What Happened to the Bad Guys?

“What happened to the bad guys? I mean the real bad guys. Those real pieces of work. The irredeemable shitheads. The melt the polar icecaps because it’s fun kind of guys. The ‘I’m going to blow up the Grand Canyon’ fellows.”

“They aren’t very relatable.”

“So? I don’t want them to be. I want some dick-head scaling the Eiffel Tower to install his brain melter because he ate a bad apple pie one time. I don’t want a grim reflection of society. I want someone a hero can come up and sock in the face.”

“Then where’s your story? Where’s the emotional connection?”

“The connection is the fist to the face. I don’t need it to be real. Fun is fine with me. Why does everything need to be so serious? The world is already scary enough. Why can’t we just take a break and have some fun?

“But we can’t ignore the world we live in. A good villain says something about the world. Someone that makes us look into ourselves.”

“Why not switch it up for a little bit? I’m not saying forever, just a few doomsday devices and mutant zombies. Let’s punch some fool hell-bent on turning the oceans into lava. Stop some world-killer psycho who had too many uranium nuggets in his Froot Loops. I don’t need morally gray. I need morally wrong. The bad. The ugly. Give me a lady who shoots dogs for fun and runs over orphans on her days off. Give me someone who wants to blow up the fucking moon.”

“Where is the lesson in that? A great villain is a great character. Characters need a story. They need a thread for the audience. Otherwise, why watch? Why read?”

“Because blowing shit up is cool. I don’t need a story about someone who’s been abused or tortured. We’ve seen so many spiteful villains strike against a world they seek to fix. But where are the villains that don’t give a single crap? We need more dumb idiot villains. Big thugs with big ideas. Evil with a capital E. Come on. We could all use a bit of exaggerated drama, right?”

“That just sounds cheap and lazy.”

“Does that make it bad? Does that make it not fun? Would you rather have one thousand more stories that tell us how bad the world is? We get it. Everything sucks. But there’s something special about trying to save the world from a villain who thinks North America would look better painted Navy Blue. Come on, don’t you want to stop Dr. Thunder and his quest to light the Amazon on fire?”

“I don’t know.”

“Fine. I’ll go blow up Alaska myself.”

Hitchhikers

Dad always had a weird fascination with hitchhikers. “You get the best stories from hitchhikers.” He’d say whenever we’d drive past someone with their thumb out on the freeway. He had promised Mom he stopped years ago, but we knew the truth. He’s a bad liar. Too proud of the good he thinks he’s doing for the downtrodden and car deprived. A few weeks would pass, and he’d miraculously remember another story from his old philanthropic uber rides, being sure to add, “Don’t tell Mom” at the end.

I imagine he thought himself a part of their story, an important landmark on a stranger’s road trip. I always imagined him as some mystical figure in an old fantasy novel. My dad squealing down on the asphalt in his scuffed-up Subaru Crosstrek, dorky sunglasses, and receding hairline. “Where to?” he’d ask, trumpets playing over his radio. I don’t even think that was far from the truth. He always did have a flair for the dramatic.

I don’t know how many hitchhikers he’s picked up over his years, but based on his stories, it’d be enough to employ a full-blown circus. He’s driven a man to the Canadian border to escape his own wedding, a Norwegian woman desperate to see the Grand Canyon, a pair of twins who definitely “weren’t” on the run, and a blind Vietnam veteran.

My dad’s cast of roadside characters had a special charm to them. In a way, they were my king Arthurs and Luke Skywalkers: Terry, the middle-aged man just trying to find a job on the west coast. Did that make my dad Merlin or Obi-Wan, cruising over the dusty road in his Subaru in search of weary travelers?

No, I don’t think so. But he did have some great stories.

Marlo’s Wagon

Marlo came to town twice a year. Once before the New Year and once more on Summer Solstice. He wheeled down the main road, perched on top of his wagon that hitched and belched exhaust into the evening air. Trinkets and decorations draped across the roof of his machine clanging together as he whistled his blind tune. Marlo’s bi-annual visitations were a kind of holiday special to our backwater town. Living so far from New Boston, we had few chances to acquire the bits and pieces that we needed so desperately to keep our community running.

It was the week before the New Year when he arrived. The gray snow had covered most of our fields, and the bots were powered down in the old warehouses on the outskirt of town. Winter was a time for us to stay warm and save energy. We weren’t like those in the city with their towers that broke the sky and were warm all year round. We got by, but just barely. And it was thanks to Marlo that we passed through the winters with any semblance of comfort.

This year his rickety wagon popped and whistled down the road, hovering above the snow and scorching it black with exhaust. By the time he made it past the ancient train station, most of the town was surrounding the man and his strange machine. He brought with him replacement parts for our bots and fresh thermo-gel to fill our homes with. In return, we gave him saved grains from the fall harvest and barley stew. It wasn’t much, but Marlo never seemed to mind.

He brought news of Old Concord and a toxic break that had slammed the town down from the Charles canal. Concord was a much larger town than ours. It was difficult to believe it could be wiped off the map in such a short amount of time. It was another reminder that living so far out West wasn’t a terrible thing. This far in the hills, we could only catch the distant glow of the city, like a never-setting sun. Up closer, the lights were blinding. The smell was suffocating. And well, now toxic breaks were wiping out entire towns.

Marlo’s wagon, he told us, was his creation. He had built it using old twenty-first-century automobile parts—the kind that still used fossil fuels—strapped with junkyard glider cars that most of the city folk operate. Its metal chunks Marlo kept their original color, a quilted metal look of welded sheets and strange apparatuses. The bed of his wagon was ripped from an old pickup truck he had found in the Lowell waste yards north of New Boston’s borders. He always made sure to tell us there was nothing like it out across the Territories, and we all believed it.

However, his wagon told stories that we didn’t. Every year, it would return just a slight bit different. Sometimes it’d be a new door, others a new front shield, and one year he had come with an entirely different exhaust stack. We knew the distance between the cities and our little village was dangerous. We could see it in new plasma burns and bullet holes. In faded bloodstains, Marlo so desperately tried to pass off as rust. We all knew the bands of marauders that stalked the old high roads and the wild animals desperate for food. They were things we had to hold back ourselves, Things we needed our bots for. But we appreciated Marco’s silence of the matter. There was so much to be afraid of in this world. Sometimes it was nice to just be happy.

It was because of this man’s kindness that we were allowed to stay in our hills. Yes, farming was rough on barren soil, but with his delivered fertilizer and bot parts, we kept at it. Out in the city, he told us folks ate ground roaches and synthetic meats grown from trash. Earth-grown food was a rarity in the blinding cities that were growing across the Territories. It was nice to know that despite how little we had, we had something they didn’t. Marlo always seemed pleased when we offered him crop, and if he had been eating bug paste and plastic meat like the others out East, I could see why. If I were him, I’d hike out to the western edge of the Commonwealth for a good snack too.

