You do a good job. Besides, Robbie can look after himself.
Lets hope, Conner said. He took another sip, then caught the questioning look on Gloralais face. To annual traditions. He raised his jar.
Yes, to this date. Gloralai raised an eyebrow.
The uh the actual dates tomorrow, Conner explained.
Well, to the weekend, then, Gloralai offered.
Yeah. The weekend. They sloshed their beers together. And then a flurry of sand blew off the roof, and they both shielded their jars with the flats of their palms, laughing. The wind carried the puff westward toward the setting sun, and all the dunes trembled in that direction a fraction of an inch, beams creaking, the residents of Shantytown glancing up from their various tasks and distractions at their sagging ceilings, a hungry bird crying out ha ha.
Hey, thanks for this, Conner said, saluting with his beer. He leaned back on the bar post and watched the sky redden, the little people up on Waterpump Ridge marching like ants, the lanterns and electric lights flickering on as shifts changed and day steeled itself for night, and the angry desert whispered right along.
Yeah, Gloralai agreed, seeming to know what he meant, that it was more than the beer. This is nice. Why cant it be like this all the goddamn time?
12 Fathers Boots
I still live here, you know, Conner called out. But one glance at the sand wrapping around his home, and he knew this was a complaint with an expiration date.
He pulled the door open and kicked the scrum off his boots before stepping inside. Yo, brother! You home? Pulling the door shut required heaving up with both hands to get the doorknob to latch. Sift fell from the ceiling, and the rafters creaked. There was no sign of Palmer, no boots or track of sand, no gear bag or detritus from a raided pantry. Just a voice calling out from below, muffled and distant. Sounded like Rob. The hammering overhead resumed. Conner aimed a middle finger toward the ceiling.
You had dinner? he called out. He set his leftovers on the rickety table by the doorhalf a can of cold rabbit stew from the Dive Bar. His little brother shouted another reply, but again his voice was a dull rumble. It sounded like he was a shack down.
It took four strides to go from the foyer, through the kitchen, and into their shared bedroom with the two little cots on their rusted springs. Robs bed was shoved off to one side, and three of the floor planks beneath it had been removed. It was dark below. The only illumination in the small house was what little lamplight filtered through the cracked glass set into the front door. A candle by Robs bed had melted down to nothing. Conner rummaged through the bin by his cot and grabbed his flashlight, turned it on.
Dead. He threw it back into the bin. Three strides, and he pulled down the gas lamp from the living room. Shook it and listened to the splash of oil. Fumbled to get it lit. You getting the gear together? he asked.
Rob didnt answer. Conner adjusted the lamp until the room was flooded with light. He sat on the bedroom floor and dangled his feet into the pit, then lowered himself down and reached up to grab the lantern. A pale glow filled someones former home.
What had once been rafters holding up a roof were now floor joists in Palmers house. Someone elses house stood below theirs, long abandoned and unclaimed. Soon, his own home would be someones basement and this a sand-filled cellar. And so it went, sand piling up to the heavens and homes sinking toward hell.
Conner swung the lantern around in the small space. He and Rob kept the few things they owned stowed down there. The bag that held the tent and all their camping gear was undisturbed. It sat right where theyd left it a year ago. It was covered in sift. Conner dusted some of the sand off the bag and wondered where the hell Rob was. He pushed open an old bathroom door and saw more floor planks removed. A light danced below. What the fuckre you doing down there? he asked.
Rob peered up at him through the hole in the old floor and smiled guiltily. He was sitting on a pile of sand one more shack down. It was as far down as one could go, this next buried home nearly full of drift. His brothers hair looked wet, was matted to his forehead, like hed been exerting himself. Conner quickly looked away.
Aw, cmon, man. Youre not down there jerking off, are you?
No! Rob squealed, and Conner peered back into the hole. He saw his brother wiggling back and forth. Rob glanced up at him and bit his lip in frustration. Whereve you been? he asked. Ive been calling for you and calling for you.
Conner realized now that his brother was in trouble. Crouching down, he lowered the lamp below the floorboards and saw that the sand was up to his brothers hips. There were gouges where Rob had been digging.
What the fuck have you done?
I was just playing, Rob said.
Conner hung the lantern on a nail and worked his way down another level. I told you to stay out of here. Drift can dump through in a flash.