waiting for a cloud

Sometime in his thirties, when his children had been young, he’d discovered that looking forward to his morning coffee would help him fall asleep. This was part of an effort to appreciate more of the good in life, as so much of it was starting to evaporate.

          He would lie next to his wife, hearing the cascading giggles of his children from the next room begin to fade as they eased closer to sleep, and feel her caress his back once more before she turned to sleep. He would then imagine the grinding of the beans, and the pouring of the water, and the first crackles of the machine as it brewed—releasing burnt sweetness into the air.

          As he lay in bed, he imagined the same, but could not fall asleep. He had used the last of the beans. He had considered saving them, to preserve their potential, then decided they would never be fresher, and brewed them.

          His home was hot, and the heaviness of the heat made him feel claustrophobic. He thought about his wife. She had left with their two sons a week ago, heading north with the convoy to their new home. Everyone who could was moving north, despite the knowledge that those who lived in tolerable locations would not be welcoming. The wealthy migrated even further despite living in manageable conditions, out of fear more than reason, leaving their homes behind and open. A community could survive some of these abandoned places, with preparation and effort, even when the sun hit with all the heat it could.

          He and his wife had selected one of these places on the map and spent weeks planning with those in town who had not yet fled. Vehicles were prepared—loaded with supplies, tented for protection from the sun—and the final group from their small town left.

          They left him with just enough food to survive a month and just enough energy storage to power his home. Each day he would plug his car into his panels for fifteen minutes—just long enough to top it off—since the heat could drain the battery. When she arrived, everything would be ready, and they could travel far before having to stop and spread out the solar blankets and recharge.

​

He knew why she had not yet made the trip, even though she was only thirty kilometers away in one of the expanded sections of the city. She did not have a car, and all the cars would be gone now. The trains had been shut down or had failed. And it was too hot to walk that far. Each summer brought heatwaves, but this year they had started early, been far more brutal than ever before, sending cities and entire countries into chaos. He thought often of how he’d let her go back after summer break, when in hindsight it had been so obvious how bad things were getting.

          She had made new friends at university, but that is not the same as being near family or close friends, and so he worried she was all alone. When the trains had stopped running she’d told him she would find a way home. Then the towers failed, and no one had come to fix them, and he had not been able to contact her since.

​

His wife had encouraged him to keep more supplies, but he had refused. They’d loaded up the eleven vehicles just after the hottest portion of the day, each person working for only a few minutes at a time before slipping back into the shade to drink water. By early evening the trucks and cars were loaded, the sun shades were expanded, and the people began loading in—ready to drive through the night free of the sun.

          He'd stood with his wife and sons under the shade of their porch and hugged them close, told them he would join them soon, and that he’d bring her with him. They’d cried as the others from town splashed water onto the seats in the beds of the trucks to cool them, creating a crescendo of hissing steam.

          His family took their own buckets and cooled their three seats on the back of a flatbed that was now shaded. He stood at the rear of the vehicle, feeling the heat from it, and they repeated their promises to each other as the vehicles began to pull away. As they faded into the distance, he imagined the day when they would see the silhouette of his vehicle on the horizon from their new home, and watch it near, and see himself and his daughter emerge to complete their family once more.

​

He held on to a belief that there would come a brief reprieve from the heat. There were always those days, even in the longest stretches, when one morning you could breathe a little easier and the sweat didn’t come as quickly. When you would walk outside and see a sky full of clouds.

          When that day came he would drive toward her university and find her walking on the road toward him. They would drive together back to their town, rest a night, charge the car and load supplies, then begin the drive north. With every day that passed without a break in the heat, he grew more confident that it was coming.

          He often fought the urge to get into his car and drive to her. He knew what was said about getting to the city. They had blocked off the road in, only allowing people to leave. If you did get in, a person driving a vehicle would pull everyone desperate to leave the city from their shelters, and soon you would be stranded or dead.

​

Another week passed and he awoke to the hottest morning he had ever felt. He had dreamt of a white cloud—alone in the sky—moving toward him, bringing comfort. Emerging from his home, he saw there was not a single cloud in the sky. He went back inside and checked his water supply, and saw that he had enough. Again, he told himself that the escalation of the heat meant it would soon relent, that the break was coming.