Like every visit, Marco eventually leaves. His wagon grinds and growls back down the path leading into the dark foothills. We know he’ll be back in a few more months. His wagon will be a bit different, and he’ll bring stories of New Boston and the surrounding towns. We’ll have some more crop for him by then, and he’ll give us some more parts and thermal gel to ward off the summer chill. Yes, many of us fear the day Marlo doesn’t come belching up our path. We all know that day will come, and when it does, we’ll have to figure out a new way to get the parts and gel we need to survive so far West. But we have yet to reach that day. Until then, we have our personal holiday at the edge of the territory. The day we can all wake up to Marlo and his big metal wagon.

Ocean of Gas

Amber smoke pillared into the green atmosphere. An endless tide of toxic gas swirled and shifted across the muddy crust of Karak. From orbit, the planet resembled a swirling orange marble. It reminded me of tiny Jupiter. Unlike Jupiter, we learned very fast that Karak had much more than gas. Hollow-bodied creatures rode the currents like rays in the ocean. Large bulbous invertebrates hovered around yellow forests that grew along geyser ridges. Ropey mycelium draped down jagged mountains, and vein-laced lily pads floated across soupy clouds in great flotillas. Below, dense mud, packed from the refuse fallen from the ecosystem above, formed the ground. A graveyard of the gas ocean, creating a grim yet beautiful world of barnacles and bottom feeders. Hard-shelled arthropods scuttled in herds, shuffling between the refuse, and dark-shelled mollusks plucked at low-hanging fungus around shallow geysers. Alien as it was, we could all recognize the balance at play. Two worlds mirroring each other, one of light, soaring creatures riding toxic gales, the other, a dingy underworld of muck and scuttling scavengers. Both beautiful.

We watched this world from our camp at the peak of a great crystalline mountain, far above the gas level. The mountain had been formed by cooling gasses and debris, hardened over millions of years. Starved from the greater gas pools, very little called this place home. Yet, there was life. A colony of small, carapaced crustaceans called shared our peak and offered our team something to watch on our slow days between expeditions. The creatures scuttled across the summit, carving tunnels and breeding posts around our camp, shifting every day. It was a constant reminder of the relentlessness of life.

Here we were, light-years from the colonies, on top of a toxic ocean. Terrestrial creatures from a planet of water, visiting creatures of gas. We sat on an island peak seeing for the first time life so alien yet so familiar. Our world once looked like this: primal, natural, undisturbed by the workings of a destructive species. Now that we were here, it was our job to make sure it would stay that way.

Twenty Years to Live

Twenty years ago, they told us we had ten years until our hearts failed. Many called the lifesaving operation a miracle. I still have the headline stuffed in my bookshelf: “Miraculous medical breakthrough saves lost generation.” They were calling it the Second Chance Procedure. Everyone marveled and watched and cheered as they rolled us out of the hospital, metal implants still hot in our chests. We were the spark of hope the world needed so desperately. The generation born into pollution, overpopulation, and disease, condemned to an early death. Yet, despite it all, we survived. We became normal. Our novelty wore off, and now we’re in our thirties, lives shaped by that single day.

Fran grunted through the back window, signaling the end of my break, her voice harsh as the cigarette she sucked on.

I lifted myself off a rotted bench in the back alley between the sub-shop and the barber’s, stretched my sore, crooked back, grabbed my worn broom, and walked through the narrow ally to the storefront. A train rattled across the rusty bridge overhead, shaking tiny rocks and flecks of trash onto the walkway like dirty snow. I rubbed the lump in my chest with my knuckles and returned to work. Under the alternating neon sign of a plump Italian man eating a meatball sub, I swept rubble off the walkway.

Across the block, in the shadow of the train bridge, squatted a row of congested shops and restaurants. Many remained empty. Their rooves drooped low like heavy-brimmed hats, boarded and empty, but others, similar to Fran’s, pulsed cheap neon greetings into the evening gloom. Around the collection of buildings slumped figures that wiped filth from the poorly tended entryways and smoked cigarettes on the curb. Very few spoke.

All of us worked jobs like these. It was all we were qualified for, and our employers knew it. At this point, we’ve all probably worked the same jobs. I imagined it was the same in other cities like New York or Chicago. Probably. I’d never have the money to find out, and what would I do with that information? Get another job at another sub shop? I could barely afford my apartment as is. Hell, most of us just slept right under the train bridge until the police stomped us out like roaches.

You see, when you’re told you only have ten years to spend your life, things like school, a job, and raising a family fall from your priorities. Those are things for people with full lives. Why would we try to apply to colleges or even finish high school? We had plenty of support too. Everyone wanted to be there for the lost generation, to show they cared, and wanted to help make our short lives enjoyable—at least until our short lives ended up being not so short.

Suddenly those that worked so hard to make sure we enjoyed our few years not only stopped caring but became upset they cared at all. As if we didn’t deserve all their attention. Like they cashed their checks and found us empty. We were just going to die just like any normal person.

Over the next hour, the usual patrons stumbled drunk into Fran’s. Beer musk and ripe vodka covered the customers like an unwashed coat, and stale cigarette smoke followed the cohort like a cloud of mosquitos. I picked up their butts and mopped their discolored spit, and cleaned tables smeared with grease and cheese.

Sixteen years ago, they took us to “Pearls of the Caribbean.” A resort on the Gulf Coast with the clearest water in Mexico. Mothers and fathers cried on free resort towels as we splashed in crystal shallows. I had my first kiss with a girl named Rosaline on our second night there during high tide. Our chaperones took a picture and posted it all over social media. We spent the next four days collecting sand dollars and sunburns while a chattering sea of cameras snapped pictures from the dunes.

I emptied a dustpan full of ash, wrappers, and peanut shells into the back dumpster, careful not to cut myself on the broken handle. Down the alley, I saw Maryanne. She worked at Fran’s a year before I did and now cleaned the hair off Tito’s barbershop floor. She didn’t look as I turned away. Both of us were stuck in memories.

When most kids were in school, they took us to Disney World. We rode the teacups, and ate funnel cakes, and laughed at the characters, and screamed on the rollercoasters. I made plenty of friends back then: Danny, Ryan, Melanie. They took us camping on a week-long trip to Yellowstone. We ate s’mores under the stars and told ghost stories while our parents drafted eulogies in the waning firelight.

