“You all right?” Her grip was gentle on my shoulder, the hand hard and calloused.
“Yeah, yeah, fine. I was just thinking.” I waited a beat for ‘I thought I smelled something burning’ or ‘I’ll alert the press’. She just squeezed and released.
“You know, “ I started, slow and measured, “when he told me everyone was expendable I thought he meant individually. Individually I agree with. Individually I expected.”
Scorched earth was supposed to be one of those transparent mission names or tribal agriculture. I’d been trying to remember things like that for four days, not mission names, human things, slash and burn so when the tribe came back the ash would settle into the earth like lime and take another crop.
She worked her jaw like she was going to say something; I felt it against my back. It was familiar, almost comforting, like wife, mother, sister. I hadn’t known her in the world.
“There,” she pointed her armpit and breast pressed against me. I leaned back.
“What?”
“The Quonset Hut.”
“What about it?”
“It’s not on fire.”
“Yeah, and?”
“Nothing. It’s just not on fire.”
“August 12th 2013.”
“What’s that?”
“The only day in my own history where absolutely nothing happened. I think I rode an elevator. There was a show on TV where the bad guys shot at the good guy but couldn’t hit him. I went to sleep early. I think in all the world every single Quonset Hut was not on fire.”
She squeezed again and walked away. Her feet on the ashes were like wind in the barley.
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