I tuck desert blossoms around the puffer fish so it lies on a bed of petals, and I add a few flowers to the spines, as well. I hum as I work. It’s one of Peter’s tunes. He constantly hums or sings, usually songs that I don’t recognize. Lost music. Stepping back, I admire the fish. He looks like he floated here out of a fantastical picture book. I should name him...but maybe Claire will want to do that.
Since Peter and Claire aren’t home yet to admire my find, I head to the living room and pluck a book off the shelf. Peter collects books like a squirrel hoards nuts, and I’ve been adding to his collection with books that I’ve found, mostly library books. Settling into the couch between a dozen mismatched throw pillows, I glance out the bay window, still partially blocked by the stop sign—
Dust.
It’s all I see.
Brown-red, blotting out the desert and the sky. It’s as if a pastel were smeared across the world, blurring everything together. Spilling the book onto the floor, I run to the window.
I see blue sky immediately overhead and red desert in front of me—it isn’t all dust. I can breathe again. I thought...I thought it was all gone, and I was alone, stranded in this house, an island in a sea of dust. But no, there’s sky and there’s earth and there are mesquite trees and there’s a tire, a hat, and several cell phones strewn between them. I even see a bird flit across the blue. It veers toward the dust and then sharply away, angling over the desert, as if it, too, knows to avoid the unnatural dust storm that squats instead of swirls.
Still, I can’t relax. I can’t return to my book. I can’t do anything but stare out the window, trying to calculate the distance between the house and the void.
Half a mile,I think.
It’s never been this close. I’m sure of it. Mostly sure. I pace in front of the window, trying to see it from different angles. Usually, it’s a smear on the horizon like haze over pavement on a hot day. It’s never filled a portion of the sky before.
Behind me, I hear theclick-click-clackof our homemade lock on the front door, followed by bounding footsteps in the hall and then Claire’s voice from the dining room. “Wow! Porcupine fish!” She coos over the fish with exactly the enthusiasm I wanted, but I don’t move from the window.
Peter’s feet are soft on the carpet behind me. “Well played.” His voice is musical, amused. Five minutes ago, I would have loved to hear those words.
I point out the window. “It’s closer.”
He’s silent. At last, he says, “Yes.”
“Much closer?”
“Much closer.”
I stare at the dust. It seems motionless.
He perches beside me on the window seat. Out of the corner of my eye, I see his face, serious, even sad. His eyes are deep black pools as if he’s in shadow instead of the bright daylight.
Hugging my arms, I picture the dust cloud creeping closer and closer, spreading and swallowing everything in its path. “Why is this happening?”
“‘If you believe,’ he shouted to them, ‘clap your hands; don’t let Tink die.’ Many clapped. Some didn’t. A few beasts hissed.” Peter traces circles in the dust on the window. I wonder if it’s desert dust or debris from the void or if there’s a difference.
I shake my head. “I don’t—”
“‘What we call our despair is often only the painful eagerness of unfed hope.’ The beasts are hissing with the pain of their unfed hope. But they should clap instead.” He sounds as if he’s earnestly imparting wisdom, but he’s not making sense. I don’t think he’s teasing me. There’s no humor in his eyes. I wonder if he slips into the cryptic speak when he’s afraid. It’s an unnerving thought, and I hope I’m wrong. Peter enters and exits the void all the time searching for lost people. He couldn’t be afraid of it.
“What happens if it reaches the house?” I want him to say that it will pass by, or that it wouldn’t reach the house, that it will stop just beyond the town, but it’s so vast that I can’t imagine any structure blocking it. “Peter, what will happen?” My voice rises.
Claire pads into the room. “Oh. She noticed?”
“Yes,” Peter says simply.
“Told you she would.”
“I need an explanation, a clear explanation, please.” I think my voice is remarkably calm, given the situation. “Why is it closer? Is it closer everywhere? Is it contracting around us? Is it swallowing us?” I am shouting. I clap my mouth shut so hard that it rattles my jaw. Suddenly, it occurs to me that I don’t need them to answer the last question. I can see for myself. Pivoting, I march to the bike behind the couch.
Claire trails after me as I pull the bike through the hall and carry it outside. Out of the corner of my eye, I see that Peter has followed, too. He stops on the porch. Claire launches herself off the steps and climbs onto the back of the bike behind me. She wraps her skinny arms around my waist and leans against my back. I’m on the tip of the bike seat, but I don’t object.
I look at Peter. He looks oddly lonely standing on the porch of the house, the front door swung open wide behind him. His face is carefully blank, as if he’s hiding sadness or fear or some other emotion darker than either of those.
Leaving him, I ride with Claire out of the yard toward the dust.
The sun beats down, and I feel sweat prickle my back where Claire clutches me, her arms tight around my stomach. My hands are slick on the handlebars. Last time I rode out to the border, it took an hour. This time, I reach it much, much faster.