I don’t know where Ryan or Melanie went, but last I heard, Danny worked at a gas station a few miles out of the city, pumping fuel into sports cars and minivans. We all had bills and debts and a hell of a lot to worry about. None of us could ever hope to regain the life we had as kids. Things only worsened when shortly after our twenty-first birthdays, we learned that The Second Chance Procedure wasn’t free.

Yeah, after we failed at joining a society that pretended to care, the doctors decided that the thousands of free treatments cost them too much. That they needed the money to make sure this type of thing didn’t happen again. We did have the rest of our lives to pay for it, after all. They say we should be thankful.

I remember the time they brought us tubing down the Swiss Alps and snorkeling in Australia. We saw London, Paris, and Tokyo. We got to experience more in those ten years than anything I could ever hope for today. Some folk born normal never left their city. Maybe it’s only fair that we spend the rest of our lives in alleys and gas stations and barbershops. Maybe this isn’t so much of a second chance as it is payment for everything we got to see. But those were never things we asked for.

My shift ended at 10:00 p.m., but like every day, Fran had me stay till midnight. The shop needed extra cleaning when we were understaffed, and we were always understaffed. Only me and the cook worked here, and I didn’t even know his full name—Marcus, something. He worked late too, past one a.m. every day.

After closing, a herd of us trudged down paths under the bridges. Like a tide of mud, slow and tired, we worked our way back to our apartments and shacks in staggering shifts. Few of us spoke. We only reminded each other what we didn’t have anymore.

They told us we were healed. That we were now like everyone else and that we should act like it. I’m not so sure about that. We were brought up like spoiled children and dropped on the street once our novelty vanished. We were no longer special and left worse than normal. All we had were metal hearts and a lack of the real world. None of us chose this.

The future didn’t matter until suddenly it did.

I unlocked my apartment door, and on half-functioning autopilot, marched down my uneven hallway to my musty room and collapsed on my yellow, sweat-stained comforter. Claws skittered over the scratched wood floors and down the dark hall. Outside, a police siren blared into the night, like a sick wolf howling at the hidden moon. I pulled my lamp string and snaped on the dim orange light. It buzzed against the green walls of my small room.

On my side, I stared at my bookshelf. It slumped to the right with the few books I owned leaning against each other like malnourished children. I owned a torn dictionary, a dark-yellowed phone book, and one color-washed copy of Frankenstein that I never read. Beneath the dictionary, an old, faded news headline peaked out like a periscope, its white corner a pinpoint in the grime. My mother had printed it for me on the day after the procedure. I couldn’t see the headline, but I didn’t need to.

“Miraculous medical breakthrough saves lost generation.” I pulled the blankets over my legs and looked to the ceiling.

They were right about one thing. We really were lost.

A Request to Colonize

“I, Fa-rex, president of Federation Mining Co, bring the settling of planet E4-T44 to the attention of the Intergalactic Colonization Committee.” The three committee members, Fa-ree, Fa-roo, and Fa-raa, sat still as Fa-rex continued to deliver his information. “E4-T44 is an oxygen-based planet with an abundance of liquid water, an ample supply of biodiversity, and is rich in natural resources. It is the ideal location for a harvest colony on the Federation’s southern border. With the committee’s approval, our in-orbit drones can begin preparations for full-scale colonization. We can be up and running within one of E4-T44’s orbital rotations.”

Fa-ree, the Chairman of the committee looked from the data-slate Fa-rex had provided. “And this is at the request of a mining company?”

“Yes, Chairman. We were undergoing extensive asteroid mining on the system’s outer belt when we uncovered the planet’s existence. I believe that E4-T44 will benefit not just our mineral extraction, but also provide a stable and healthy colony for the Federation.”

Fa-raa, the eldest of the committee spoke, her voice like that of cracking bone, “Why has this planet not been colonized already? The sector surrounding this system is dominated by a dozen smaller empires, many of which are hostile to our Federation. It is unusual for such a planet to be left untouched. If E4-T44 is as suitable for our needs as you say it is, then why isn’t it already claimed?”

The other committee members were quick to pick up on her concerns. “There have been previous attempts at colonization from three of the southern empires.” Councilman Fa-roo, the final councilmember, did not look away from the provided data. “But they seem to have given up.”

Fa-raa turned an eye stalk at him. “And why would that be?”

Fa-roo continued, “Your report, Fa-rex, indicates a large population of local fauna.” Behind him, images snapped from orbital cameras displayed E4-T44’s inhabitants.

Chairman Fa-ree nodded his bulbous head as if figuring out the key to some cosmic riddle. “Vermin. It seems E4-T44 suffers from quite a heavy infestation.” The images displayed masses of bipedal creatures with furry heads and pink bodies covered in colorful rags that crowded in congested concrete nests with crude metal machinery. “They have erected super-nests on each major continent and have infested E4-T44’s most desolate biomes and produce quite an excessive amount of waste, both manufactured and biological. Look at their oceans. It would take an extreme effort to filter out all of their filth.” Again, he nodded to himself.

“Their population is nearing the eight billion mark and growing.” Fa-roo said this as if reading an interesting fact off the back of a cereal box.

Fa-rex wiped the sweat from his eyestalks. “Yes, the local fauna poses some initial colonization difficulties, but we have the resources that the surrounding empires do not. With your aid, it would be a simple solution to remove the creatures, and afterward, decontamination would take less than half an orbit with the right allocation of material. As I said, we have drones ready to begin the necessary preparations.”

“You are the president of a mining company.” Fa-raa brought her multi-digited hands together. “Do you propose turning your drilling equipment on these creatures?” She asked this more of a joke but Fa-rex did not seem to notice.

“We will do whatever we can to aid the colonization comities efforts. This would be as good for my company as it would be for the entire Federation. Not only does Federation Mining provide 80% of the entire federation’s mineral resources we—”

Fa-ree held one of his four hands out to silence Fa-rex. “This meeting has not gathered to justify the importance of your company, Fa-rex. And you will not be using government issued mining drones to exterminate vermin. We understand your concerns, but you must understand the logistical difficulty of undertaking such a heavy investment for a planet that—to be blunt—should be condemned. Even if E4-T44 had once been a prime colonization spot, its galactic positioning and its infestation make this a difficult proposition. Sometimes it is best to leave vermin nests like these alone. This would not be the first time we have unfortunately had to pass up on seemingly ideal worlds. Leave it for one of the fledgling empires to figure out. At best, we can hope that in a millennium or two we will have a possible trade endeavor with whoever is unfortunate enough to actually settle this place.”

“Councilmembers. I humbly beg for your consideration.”

