Mary carries a bundle on his back.
Mary carries a plastic water bottle.
Mary carries a bundle held together with zip ties.
Mary carries a broken fork and two cans of tomato sauce.
Mary’s bundle is made of a tarp with fraying edges.
Dry grass lines the churned dirt and asphalt. Mary trudges the staggering yellow line.
One month ago, the power went down and the wires silenced.
One week ago, Mary’s father gave him a pocket knife, hands shaking, then walked out the door and didn’t come back.
Yesterday, Mary turned ten. He shifts his pack and it settles on his spine. His sneakers have a pebble in the toe.
One week ago, Mary waited on his porch.
Six days ago, the dogs barked and ran.
Five days ago, Mary microwaved himself dinner, tore into the paper and dug through the shredded meat with his fork. He ran a blacklight over it and pulled out glowing plastic specks, hoping that he was as thorough as his father had been.
Four days ago, Mary walked out the door with a bundle on his back.
Mary just found a rock to kick. It’s round and it could be an eyeball, a robot eyeball. If he imagines.
The rock rolls off the road.
Four days ago, Mary woke up in the middle of the night, something rumbling, deep and forceful, in his guts. He sat for an hour, and the feeling only spread. Mary’s stomach rumbled, and he went to the kitchen. His hands shook and he rolled up the things on the table in the tarp tablecloth, for something to do. All over, the rumble tugged at his skin, pulling him outside. His lungs shook, and he opened the door. His heart rumbled, and he ran from the house.
Mary has a broken fork, two cans, and a knife. The sun is overhead, and Mary’s skin peels.
The rumble is in his legs. Exhaustion.
The rumble is in his feet. His toes spasm, and he hopes it’ll go away if he stomps harder.
The rumble is in his heart. He’ll have to walk it off.
Something is on the road.
Maybe a cow. His dogs.
A one-eyed robot.
He pulls the knife open. The metal is slick in his fist.
The dust settles, empty. Mary walks backwards to keep an eye on it.
Mary turns around and a blister on his foot pops. He pretends there are snakes in the grass to keep him company.
Three days ago, Mary slept in a barn. He walked again at dawn.
Two days ago, Mary slept restlessly, and walked for an hour at night.
Last night, Mary walked.
Today, Mary walks.
Mary is ten and he hasn’t heard an animal in days.
And now, Mary feels a hot wind on his neck. It blows his long hair into a flurry. Flecks of dirt lick his neck and his skin crawls.
Something is on the road.
The wind breaths on Mary’s neck, and he runs.
The whirlwind chases him, an inch behind his heels when he looks back. The fine dust launches into his eyes, burning like the sun.
The rumbling is all around him, and Mary hears the hurricane scream.
The wind drops as Mary runs into town.
The rumble in Mary tells him to keep running.
For the first time in four days, Mary tries to fight it.
Jaw clenched, he pushes his feet into the ground, but takes another step.
Mary enters an empty mechanic’s garage. He locks the door and gives the rumble a wrench to hold. Mary is ten and his knife is folded.
Mary is on the edge of an unknown town and his fingertips are bloody from running them along the table. His toes are scraped from kicking the door. Mary is shaking, weeping at dusk, and all he wants is to be held.
Something is on the road. Waiting.
The rumble pulls his hand to the door.
Mary steps out of the garage and into the hurricane’s embrace. It sucks on his skin and pulls the flaking sunburn into the sky.
The rumbling travels up Mary’s esophagus and settles on his tongue. The bundle rips from his back and the storm’s wrath tears it to shreds. The cans burst, splattering red. Mary heaves a gasp of dirt when the juice scatters on his face, and finally the rumble churning over his teeth escapes in a hoarse scream.
The sound tears his throat and works deep into his torso, spilling into his sick stomach. Mary screams until he feels acid in his throat. The storm sucks away the scream, and the contents of Mary’s stomach force through his lips.
The boy retches bile and food onto the road. He wipes his chin on his sleeve and stares down the wind. He’s given what he can.
The wind covers him in an airy swell, then scatters the sick across the asphalt. Mary watches the tiny plastic fork tine he vomited get sucked into the hurricane. The storm screams again, and this time he recognizes it as screeching, squeezing plastic waste, then the hurricane explodes into nothing.
Mary lies in the wake of a hurricane. Red drips into his vision and he wipes his forehead where the asphalt holds warmth from the day, his millions of pores sand-scrubbed.
Mary gets to his feet, flesh and bone and entirely himself.
