Walk the Vanished Earth

by Erin Swan

The image fades. It is time to discard her shoes altogether. Time to accept the inevitability of calluses. Every inch of her is hardening to scar.

She follows their orders. Maybe they will let her go. Obedience, she knows, can have its reward.

“You don’t consider the future, do you?” Eva takes the bottle from Paul and sips. “I do.” Paul accepts the water back. It is cool and sweet. “What would it look like without kindness?”

“She struggles,” he tells Eva. “Life for her has not been kind. And yet.” His face opens. “She persists. She should be a lesson for us all.”

“I don’t have to be like you.”

Paul also feels it. Fear of the future. He recalls the tornado of his youth, tapping its casual finger to the ground. The submerged streets of New Orleans. The earth fissuring in Mexico. His daughter is stepping out into this world.

“This life is shit, Paul. The least we can do is create some measure of beauty.”

“Can I get your Amazon password?” she asks. “There’s a book I want.”

It’s not the same though. You can’t hug someone through a screen.