          The next morning he awoke already soaked in sweat. Around noon he smelled smoke, and knew something in town had caught fire, and hoped it would not spread to him. Just before evening, the smell began to dissipate, and he felt relief mixed with a renewed sense of urgency. He pushed himself outside, staggered briefly by the wave of fresh heat, and checked on his vehicle. It sat covered in his carport. It was a basic model, not one that could drive itself, but he was very fond of it all the same. He considered an idea as droplets formed on then fell from the tip of his nose.

          An hour later the car was pulled out, loaded, and the shade was deployed. He took a final moment to consider the risks of this decision before sliding into and starting the car. The first ten minutes on the road were uneventful. The road was clear, and he enjoyed the change in scenery.

          After a few more kilometers the headache began—either the early scream of dehydration, or caused by squinting against the incessant glare. He pulled over and drank water, taking small sips, until he could feel a pool in his stomach. He ate a small portion of food, keeping his eyes closed as he chewed to give them rest. After another session of water he started out again toward the city.

​

He neared the first exit to western sections of the city, passing by an abandoned vehicle just before the off-ramp. The car was white—a small model—with a bumper sticker that said Plant More Trees. He wondered what may have happened to the car and its driver. It had been driving toward the city, not away. The driver could have been on an endeavor similar to his own and lost charge before arriving. One of the right tires, the ones he could not see, could have failed.

          Directly ahead of him the road was clear. In the distance he saw a white speck in the center of the beige highway. As he got closer, he saw it was a large tent.

          The road was blocked on either side of the tent. The center divider was stripped back a few car lengths from the entrance flap, and the flap was large enough for a vehicle. He would have to get out and open it. He sat for a moment, thinking about what might be inside. He was four exits away from the one that would take him to the university, and was excited by how close he had gotten so far. He drank water and wiped sweat from his eyes. Finally, he exited the car, making sure to shut it down and switch it to lock.

          The sides of the tent were pulled taut. Had there been wind—there had not been so much as a breeze for days—he did not think the canvas would even ripple. The entrance flap was folded on either side, providing a gap large enough for a person to squeeze through. He took a slow breath, then walked through the gap.

          There were cots lined along the right side of the tent. Directly ahead of him was another flap—twenty-five meters away—also folded to create a gap. To his left, crates and equipment were stacked haphazardly around a central desk. At the central desk, facing away from him, was a person with long hair and a sweat-drenched shirt. The person had not heard him. A screen on the desk danced with graphics and text. He felt a swell of anxiety, unsure of how to get the person’s attention without startling them.

          “Excuse me,” he said, almost whispering.

          The person did not turn.

          “Excuse me,” he said again, allowing his voice to project.

          The person jumped, then turned, revealing a face that for a moment made him think he had done it, had found his daughter, and could now go home, then to their new home with his wife and sons.

          But a moment later he knew this was wrong. This woman was young, but not young enough to be his daughter. As his hope washed away, the face looking at him became more clearly that of another.

          “Excuse me,” he said again. “I was wondering if I could pass through.”

          Confusion spread over the woman’s face. She stood and walked toward him.

          “I won’t be in the city long. Shouldn’t have to be. Just going to pick up my daughter.”

          “I don’t think you should,” the woman said, stopping a few meters from him and replacing her look of confusion with one of sympathy. “Past here, if you go through, your car will almost certainly be taken.”

          “But I can go through?”

          “I won’t stop you. But I’ve seen two others go through, for similar reasons, and neither came back out.”

          He considered this, staring down at the ground, feeling some of the core hope that he had carried since his family drove away on the truck dissipate.

          “Why are you here?” he asked.

          “Just trying to help.”

          “How long do you have to stay?”

          “I’ll be relieved in a month, at most.”

          “They don’t give you company?”

          “We don’t have enough people. We try to cover all the highways and roads out of the city. We are just a small organization. I provide aid to anyone trying to leave, and help them to prepare, but there have been few lately, and all on foot now. I try to convince them to turn back, the ones on foot. But I give them supplies and equipment either way.”

          “Why did the government stop helping people evacuate?”

          “The last direction they gave was to shelter in place. There’s no place to send anyone. Some people want to help, but no place will take anyone voluntarily.”

          He stared at the ground again. She offered for him to sit on one of the cots. He did so, and she sat across from him.

          “Thank you, for doing something to help,” he said.

          “Thank you for saying so,” she replied.

          “I need to get to my daughter. She is only four exits from here.”

          “For your sake, and for your daughter, I don't think you should try to.”