“We fund colonization efforts, not extermination,” Fa-raa snapped. “This is not the department of pest control. Removing the local vermin from this planet would cost far too much effort and time. These creatures have already touched their own moon. They will not simply vanish during our process. We pride ourselves in cost-effective and timely colonization and this would neither. Add in the danger of setting up a vulnerable colony in a volatile sector, and I do not see any more reason to consider this request. I vote to deny this offer and turn the decision to my two other councilmembers who should feel the same. We would have better luck searching for a planet with a lower indigenous fauna population.”

Faa-rex held firm. “We already have a fleet on the system’s edge. If you give us less than half an orbit, I can prove that we can accomplish this with minimum effort.”

Fa-roo, who still kept himself buried in Fa-rex’s report itched his front nose. “It would be beneficial to have a stable outpost to the south. Ignoring the potential resource gain, having more sway on the southern empires could provide worthwhile.” He did not see the death stare that Fa-raa gave him. “I vote we give him a chance. Let’s say a certification with a two-cycle expiration date. Fa-ree, Fa-raa?”

“I have already stated my opinion. I will not endorse such a waste of resources on a planet overrun by fleshy bipeds.”

This left the decision to the Chairman who looked between both of his councilmembers with his eyestalks.

“Please, Chairman.” Fa-rex bowed.

Several more images of E4-T44 snapped by as Fa-roo continued delving through the information. Some displayed acts of crude warfare, others destroyed and burnt forests, and a few showed detailed image of towering structures crammed with filth. Fa-ree examined these images for a long moment, the silence filled by Fa-roo’s nails tapping on the data-slate.

The Chairman lowered his head. “Fa-rex, we appreciate your interest in expanding the federation’s border and commend your effort in wishing to assist in the colonization process, but at this time we as a council do not feel it is our path. I am declining your request for certification to colonize planet E4-T44. You may return in four orbits to reapproach this issue if you deem it necessary. We thank you for your time and ask you to leave.”

Fa-rex stood with his four fists balled as the projection room went black around him. He stood there for another ten minutes, reviewing the information he had compiled for his request. Another rejection. His fourth in total, the other three from different commissions across the Federation.

Another minute passed and the room flicked back to life, displaying yet another desk with another host of committee members.

Fa-rex cleared his frilled throat. “Good day. I Fa-Rex address the Board of Tourism and Space Travel with the interest of planet, E4-T44. I believe it would make a great location for the Federation’s next tourism hotspot.”

Pest Control

I reached into the burrow up to my forearm. Warm slime coated the concrete, bored out by pincers as strong as industrial clamps. My face pressed against the gymnasium wall as I fished inside for the little critter. A small gathering of teachers and students watched from the other side of the gymnasium, straining to watch my work. I never enjoyed working with onlookers, especially not children. In the matter of shrimp removal, finger severing was a common occurrence. The last thing I wanted was to be responsible for scaring some kid’s childhood.

After a few more seconds of sliding my hand down the burrow, I touched the shrimp’s spiny carapace. Even with my protective gloves, an angry shrimp could cut through bone. It was not a comforting fact, but I had dealt with enough of these critters in my life to hold a healthy level of caution. Right now, the shrimp inside was sedated. At least, that’s what I assumed as my fingers had yet to be snipped off.

“Did it pinch you?” One of the children called from across the gym, his voice echoing.

With my index finger and thumb, I grabbed the back of the shrimp’s shell where the tail met the abdomen. It pressed its body against the wall and secreted a stream of mucus—the same that coated the entrance. A worker this far from the burrow center meant that the infestation was still young. Any longer and defenders would begin to spawn, and those were far worse to deal with than workers.

I spun the shrimp so its rear faced the exit. It clicked in dazed confusion as I pulled it from its burrow with a squelch. Its body was the size of my open hand and covered in a dark turquoise shell with two pincers double the size of its body. I dropped the shrimp inside the containment cage back on the table.

One down, seven to go.

After another thirty minutes, I removed the last worker. By now, the teachers had guided their students back to class, leaving me alone in the gymnasium. Only the queen remained.

With shrimp season at its peak, there was no saying how many more times I’d need to do this. With the queens in full reproduction, infestations were cropping up all over town. It was exhausting work.

I started by snaking my camera into the burrow. It took ten minutes to locate the central shaft and the connected queen warren. It was about two meters down, rooted into the school’s foundation. For the next thirty minutes, my drill growled through the gymnasium as it chewed through the concrete. I started at the edges of the burrow, working in circles around the entrance’s circumference until a fine layer of rock dust coated my boots. Soon, the tunnel was wide enough to fit my torso through, and I could see the main access tunnel.

I cleaned my hands on my pants and sat at my table for lunch. I ate my ham sandwich and inspected the many other holes currently covered up across the wall. By the look of it, the nest was no more than two weeks old. Any longer and this could have been much more problematic.

Footsteps approached from across the gym. I had expected it to be Principal Stevens coming to rage at the damage to his wall, but instead a young girl passed by. She looked no older than twelve, with black, braided hair, and vibrant purple eyes—a typical sight on Paxus. She frowned at the blocked holes in the wall and the caged shrimp.

Without saying a word, she stepped up to the open tunnel, peered inside, turned and marched over to the captured shrimp.

She picked up one of the small cages and brought it to eye level. “What are you going to do to them?”

I swallowed my lunch and cleared my throat. “Put that down. It’s dangerous.”

The shrimp inside snapped at her, bulky claws unable to grip the smooth glass.

“What are you going to do to them?” She stared at me as if daring me to take the shrimp from her.

“I’m going to release them back to the wild. They’re too dangerous to keep in the school.”

“Why does everyone hate them? They aren’t evil.”

“They cause a lot of trouble. If this nest stays here for much longer, they’d have to close down the school.”

“That doesn’t sound like a bad thing.”

I laughed and finished off the rest of my sandwich as the girl stared into the cage.

“Shouldn’t you be in class?” I walked back to the wall and grabbed the drill.

“I told Miss Markson I was using the bathroom. I like to come and look at the shrimp. But now you’re taking them away.”

I inspected my drill, wiping clean the concrete dust. I used to skip class much like she was doing to hunt for rust louse and other critters that made their way into this old building. I’d scoop up nests of crab flies and bring them out to the playground and release them among the corals.

“Have you ever seen a shrimp queen before?”

The girl turned from the cage and squinted. “Are you going to hurt it?”

“No, I promise. They’re beautiful creatures, much more colorful than the workers.”

“Really?” She took a few steps forward but I stopped her.

“Careful, I still have a bit of drilling to do. You sit there and keep the shrimp company while I dig out their queen.”

