Wind Plain 2

Blisters turned into the raw redness of frayed skin, the tingle and burn every time her brother accidentally rubbed the sorest spots that would one day become calluses, her body sucked dry, withering into leaves that wanted to fly away. Her feet barely functioned. They had become stones that inched forward with great effort. Her lips, too, had flaked into broken slits where blood oozed. But one day she would again enter a drugstore, Musak chiming in the background, the sound reminding her of lemonade and glazed donuts. In the drugstore, she would buy crates of skin cream and Carmex. But no drugstores for jack rabbits or arachnids in the desert. No water to cool the sharp sensations that developed after endless days of wind and sun.

Their skin had turned the same color as the sandstone mountains surrounding them, though Tim’s sunglasses — the only object he hadn’t yet broken — protected the pale hue beneath his eyes. When he spoke, sadness fell into her lap. “How did we get here? How did we lose so much?”

It was true that they hadn’t made a plan. No one could plan when migrating into Wind Plain. Like everyone else, they’d packed their things, placed the headsets on their temples, and left. Their parents seemed too tired to care. They didn’t ask questions. They only sat on the sofa, complaining about the plants dying in the window boxes, the pop pop pop of guns going off inside homes, in abandoned cars, even in the highest office towers. “So much terror, so little connection,” their mother said over and over.

It was their game, though. Wind Plain, a place to test abilities, to take the story as far as it could go until there was no more story left. Everyone had to believe in something. And what more was there to believe when love had been replaced by functionality, the ego boost of a liked photo, the land between home and the horizon already laid-out and preconceived. A planned life led to an unplanned game.

“I want to get drunk. This hurts too much,” Danika said. They were still alone, this time near the entrance of a shallow cave infested with bats, the only shaded spot for a nap. The relative dark felt like a balm in a place where night did not exist. Night was an idea that tugged at the soul. The more a person wanted it, the less likely it would arrive.

“Danika,” her brother croaked. “I’m hungry.” A croak that cracked. An Adam’s apple that rose and fell with each word. Hands so skeletal the tendons popped. A nose so sharp it wanted to bark. Thinness changed everything. It made the body less adorable but more pitiful.

“But we are made of light,” Danika said.

“Even light gets hungry,” he managed, though they were lighter than light.

In time, they began walking again. No words, just memories for Danika. A time before plants withered and people began migrating. A time for grandparents, holiday feasts, travel for pleasure, movie theaters, museums, restaurants, classes, music, and the thing she can’t remember anymore but which hangs in her mind like a headset heavy on the crown and temples but nagging at her like a word that no one can recall.