          “There is no way she can get to me.”

          “Give me her information. Where she is, her name, and I will try to reach her.”

          “How will you do that?”

          “I can fly a letter in, near as I can get to where you think she is, by drone. I’ll set it down and open the hatch to the letter, and someone will take it and read it.”

          “But the chances she will get the letter…”

          “She will certainly not be the person who retrieves it, but if the community she is in is working together, and I set it down in the right place, it may get to her.”

          “I should drive in to get her,” he said, tears forming in the corners of his eyes.

          The woman moved and sat next to him. She took his hand.

          “You will both be stranded if you do,” she said. “I promise.”

          “Do you have paper I could use?” he asked, nodding.

          “Yes, I do.”

          They crossed the tent to her desk. She gave him paper and a pen. On one paper he wrote his daughter’s name, her university, and the name of her dorm. On another paper he wrote a letter.

          The woman took the papers from him and folded them twice.

          “This is the best thing you can do for her,” she said. “Will you get home safely? Do you have enough water? Enough food?”

          “I have a source for water. Food for a few more weeks.”

          The woman walked to a crate, opened it, and retrieved a brown satchel.

          “This is two weeks of food,” she said, handing him the satchel. “I would give you more, but my supplies are limited, and when someone insists on walking they need as much as I can give.” She paused for a moment and seemed to be contemplating something. “You could just stay here, then—”

          “I would use too many of your supplies. Too much of your water. This is generous,” he said, tapping the satchel. “Thank you. I will drive back here soon, to get her.”

          She sighed. “Your car would not be safe here, anyway. You don’t need to check in. I can send the drone for you, if—when—she arrives here. Please give me your address.”

          He wrote his address on a fresh piece of paper.

          “Thank you,” he said, extending his hand.

          “Would you mind if we hug?” she asked.

          “I would like that,” he said.

          As they hugged, he thanked her again.

          “Be safe,” he said as he turned to leave.

          “You as well.”

          He paused once he reached the flap. “There is a car not far from here,” he said. “On the side of the road. Maybe it could be fixed.”

          “I will take a look at it, thank you,” she said.

          They smiled and nodded at each other, and then he turned and exited.

​

He stayed inside his home for the next two weeks. His loneliness grew, as did the intrusive thoughts that she had not gotten the letter, and that he should just leave while he still could.

          He had put off going for water, allowing his despair to win out and keep him in bed. But now he knew it was crucial that he went, and began to prepare for the chore. He tried the faucet, out of habit, and it produced the expected result. He could remember when the water still ran but came out putrid, before it had stopped completely. The town had been wise and invested in wells three years ago, and he now left his home with a large shade hat on his head, a backpack filled with water bladders, and the harness to the sled that pulled his water tank slung over his shoulders, to walk to the line of wells that went across kilometers of rolling land.

          He crossed street after street until he arrived at the trench that ran along the northern edge of the town. It had once flowed with water, but that water had lessened year after year until it, like everything else, went dry. He crossed the trench on a small foot bridge toward the open land ahead of him. Glancing down from the bridge, he saw a graveyard of creatures who had walked into the trench and been too weak and thirsty to pull themselves back out. A faint rancid smell caught him as he crossed and he looked away from the leathery and cracked skin of the dead.

          He stopped frequently for water breaks. He arrived at the first well and knew it was dried up, as was the next, and so he walked the gaps until he arrived at the third well. He placed his tank under the spout, pulled oven mitts from his satchel and slipped them on his hands, then gripped the hot metal handle of the pump. As he labored, more sweat seemed to pour from him than water from the spout, and he soon accepted that this well, too, was finished. He sealed the tank with the gallon of water he had collected and continued on.

          The next well produced, and he was thankful when the water started to flow in a great torrent. After his tank was full, he continued pumping with one hand while splashing water onto his face with the other, careful not to drink any despite the temptation. The water might be safe, but he could not risk getting sick while alone. He would boil and purify out of an abundance of caution.

          When he was finished, he took off his backpack and his satchel and stretched his neck and shoulders. From the satchel he took a small food ration, opened it, and began to chew slowly, enjoying the bland nutrition. Next, he opened his backpack and felt his stomach tighten when he saw he was down to two water bladders out of six.

