What Comes After | ✔️

Chapter 16

August 18

I was kissing a guy in my dreams.

Or at least I think I was. The memory is a bit of a blur, like pretty much every non-nightmare dream, the golden tones smearing the dream. But I do remember that we were in a bright green field overflowing with vivid flowers, glowing oranges and pinks and turquoise. I remember my hand brushing a bit of scruff and I remember our faces being close to each other and that there was this warmness surrounding me.

And then I woke up. Or more specifically Dad woke me up with a shake of my shoulder. The cozy warmness shifted to a coolness and the saturated colors dominating my dreams faded to muted grays.

While I was layering up in thick socks and extra sweaters, I thought a lot about the dream. I know people have all kinds of weird dreams where they do weird things, and when they wake up, they acknowledge the reality of their dream and move on with reality. Hell, I've had dreams where I was running away from May, armed with throwing knives and trying to kill me, but when I wake up from that nightmare, I know that May doesn't want to kill me (Or at least I hope so).

But there was something different about this dream. There was no lingering wrongness about the dream, when you know you've crossed the line between fantasy and reality. If anything, it felt oddly right and almost surreally beautiful, if that makes sense.

Actually, reading over what I just wrote, I don't think what I just said made any sense. I don't even know why I'm spending so much time writing about this dream anyways. The memory of it will probably fade away in a few days.

Mom left Grandpa and Grandma to guard the house, but I think we all knew that if anyone tried to ransack our house, there wouldn't be anything that Grandpa and Grandma would be able to do. But we didn't really have much of an option and we trudged through the streets dusted with ash, shivering ever so slightly as our wagon creaked behind us. Dad turned to Mom.

"We need to start doing wood gathering at least two times a week," Dad said. "The weather. It's getting much colder than I expected."

Mom sighed. "We've—"

"I know we've already talked about this, but circumstances have—" Dad said, before a fit of coughing cut him off.

"See," Mom said. "We shouldn't be spending much time out anyways. Lung cancer will kill us long before starvation or the cold."

"That wasn't from the ash," Dad said. "It was just autumn allergies."

"From what plants," Mom said and pointed around at all of the bare trees, branches hanging out like skeleton fingers, lining the streets. "Everything around us is dead."

"It's from the dust," Dad quickly replied before pivoting. "And going by what you said, we don't want to join them."

"And going by what I said before, we'll join them long before the cold kills us."

May stepped in between them. "I swear I've heard this argument a hundred billion times already, and now it's just getting boring hearing you two argue the same old crap over and over again. Just find some compromise and move on."

"Maybe have rotating axe shifts," Mira said. "Dad can cut one tree, then Mom, and then me—"

"No," Mom said. "Only Dad and I do the axe rotating shifts—"

"Why?" she protested. "I can help—"

"I don't want any of my kids risking their lives cutting wood and breathing in all that ash. Let your father and I handle this."

"I know the risks, and I want to help," Mira replied. "I'm an adult anyways. I'm perfectly—"

"And we're your parents," Dad said. "And I agree with your Mom. No more axe cutting shifts anymore for all three of you."