She’d made it as far as she could along overgrown train tracks, stumbling occasionally on clods of soil thrown up between the ties. She’d run a long time, and she’d allowed the rusted rails to set her direction. But eventually the woods around her began to darken, and she realized how much trouble she was in.
No choice at all is a choice, she said aloud, just to hear someone speak. It dawned on her, finally, what a long night it was about to be.
Everyone has a cure for their own catastrophes. Some recognize it sooner than others, and some, instead, choose to vaccinate against disaster, regardless of whether the serum contains the right formula for their bodies or not. Others stumble into infection again, again, and again, until, one day, they finally come up against the antibody that makes them immune to further chaos. We should all be so lucky to find the antidote to prior poisons. We should all be so lucky to find someone to help us heal.
All day, something gnawed at the inside of her belly—no matter how much she ate it remained unsatisfied. I don’t know what to give you, she said to herself. If you would only make your desires known more clearly, I would be happy to fulfill them.
But even when she made herself get quiet enough that she could hear the noise deep inside clatter like tiny teeth, she still couldn’t interpret it. She was missing something important, something that she wanted desperately to understand.
The thief who broke the window extracted six scarves. I had lain them in their bag on the back seat after getting a particularly good deal at a boutique; each one destined for a different friend. But when I returned to the car, pieces of window lay on the ground like brittle, fallen leaves, and the scarves were gone.
Perhaps the thief sold them, or traded them for what they want or need. But I hope they kept the most beautiful of the six, wrapping it around their throat like a talisman against our broken world.
Even when the temperatures resemble summer, California’s fall light is more autumnal than most, particularly in those hours just before sunset, when the golden slant spins particles in the air. At that honey-colored hour, I find myself unable to hurry, preferring, instead, the pace my body chooses, one careful step, then another, as if even my muscles are afraid to rush through these last days before the rains set in and darkness falls so quickly.
Sometimes, the grinding to a halt can surprise. The body does not realize how tired it is until it comes to rest, and then it fights to remain there with all its weary power. It’s better not to struggle. It’s better to give in, allow fog to permeate the brain and muffle the sounds of the world.
There will be a morning when it makes sense to wake up early again. Until then, let the thrum of the heart set the pace, let sleep come when the light fades, and let thoughts be easy upon the head.
She dipped her hand in and out of the current of air outside the window as they drove, feeling it push against her palm, against her forearm, against her elbow. She had spent so long working against the resistance of others that this slight pressure felt like freedom in her palm.
She had not expected this moment of escape, but seized it when it arrived. Sometimes the only right answer is go, now, go, right now. Even above the noise of the wind through the open window, she heard doors, far behind her, slam shut.
100 Proof 