          He set out toward home, feeling some panic as he pulled the weight of the water tank behind him. He tried to limit his sips of water. When he tried to resist for too long, he would feel the first push of the headache and the first twitches of tightness in his legs. He arrived at the bridge and felt the weight on his shoulders lessen as the sled hit the smooth wood.

​

Resting on his bed, he began to worry he would fall asleep. He was dehydrated, and falling asleep now would be dangerous. With a sudden lurch he pulled himself from the bed, crossed the room, and retrieved another bladder from storage. He sat in his kitchen drinking small sips until the bladder was empty. There were few full bladders in storage, and he still felt as though he could drink another.

          He pushed himself to finish the process. He set four large pots on the oven burners with their rims touching. He pulled the sled and tank over next to the oven. From the kitchen closet he produced a hose and hand pump. He fed one end of the hose into the water tank, and the other into a pot. He squeezed the bulb, pulling the water through the tube.

          After the four pots were filled, he turned the burners to full heat and waited. He remained standing, afraid exhaustion would overtake him if he sat. Even standing, he thought he may have dozed off, for one moment the water was still and the next it was boiling. He waited another five minutes, letting the water roll, then turned off the burners.

          One by one he took the pots and set them on cooling pads on the kitchen table. He retrieved four more pots and put them on the burners, then began the first step of the process again. Once the water in the pots on the table had cooled he lifted one and carried it to the purifier that sat in the corner of the room. He rested the pot on the edge and poured the water into the reservoir. He continued the process, filling bladders from the purifier while pots cooled, until the water tank was dry, and the last pots finished boiling and cooling and flowing through the purifier.

          The process was exhausting, and as he knelt to fill the last bladder he almost collapsed. The heat from the oven and the boiling water was always a cruel tradeoff, and he had consumed another two bladders while completing the purification. Finished, he slowly sipped more water as he sat on the edge of his bed. He felt confident that he could now sleep. He glanced out the window and saw the evening sky fading toward dusk.           He eased back, and closed his eyes, and fell asleep.

​

He awoke at noon the next day. His clothes and bedding were soaked in sweat. He stood in front of one of his conditioning units. There were two in the house. The air they gave was warm, unable to cool the outside air. But their faux breeze against his sweat felt refreshing. He glanced out the window and saw the sky was once again void of clouds. He had dreamt of the lone cloud again last night. It had glided over him and given him a moment of shade. In that moment he had felt comforted, and a coolness that did not seem possible.

          As he retrieved a bladder, he felt that something was wrong and realized the number of bladders in storage did not seem to make sense. He counted them, then knelt and scribbled the number in a patch of dust on the floor. He tried to remember how many he’d had before setting out to collect water. He went over each bladder in his head, taking himself back through the day three times. Each time he calculated the difference from the number in the dust. His results varied only slightly. He had either one or two fewer full bladders than before he’d set out to collect.

          He felt his heart beating in his chest, feeling as though it was snapping at the end of each pulse. He sat against the wall. He would have to go back out again and collect more water. He would have to go at night, which he did not like to do. He walked himself through the day, his eyes closed, and began to relax.

​

He left just before sunset. Despite his uneasiness once the darkness set in, the journey went smoothly. It was still hot, but at night he did not need to shade himself, and his sweat evaporated slowly. He arrived home and began to purify.

          The process took most of the night, and he slept well past noon the next day. He had netted five bladders with the trip. Feeling calm, he created a plan. He would go out the next two nights then sleep the whole next day to regain his energy. If he did this, he would have a full water supply, and would be rested. He would then drive back to the tent with enough water to stay for some time.

​

At the end of the second night of collection he went to sleep imagining with excitement the upcoming trip to the tent. He allowed himself to imagine the possibility that his daughter was there waiting for him. The drone could have had an issue, making them unable to contact him. If she wasn’t there, he would ask to wait for her.              They could send letter after letter until they found her.

          On the third night, he set out feeling energetic despite an undercurrent of exhaustion. The change to his sleep schedule had been difficult and it was catching up to him. Occasionally he would lose focus and stumble.           He reached the well, the one that gave, and filled his tank, then began back toward town.

          As he crossed the bridge, he looked up at the moon and considered how the same light that could cause such misery during the day could produce such beauty at night. As he admired the textured orb, he stumbled and lost his balance. He began to fall off the bridge but threw his weight in the other direction and went falling hard onto the wood planks, pulling the sled as he did.