Mary carries a plastic water bottle.
Mary carries a bundle held together with zip ties.
Mary carries a broken fork and two cans of tomato sauce.
Mary’s bundle is made of a tarp with fraying edges.
Dry grass lines the churned dirt and asphalt. Mary trudges the staggering yellow line.
One month ago, the power went down and the wires silenced.
One week ago, Mary’s father gave him a pocket knife, hands shaking, then walked out the door and didn’t come back.
Yesterday, Mary turned ten. He shifts his pack and it settles on his spine. His sneakers have a pebble in the toe.
One week ago, Mary waited on his porch.
Six days ago, the dogs barked and ran.
Five days ago, Mary microwaved himself dinner, tore into the paper and dug through the shredded meat with his fork. He ran a blacklight over it and pulled out glowing plastic specks, hoping that he was as thorough as his father had been.
Four days ago, Mary walked out the door with a bundle on his back.
Mary just found a rock to kick. It’s round and it could be an eyeball, a robot eyeball. If he imagines.
The rock rolls off the road.
Four days ago, Mary woke up in the middle of the night, something rumbling, deep and forceful, in his guts. He sat for an hour, and the feeling only spread. Mary’s stomach rumbled, and he went to the kitchen. His hands shook and he rolled up the things on the table in the tarp tablecloth, for something to do. All over, the rumble tugged at his skin, pulling him outside. His lungs shook, and he opened the door. His heart rumbled, and he ran from the house.
Mary has a broken fork, two cans, and a knife. The sun is overhead, and Mary’s skin peels.
The rumble is in his legs. Exhaustion.
The rumble is in his feet. His toes spasm, and he hopes it’ll go away if he stomps harder.
The rumble is in his heart. He’ll have to walk it off.
Something is on the road.
Maybe a cow. His dogs.
A one-eyed robot.
He pulls the knife open. The metal is slick in his fist.
The dust settles, empty. Mary walks backwards to keep an eye on it.
Mary turns around and a blister on his foot pops. He pretends there are snakes in the grass to keep him company.
Three days ago, Mary slept in a barn. He walked again at dawn.
Two days ago, Mary slept restlessly, and walked for an hour at night.
Last night, Mary walked.
Today, Mary walks.
Mary is ten and he hasn’t heard an animal in days.
And now, Mary feels a hot wind on his neck. It blows his long hair into a flurry. Flecks of dirt lick his neck and his skin crawls.
Something is on the road.
The wind breaths on Mary’s neck, and he runs.
The whirlwind chases him, an inch behind his heels when he looks back. The fine dust launches into his eyes, burning like the sun.
The rumbling is all around him, and Mary hears the hurricane scream.
The wind drops as Mary runs into town.
The rumble in Mary tells him to keep running.
For the first time in four days, Mary tries to fight it.
Jaw clenched, he pushes his feet into the ground, but takes another step.
Mary enters an empty mechanic’s garage. He locks the door and gives the rumble a wrench to hold. Mary is ten and his knife is folded.
Mary is on the edge of an unknown town and his fingertips are bloody from running them along the table. His toes are scraped from kicking the door. Mary is shaking, weeping at dusk, and all he wants is to be held.
Something is on the road. Waiting.
The rumble pulls his hand to the door.
Mary steps out of the garage and into the hurricane’s embrace. It sucks on his skin and pulls the flaking sunburn into the sky.
The rumbling travels up Mary’s esophagus and settles on his tongue. The bundle rips from his back and the storm’s wrath tears it to shreds. The cans burst, splattering red. Mary heaves a gasp of dirt when the juice scatters on his face, and finally the rumble churning over his teeth escapes in a hoarse scream.
The sound tears his throat and works deep into his torso, spilling into his sick stomach. Mary screams until he feels acid in his throat. The storm sucks away the scream, and the contents of Mary’s stomach force through his lips.
The boy retches bile and food onto the road. He wipes his chin on his sleeve and stares down the wind. He’s given what he can.
The wind covers him in an airy swell, then scatters the sick across the asphalt. Mary watches the tiny plastic fork tine he vomited get sucked into the hurricane. The storm screams again, and this time he recognizes it as screeching, squeezing plastic waste, then the hurricane explodes into nothing.
Mary lies in the wake of a hurricane. Red drips into his vision and he wipes his forehead where the asphalt holds warmth from the day, his millions of pores sand-scrubbed.
Mary gets to his feet, flesh and bone and entirely himself.