She took a seat beside the table, pulling out more cages and aligning them in a half-circle around her. The shrimp tapped at the glass with their oversized claws, irritated by their enclosure. Attempting to calm them down, the girl brushed her finger over the cage and cooed. This was drowned out by my drill.

After five minutes I stopped. “There.”

“The shrimp don’t seem to like the noise.”

“Good thing I’m done then.”

I unplugged the drill and placed it on the floor before putting my gloves back on. The queen may not have the claws of her underlings, but she wore a tough shell covered in spines. I hunched into the hole and pushed forward, sliding along the mucus-coated walls much like a shrimp would. Below, the main shaft dropped another two meters and met the hard soil of the outside plateau.

Opposite the main tunnel, the queen’s warren waited. Before jamming my arms inside, I peered into the space to locate the queen. The warren made up an oval-shaped alcove with glowing purple fungi that clung to the walls—a coveted food source meant only for the queen. She sat at the room’s center, scrunched in a defensive ball, doing her best to mask the clutch of eggs beneath her. She let out a threatening hiss as I inched forward but did not move.

She was shaped like a pinecone, her segmented body parts folded inward. Her shell was a speckle of pink and blue and flared out at the sides as if she wore an ornate dress. Thick slime secreted from the spaces between her shell, and large eyes reminiscent of jelly peered at me from its recesses. She let out an odor that smelt of rotten fish. It was a scent meant to attract her defenders, but none would come. With both hands I reached forward, careful not to move to fast. Her shell wasn’t strong enough to slice through my gloves but I wasn’t going to take any unneeded risks. She wasn’t going anywhere.

Her hissing grew to a rattle as I grabbed her, and she shook back and forth, attempting to slice my fingers with her shell. I lifted her, careful not to injure her needle-like legs hidden beneath her shell. A queen’s legs were underdeveloped as they had little need to move beyond their warrens. She weighed as much as a bowling ball, and as I lifted her, I revealed her clutch of milky white eggs that rested in a mucus-coated pile. Although I had no plans of hurting the shrimp, these eggs would need to be removed. It would be best not to tell the girl about them.

The queen watched me with her unblinking eyes as I pulled her back into the main shaft, her antenna flicking from her face and snapping at my wrists. She continued to hiss and clatter, and her odor strengthened to the point where I could taste it. She was a magnificent creature, doing only what she needed to survive. But she had picked the wrong home. I felt sorry for the little queen. “Is she okay?” the girl asked as I began to pull myself back outside.

I turned and presented the queen to the girl, the shrimp’s secretion spattering the gym floor like thick milk. “Here she is.”

The girl took a few steps closer. “She doesn’t look like the others.”

“No. The males have claws and turquoise shells. Every queen has their own patterns. Look.” I pointed to the speckled pinks and blues. “These are unique to her. When she produces a queen of her own, it will have the same colors but a different pattern.” The girl took another step, but I stopped her. “Careful. Her shell is sharper than razor blades. She’s scared right now. Let’s just take it slow.”

“She looks like a clump of coral.”

I laughed. “I guess that makes sense out on the reef, huh? Grab one of those cages for me and set it open on the floor.”

The girl went to the work table and dragged out one of the cages. If the principal walked through the doors, I could lose my job on the spot. But for some reason, I couldn’t help but let the girl assist me. Rarely did I find those who showed any genuine interest in the shrimp.

“Now step away.” She listened and I placed the queen into the glass container and then popped it shut. I motioned the girl back over to get a closer look at the queen.

“I don’t like that she’s in a cage.”

I removed my gloves and placed them on the table. “Don’t worry, it won’t be for long.”

“Were there eggs back there?”

The girl’s stare met mine, cutting right through me. “She hadn’t started laying eggs yet. She should be ready to lay a clutch as soon as she’s in her new home.”

The girl frowned, no doubt debating if she should believe me or not. For a moment, I thought she would check herself, but instead, she stood up and began walking away. “I have to get back to class. You bring the shrimp somewhere nice, promise?” Her braided hair bounced as she marched across the open room.

“I Promise.”

“Okay. Goodbye mister. Thanks for not hurting the shrimp.”

She closed the door, and soon afterward, I was back in my truck, driving away from the school and out to the dry reef across town, my trunk full of clacking shrimp ready to see their new home.

Drinks on the Beach

Two couples swirled ice in their empty glasses while waiting along opposite ends of the beach bar. Only one of their drinks was full; vodka with a hint of raspberry. The owner of the drink wasn’t a drinker. Her boyfriend was.

“Another?” the bartender, a tan man with a rough, accented voice—probably Mexican, asked. “Hot day today. You could use another, right?”

The man slid his empty glass to the bartender and said, “I’ll pace myself. Can’t get too ahead of her.” He laughed, and the bartender laughed. His girlfriend smiled. “Come back when she’s done, and I’ll buy another round.”

“A true gentleman,” the bartender said and moved to the other couple to refill both of their glasses.

“Can we go sit on the sand?” the woman asked the man with the still empty glass. “I want to sit under the sun.”

“One more round, then we can leave. I have to taste their whiskey first.”

“Why not bring it down to the water?” she asked.

“You know how I get with whiskey, dear.”

“Yes, I do.”

“So, finish your drink, and I’ll get us another round. I promise we can spend the rest of the day laying on the sand.”

The woman touched the brim of her cup to her lips. It wasn’t that she never drank, the two used to go drinking with her brother back home, but right now she didn’t seem in the mood.

The man followed her gaze to the couple across the bar. They were smiling, their faces red from both drink and sun. The other man had an arm around his girlfriend and rubbed his thumb over the diamond on her ring finger. They whispered in each other’s ear, almost loud enough to hear.

“They look like they’re having fun,” he said as he swirled the ice in his cup.

“You’re not having fun?” She didn’t look up from the glassy reflection in her vodka.

“I’m having a great time. Mexico, with you, a few drinks, and this beautiful beach. Of course, I’m having fun.”

“But you don’t want to sit on the beach?”

“Not until I get my whiskey.”

“I’ll order for you.”

“I don’t want another. Not while you’re on your first. You know how I get.”

“Yes, I do.” She took a small sip, her eyes staring past the bar top as she swallowed. “It’s strong.”

“Damn well better be,” he laughed as he continued to watch the couple opposite them.

The other two clinked their drinks and grinned. The woman leaned into the man, too drunk to sit up on her own, but the man didn’t look like he minded. They seemed happy, in that comfortable, sleepy way.

“What are you looking at?” she asked.

“Nothing. It’s just nice being around smiling faces. So much has happened.”

She placed her drink down.