          The sled slid past him. He reached to grab it but failed, and it fell. He reacted, trying to un-shoulder the harness, as he was pulled toward the edge of the bridge. He tried to plant his feet and brace the weight. His right shoe caught as his body continued, twisting his ankle sharply. He tumbled, then slipped himself free just before being pulled off the bridge.

          He heard the sled and the tank thud into the dirt below. Looking down, he could see a glimmering stream escaping from the tank, reflecting the stars, gliding along the dry dirt that was too thirsty to absorb what it craved. The tank pulsed out water, and the stream ran down the trench, picking up and carrying a few small corpses.

          The pain in his ankle flared. He continued staring down at the sled and the tank. He knew he could not retrieve them, especially not with his injury. To try to do so would leave him in the company of all the other creatures, destined to slowly rot.

​

He slept poorly. His ankle was purple and severely swollen, and it was painful to walk from bed to get more food and water. On the second day with the injury, he tried to get to his car, with plans to drive to the tent. He made it to the carport, feeling as though he would pass out, then remembered he needed food and water for the journey. He completed one small load, unable to carry any weight, his ankle blaring with pain, and told himself he would wait and rest another day.

​

The next morning the ankle showed no signs of improvement, although he had wrapped it, making it difficult to say for sure. He had developed a fever and was taking medicine for it, but the medicine made him dizzy.

          He tried to retrieve his tank and sled, taking a tow rope from his car, but only made it a few streets before collapsing. He considered lying there through the night, allowing himself to succumb to the sun in the morning, before pulling himself from the dirt and limping back home with his ankle re-aggravated.

          He tried again to drive his car. He spent the early hours of the night loading food and bladders. Sitting in the seat, he tried to position his ankle so that it would not scream with every bump. His vision was hazy and he strained to see out the front window. He pressed the button to start the vehicle and nothing happened. He tried to remember when he had last charged it, and couldn’t, and realized he had left it to be drained by the heat.

          He charged the car the next day, then set out at night. His headlights struggled to cut through the darkness, and he clumsily accelerated with his left foot while struggling to focus. He took a turn wide, and hit a curb, and blew out a tire. He screamed until his voice was raw, pounding on his steering wheel, before accepting his situation and spending the remainder of the night struggling to drag his supplies on a tarp back home.

​

The break in the heat did not come. The next day was the same—unrelenting heat and a cloudless sky. The truth had been slowly settling in his mind. He hadn’t allowed himself to think of it for too long at one time, giving himself only small doses of the poisonous reality, hoping it would make him immune to despair.

          He counted his remaining water bladders and knew the truth had arrived. He spent the early part of the day closing his eyes and imagining the faces of his family. He drank as much as he desired, wanting to feel full and hydrated one last time. He had considered his end, and decided that he wanted it to be outside in the open. If the sun was to take him, it would do so looking at him.

          He limped to the main road, drinking his last bladder as he went. He placed two oven mitts on the road, then sat on them and stared off in the direction he desperately wanted to travel. His vision began to blur, and he focused his strength to his arms, which were wrapped around his knees, holding him up off the hot beige road.

          He thought about his wife and sons reaching their new home, and pushed forward in his mind the possibility that his daughter was in a good community that would somehow persevere until a break came. He held his eyes closed and pictured them again, then opened his eyes and saw a single cloud moving just above the horizon.

          He smiled and stared at the cloud as it came closer. He knew it was coming to grant him a brief patch of shade. The heat and medicine made his head feel empty and light, but he held on, wanting to wait for the cover of the cloud. It came slowly. He could hear it scraping along the sky. It paused for a moment, seemed to rotate, then continued. It stopped in front of him. His mouth was dry and he could not speak, but he still tried to persuade it forward, closing his eyes tight and praying for it to continue.

          He heard familiar noises that he could not discern, then suddenly he was covered by it and felt the sun disappear from his skin.

          He opened his eyes, now shaded from the sun, and could see the cloud more clearly. He blinked and squinted, bringing some moisture back to his eyes. The edges of the cloud were defined, and there was a shadowy figure in the center. He saw then that it was a car, all white, and the phrase Plant More Trees came into his mind.

          The figure came toward him, and he could see that it was a person. He looked up and saw that a shade tent had been placed over him. The person knelt in front of him and trickled small portions of water into his mouth, and as he drank, the person’s features began to come into focus, and he heard them speak.

          “I’m here, Dad.”