Elementals

11

Jude

I sit on a park bench, several miles from what was once home. Fort Drum is a few roads north, but I don't make a move to go there. At the time of the accident, my family lived in on-post military housing at the base. If our house hasn't already been given to another family, I can't get on the base anyway.

It's a more bitter feeling than I expected. We lived there for only two months; I wasn't even done unpacking. But it was the last place my parents and I lived in together, and I wish I could give our temporary house a proper goodbye.

If I really wanted to, I could break in. I've got Earth on my side. What's a gate and a guard to dozens of thick, heavy vines? Visiting and getting out would be easy as long as I was quick—but the aftermath would be a shitshow. Making a scene at a base is a surefire way to draw attention to my existence. No way am I risking getting the military on my back.

I let my hand dangle off the edge of the bench, a weed growing up to meet my finger. Some kids are playing baseball behind the fence, and I watch them and twist the weed around my hand absentmindedly.

I don't know what to do. My mind is blank. There's no plan, no idea. On my way here, I was satisfied because I had a goal: go near Fort Drum, even if I can't get in. Say goodbye to the surrounding towns and trees and sky, even if I can't say goodbye to the house or the neighbors. Destroy my file and my pager and chuck them into a lake.

Now that I've done that, I no longer have a goal.

So what do I do?

I yank the weed out of the ground, root and all. The batter scores a home run, and his friends jump up and cheer. Behind me, in the parking lot, friends are having a get together. They sit in the trunks of the cars with tables of drinks in front of them, and there's a radio playing. It switches between music (rock, mainly), news (an unsurprising politician scandal) and national weather.

"A small region in Oklahoma is reporting unusual windstorms and sudden occurrences of small dust devils," the reporter says. "Meteorologists are—"

"No one listens to that channel," says one of the friends, and he turns the dial.

The words echo in my head a bit, and I twist around. "Could you please go back to that for a second?" I ask.

The friend who switched it raises an eyebrow, but he switches it back.

"It doesn't seem to fit the seasonal pattern, according to weather analysis," the reporter continues. "The windstorms seem to flow in the wrong directions, but the mayor has issued a weather watch in anticipation of more activity."

"Are you from that area?" the guy asks me.

"No." I stand up. "Just curious. Thank you."

They turn it back to music as I walk away. It seems I have a new, temporary purpose.

I have to go see what the hell Lana is doing.