He leaned back in his stool. The bamboo supports creaked with his weight not because he was heavy, but because the stool was cheap. A seagull wailed overhead, and the couple across from them started to laugh.

He grabbed his empty cup and said, “Oh, don’t rush yourself. I’ll just order the whiskey and we can find somewhere to sit.”

“Do you mean it?”

The man watched the couple stand and kiss each other’s sweaty foreheads. He called the bartender and ordered a glass of whiskey—the finest they had.

“Couldn’t wait any longer?” the bartender asked. He chuckled, the sound like a shaking cocktail mixer.

“On the rocks, please.” He turned back to his girlfriend as the bartender filled his glass. “Why don’t you go find us a place to sit? I’ll catch up once I pay.”

She nodded, stepped off the patio and onto the pearl-white sand. Her small footprints cupped the drifting afternoon shadows like tidal pools.

The bartender placed the drink on the bar top. “You two doing okay?” His voice broke the stillness like a growling blender. “I see a lot of couples come through here. Got a sense for these things, I really do.”

The man turned from his girlfriend and grabbed the cup. He lifted it to his lips and took a long sip.

“This was supposed to be our honeymoon,” he said, smiling with empty eyes as he enjoyed the whiskey. “Her brother…he was in an accident two months back. A bad one. Saw the whole bloody thing. Never got married after that. I think she forgot.” He took a longer sip

“I’m sorry to hear that.” The bartender looked away, clearly not ready for such news.

“Me too.” The man swirled the ice in his glass.

The man sat, and the bartender stood, both still in their own way. The man could tell he had said too much. It was obvious by the way the bartender gripped the bar top that he only stood there out of politeness.

The bartender brought his hands together, snapping the tension from his arms, and said, “You know what? You enjoy that whiskey, sir. On the house!” He said this in the same energetically fake way he probably got most people here to drink. “You can tell the lady drinks on the house for her too. Some good liquor can help ease the mind.”

“I appreciate that. I’m just trying to enjoy our trip. Though it’d be good for her. I mean, it’s already been paid for. We can try to enjoy it, right?”

Invigorated by his idea, the bartender began cleaning a glass smudged with orange pulp. “You’re doing a good thing, sir. I’m sure you two will be happily married in no time.”

“I hope so. Guess I should join her.”

The bartender tapped the bar top. “Remember, one drink on the house.”

The man raised his glass. “Cheers.”

He stepped from the patio and onto the cooling sand, trailing behind the crisscrossed tracks of the other couple. Beer and gin wafted off them like a cloud. Sunburns, red as a crab, covered their shoulders and backs, but that didn’t stop them from touching each other. The waning sunlight glinted off the woman’s ring. They looked like they were having fun.

He found his girlfriend beside a crooked palm. Another couple, both asleep, lay like sealions beneath the shade, an almost empty bottle of wine beside them.

She sat on her towel, pale legs brought to her chest, her drink lodged in the sand still full. She looked to the shimmering waves.

“You made it,” she said. “I hope my drink wasn’t expensive.”

He sat on the towel beside hers and took another sip. “I got it for free,” he laughed and motioned to her glass, “You know, the bartender said you can get one free too. He seems like a decent man. Wouldn’t let me leave without a free drink.” As he spoke, the couple from the bar skimmed the shoreline. They stepped in sync, voices drowned by the surf, red legs bright against the wet sand. He wondered how much her ring cost.

“How nice of him.” She kept looking out to sea.

“Yes, it is very nice.”

She spoke after a long moment, “It’s peaceful here.”

“Yes…it sure is peaceful here. You’re right.”

“Do you want to go in the water?”

“After my whiskey. I got it for free you know? It sure was nice of him. He’s a nice man.”

“Already drunk?”

“No,” he said after another sip. His cheeks had begun to feel warm, but he pretended it was the sun. “It was free.”

“Then come in the water with me. It looks wonderful.”

“Go on ahead. I’ll join you after my drink.”

He sat with a tired smile on his face, savoring the whiskey burn in his throat. The shade of the palm only covered his back, and his legs had already started turning red. His girlfriend stared at his drink, but he didn’t pay attention. He continued to watch the couple.

“Why don’t you finish mine too then?”

“That’s yours.”

“You can have it. I’m going in the water.”

She stood up, but the man grabbed her arm. “Wait,” he said. Their eyes met; sunlight glinted in the water that pooled there. He tried to think of what to say.

“It’s free.”

She pulled away and walked to the shore. He swirled the ice in his glass, spilling a bit of whiskey as he watched her. She stood next to the laughing couple and dipped her toe into the water. He wondered if she was smiling, but he doubted it.

Ice clinked against his glass. He peered in his drink—almost empty. He picked up his wife’s, no, his girlfriend’s, glass and took a sip. She wasn’t going to finish it. He always finished her drinks. Her brother used to finish drinks with him; he was a whiskey drinker too.

It was nice of the bartender to listen to him, even if he didn’t want to. He got two free drinks out of it. If only his girlfriend was as excited.

The couple waded in the water, up to their chest, splashing and laughing. The ring sparkled in the clear shallows. The couple beside him rolled in their sleep and knocked the wine bottle on its side. Wine worked its way through the sand, and he had to move their towels.

He leaned against the palm and admired his girlfriend. He traced the freckles down her back and watched how her shoulder blades came together when she straightened. He would join her in just a moment.

He swirled the ice in her glass, spilling some vodka onto the towel. He held the cup up to his girlfriend. He held it high as if it would lighten his mood. Memories of happy faces and smiling couples looped in his mind. Memories of second and third and fourth rounds at the bar. Memories he wished to forget.

Yes, he would join her, right after he finished her drink.

Goin’ it Alone

The train continued down the cracked river bed, the tracks rattling its passenger cart with a rhythmic the tin-tin-tin as the desert wind whipped dust against the windows. Doctor Ansel sat with his cane between his legs. His gloved hands, one on top of the other, rested upon the lead eagle carved into the canes peak. He sat with a wide grin that exposed crooked, yellow teeth, the angle at which caused his well-oiled mustache to tickle his upper cheek.

Across from him sat another man dressed in rags half asleep and outstretched on the bench before The Doctor. The man’s sleeping body had a frightened woman forced up against the window—or was she disgusted? A fourth passenger, a large sombrero covering his face, sat beside The Doctor. His hands were hidden beneath his soot-stained duster and everyone could tell he was awake.

“Not much further now, is it?” The Doctor adjusted his hands on his cane. “I think we have three, no, two and a half hours until we arrive in town! Oh, it is exciting, isn’t it?” The Doctor raised himself an inch in his seat to peer at the folk, sleeping or otherwise that bounced with the tin-tin-tin of the railcar.

