws that just takes what we want.”

“You’re also liable to give her more supplies than we can spare, Mr. Constance.”  Hollis kept his eyes on the ground, “This outfit’s a good one, and we all love Dean.  I don’t mean no disrespect -ˮ

“Spit it out, man.”

“The men just need some reassurance that she’s not getting no special preference.”

“Hollis, have you ever known me to have favorites?”

“No sir.”

“I’m not going to start now.  Dean bought extra supplies before we left Sunnydale.  From her own wages, Hollis.  She didn’t lend from the community pot, and didn’t ask me for help.”

“That’s right decent of her.”

“I told her we couldn’t spare a horse, and could only give her a day’s ration of water.”

Hollis blinked, “We might want to give her some more water than that, sir.  She might not reach the first settlement on that.”

“We’re taking her to the station as it’s on our way, but that’s no more than I’d do for any of you.  I’ve been runnin’ this trail for thirty years, Hollis.  You know me better than to think I’d endanger us all for just one.”  His face hardened, “I wouldn’t.  Not even for my daughter, Hollis.  Are you satisfied?”

“Yes sir.”

Noah nodded, “Get back to your work, then.”

Hollis walked back to the rear of the caravan, and Noah sighed.  He looked up at the sun, curving its way west across the ocean waste.  He wondered how close his daughter would get before she died.

*

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