“Will you stay still?” the woman across from him, a Miss Charlotte Henis, called, her voice pampered and fine; from somewhere north no doubt. “You have moved more than the train has. Just stay still for once, man.”

“Ah, yes. I do apologize for any discomfort.” He motioned to the sleeping figure beside her and continued. “It is just so exciting. You see, I am starting my new job in Brooks End. A fine job! A fine job indeed. I’m a detective. Don’t ask why everyone calls me doctor.” He winked at this. “I’ve worked on many cases back East-ways, many many cases. Have you ever heard of the Copper Glen robbery? Of course, you have. Well, my partner and I we oversaw that case. We brought some justice to that one. Oh, yes, we did. I am just so excited to get cracking on the next one.”

“All impressive, Doctor, just please sit down!”

“Oh, right.” Doctor Ansel took a heavy seat, his bottom hitting the cushioned wood as the train bounced. The impact caused his cane to kick into his chest and The Doctor snatched it from falling. “Say, have you been to Brooks End, Madam? I heard it is a rather fine place for a man employed such as myself. Lots for me to do there, you see?”

“A fine hole to die in. Nothing but outlaws and sand. My brother is waiting for me in town. His propositions did not work out—not to the surprise of anyone in the family. He wants to be like our father. An oil man through and through, my father is.”

“Oilmen, you say?” The itched beneath his glove. “They do pay well, don’t they?” He smiled, and deep creases stretched from the corner of his eyes.

The man beside Mrs. Charlotte groaned. “You two gonna keep it down? A man’s sleepin’ here. Been hours and I can’t get no sleep with you two talking!” The man shifted himself upright and ran a hand through his matted beard. “You two really know how to yap. From the East aren’t ya? Bet yer from the East. Got ears for stuff like that.”

“What is that sir?” Doctor Ansel perked up at the newcomer to the conversation.

“Just keep it down.” The man adjusted his seating, moving even closer to Mrs. Charlotte.

“You will back off from me, sir!” Mrs. Charlotte huffed. “Horrific, sleeping so close a lady like that! Where did you learn your manners?”

He groaned at her before turning.

“You smell of charcoal and cow dung! Push over this instant.”

Doctor Ansel spoke up, attempting his best to help Mrs. Charlotte, “Be a good sir and do as the lady says. We can work something out. Like gentlemen.”

“Or what, you’re going to detect me?” The man cackled and spat through the gap in his teeth.

“Disgusting specimen of a man you are!” Mrs. Charlotte brought an embroidered handkerchief over her nose and mouth.

The Doctor went to stand but stopped as the final stranger spoke up.

“You said ye had a partner.” The stranger had tilted his sombrero up to reveal his red eyes. He smelt of cigars.

“Excuse me?”

“What happened to your partner? Said ye had one. Why are you goin’ it alone?”

Doctor Ansel clutched the shaft of his cane. “Oh, well we have taken separate jobs. Yes, just this once; to cover more ground, you see? There are so many criminals out there.”

“Isn’t it dangerous out here alone?” Mrs. Charlotte asked.

“Oh I assure you I’m fine.” The Doctor ran a finger over his moustache.

The man in the sombrero glared at him for a moment longer. The Doctor started to sweat. Chewing, he lowered his hat and grunted, “Carry on.”

Mrs. Charlotte’s sudden holler exploded through the railcar. “You cannot be joking with me, you degenerate, vermin of a man!” she yelled at her neighbor.

“Pete, the name’s Pete. Stop calling me with your fancy insults you nag.”

The Doctor turned his gaze from the sombreroed stranger and back to the bickering couple.

“Let us all stop this,” he said, his voice a few tones quieter. “Please get some rest. Please, we can all welcome some silence for a moment.”

“You’re telling me,” Pete nearly burped.

“Miss Charlotte, if you would like to trade seats? That is if our friend here does not mind making room for a lady.”

The man in the sombrero did not answer but The Doctor felt his gaze under the heavy hat. “Good, Let’s swap then.” He clapped his hands together.

The two swapped seats, The Doctor now beside Pete. Mrs. Charlotte was correct—Pete’s scent was horrid even to The Doctor’s numbed senses. Yet, there was something familiar about it.

“Thank you, Doctor.” Mrs. Charlotte curtsied before taking her seat.

The Doctor tilted his head in recognition and made himself comfortable again. Hands balanced upon his cane, one over the other, and legs spread.

The train rattled on and reached the plains between the approaching bluffs that marked the border of Brooks End. Just through those bluffs and the four could go their separate ways. The Doctor, previously ecstatic at the idea of arrival, felt a sudden weight about the looming bluffs. It made him uncomfortable.

“Excuse me,” The Doctor said to his acquaintances—if he wanted to call them that. “I am going to take a walk before we arrive. Stretch my legs a bit. You see, I’ve got a long walk ahead of me.” He smiled and whisked himself away, cane in hand.

Something was not right. He felt the sudden urge to get off the train. He could walk to town from here; it wasn’t too far. The smell of Pete still clung to his clothes. Pete’s scent had grown clear to him. He had smelt it before, smelt it more times than he would like to admit and many more times than he would ever tell a stranger. To be honest, he was embarrassed he didn’t make the connection earlier. The scent was well masked, but there was no more mistaking it.

Black powder.

A click sounded behind The Doctor, and the stench wafted forward with the sound. He held his hands up, gripping the cane. He wasn’t far from the exit. He could jump.

“The cane. Hand it over, Doctor,” Mrs. Charlotte demanded.

Doctor Ansel halted at the voice. “I believe there is some confusion.”

“No there ain’t.” He felt hard iron press into his back. “Pete, go stop the train.”

“Yes boss.” Pete shifted himself out of the seat.

“What could you want with an old man’s cane?”

“Don’t play me a fool, Doctor. We all know who you is. And what yew got in that cane. You hide the entire damn bank in there?” Charlotte’s true accent bled out of her proper façade.

“I-I don’t know what you me—”

“Shut up!” She cuffed him the back of his head with the butt of her pistol, knocking him to the ground. “How can so much money be coiled up like that. You know, some say you took down a whole bank just the two of ye’. Now you’re alone.” She snarled, “Pretty dumb travelin’ by yourself.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ma’am.” The Doctor kept holding onto his cane, careful to conceal his other hand as he reached for the pistol hidden beneath his jacket. “You see, I’m just a detective.”

Charlotte took a step forward, and Doctor Ansel’s pulled the trigger, punching a bloody hole through her stocking.

She screamed as the train screeched, the tin-tin-tin of the train coming to a rumble then a stop. Charlotte collapsed to one knee bellowed for one moment longer before The Doctor placed another shot into her forehead.

“Think I’ll walk the rest of the way,” The Doctor said to no one in particular. The shot of his weapon still pinged off the metal walls as he made his way to the railcar side exit.

He jumped onto the dried riverbed, kicking up orange dust with his impact. He brushed off his coat, readjusted his gloves, and held his cane close to his chest, all as a bullet entered the back of his skull.

The shot bounced against the bluffs and held the desert in a breadth of silence. Without much of a hurry, the stranger with the sombrero stepped up to the Doctor’s body and pulled the cane from his dead grip. He pried the lead eagle from its peak, revealing a dozen or so folded one-hundred-dollar bills.

The stranger took off his sombrero, wiped the sweat from his brow, spat, and placed his hat back on his balding head. He looked to the men on the train and their silver badges that glimmered in the blinding sun. His badge flickered under his duster.

“Go get that fool who stopped the train. Kill em’ if you have to. I’ll take care of this.”

The men departed, and the stranger pulled out a cigar from his pocket, striking a match in one flick. He puffed into the still air, the smoke swirling around his hat.

“Shame you and your partner split. Ain’t safe goin’ it alone.”

My Ocean

When I was young, Dad used to talk to us about Mars on the beach. He would lay out his big AC/DC towel while Mom rubbed us down with sunblock and warned about the dangers of sunburns and skin cancer. While my brother and I made drippy sandcastles, Dad described rust-colored mountains and endless red deserts. At the time, I didn’t understand the significance of what he told us. Mars never seemed like a place I’d ever see, and building a colony on another planet sounded make-believe. I didn’t think that we’d actually leave. All I wanted was to swim for sand dollars.

We lived in a small town on the western coast of Florida. Thoughts about space or Mars or anywhere else didn’t cross my mind much. Life by the beach was all I knew and all I needed. My brother and I would buy ice cream cones at the corner store and patrol the beach for sea glass and corals to add to our collection. Hyped on sugar, we’d lay them out on my dad’s AC/DC towel and pick through our findings day after day. We’d do this all year—each year more shells, fish bones, and corals washing on our beach. At night I’d hold starfish to the sky and wonder what glowing speck was Mars.

I never shared my dad’s fascination with Mars. My brother sometimes got caught up in his stories, but I was never swayed. Mars didn’t have fish, or dolphins, or corals, or sand dollars. It was a boring red desert with a single metal base. No one snorkeled or boogie-boarded on Mars, and I couldn’t go to the corner store to buy ice cream on its rusty mountains.

At seventeen, my dad had been on Mars for nearly two years. Besides for our monthly video calls, we had little contact with him. He kept us informed of the progress on his Mars base, and we filled him in on what he missed at home. Without Dad, Mom spent most of her time inside while I went out to the beach every day. My brother liked to keep Mom company, something I was always grateful for. Dad used to love coming to the beach so I made it my duty to show him my findings every time we got to talk. I was surprised to see the worry on his face when I showed him the skull of a dolphin I had found.

That was when I realized we really were going to Mars. Yes, my whole life my dad had been telling us that we’d move to the big red planet one day, but it always felt more like bedtime story. Like when someone says they want to see Japan or Australia but everyone knows it will never really happen. This time though, it felt different. I knew that we wouldn’t be able to stay in Florida forever.

I left that video call as if walking through a bad dream. The oceans were dying. The planet was dying. And we were moving to Mars in less than a year. I left the house after Mom started dinner and walked to the beach in a daze. My mind was crowded with the difficult idea of leaving home. The beach was my life. I hoped walking to it would calm me as it always did. But, as if opening my eyes for the first time, I noticed the changes that I had ignored.

It wasn’t as if I was oblivious to the changes. I had just thought about them in a way that was easy to imagine. The water was no longer warm and colorful but thick and foggy. The shore wasn’t covered in treasures and sea glass but covered in litter and carcasses. The fish I had been swimming after just the other day were suddenly starved, frail, and sick instead of slow and stupid. The corals were bleached and brittle instead of bright white and easy to collect. The burning sun, which had been so warm and friendly, now set over the ocean, its orange intensity reminding me of an oil fire.

Two days later, my mother told me to stay away from the ocean.

After I was barred from the ocean, reality hit me. After we moved, I’d never get to see the ocean again—any ocean. I’d never swim after snappers, uncover sand dollars, or watch dolphins flip over the waves. I could never taste sea salt or feel the wet sand or hear the waves or the wailing gulls. There was no natural water on Mars, and even though Dad bragged about the artificial lakes NASA had established, the thought of it sunk in my chest. There were no corals, fish, dolphins, or whales in those filtered bathtubs. Would we sit on concrete benches and sift through plastic shells and aquarium corrals? Would we coat ourselves with fake sunscreen to protect ourselves from a giant light bulb in the ceiling?

I tried to sneak back to the water during our final summer. I had to see the ocean one more time. Our house was sweltering, and Mom fixated on the news that cycled reports of burning forests, flooding coasts, and widespread famine, watching these stories on repeat all day and night. It was depressing to stay indoors, but outside wasn’t much better. The ocean had risen far past the old beach. Instead of white sand, cracked asphalt roads and muddy flats dropped off into thick soupy water that lapped against the broken shore, visible from my bedroom window. Soon, that water would be our doorstep.

The night before we were meant to leave, I decided to take a final swim despite the dangers. If we were going to Mars, this would be my last chance. Oceans would be a thing of stories and legends soon. While my mom and brother packed the last of our things, I slipped out the back and made the short walk to the shoreline, which was now half a block past the old corner store.

It was late afternoon, and the red sun was setting over the dying ocean. Clumps of flotsam dotted what had once been streets and stores and homes. I squinted and pretended that the trash was dolphins or sharks skimming the water as they used to years ago. Against my mother’s warnings, I dipped a toe into the water and held it there. The water was hot. Not warm, but hot like a bathtub. It felt slippery like spoiled milk.

I followed the shore out of town to the closest remnant of a beach I could find. It was a small strip of gravel and mud carved out of a hillock near an old water tower I never thought about. I rolled out my dad’s AC/DC towel, placed down glass, corals, and shells, and sifted through them, pretending as if nothing had changed. I imagined the waves behind me crashing on rocks and sandbars, not brick walls and broken fences. I picked through my ocean treasures until the stars came out, and I did everything I could to keep from looking at them. I tried to focus on my small world outlined on that towel, far below the stars and that single red planet.

I sat until hightide hissed at my feet. Then, I packed my things and left forever.