The Art of Naming Rocks
1. Igneous rock forms when magma or lava cools.
My mom paused over the stove when I walked into the kitchen. Pancakes, eggs, bacon, hash browns. Time was I wouldn’t have to leave my bed to know a mega-breakfast awaited me. It would be none of that faux food either, no matter the health or environmental consequences.
“Good morning, honey. Bacon’s about ready.”
Bacon. I remembered it like my grandma remembered her youth—with wistful longing. Last winter, sinus infections had knocked out my senses of taste and smell. Sure, my taste came back: salty, sweet, bitter, and sour. Not smell though, which meant no flavors.
Only extra crispy bacon for me now. Can’t gag it down otherwise. Good thing our smart stove let my mom customize the settings for my food. One click and my food would be a few seconds shy of burnt. That necessitated a programmable smoke detector. Without the ability to adjust the sensitivity, the fire department would’ve been at our house way too often.
When it comes to sympathy for losing one of your senses, smell didn’t even squeak onto the list, not like it did back during the Covid-19 pandemic. Dr. Mills might as well have patted me on the back and said, “Buck up, sport.” She’d treated me with meds and then transcranial stimulation. Nothing had worked.
She’d said, “It might come back on its own in months or possibly years. It could come back gradually or suddenly or not at all. I don’t want to get your hopes up.” Emotionless, she continued. “Stem cell replacement may be an option in a decade or so. It’s not a priority for researchers.”
I asked, “Can I get a service animal?”
Dr. Mills laughed. I didn’t.
She stopped smiling when my words came out in gasps. “It’s the middle [sob] of wildfire season. [sob] Isn’t anyone [sob] besides me [sob] worried I can’t smell smoke?” She eventually handed me a tissue.
The number of people who cared that I might never smell the ocean again stood at zero. Including my mom.
Hot sauce became a lifesaver. The sensation of heat made eating a hundred times better than no sensation at all. Heat plus texture determined if I ate or starved. Eggs, well done. Cheese, hard. No yogurt. Okra? Totally blocked that experience; I’d probably need years of therapy.
Meals transformed into absolute no-slime zones. When food went bad, as in make-you-sick bad, glutinous equaled danger. That’s what my lizard brain told me to worry about.
My mom pretended she forgot my routine on meet days like today. She waved her spatula at me. “How many pancakes do you want? We’re down to the last of the Dark and Robust maple syrup.”
“None for me, thanks.”
She said, "Sarah, you need to eat something. This meet is a step toward a full-ride scholarship. Or not."
My routine meant power-loading food in the days before meets but not the day of. That required a critical shift: hydration all day, two eggs for breakfast, and one for lunch. Anything more and I'd throw up during the meet. Anything less and I wouldn't have the energy to kick up the speed I'd need.
"What if the scouts don't like me? Is there any chance Hank will help?"
"I can't predict what he'll do. I'm long past that ability." My mom frowned in that way she did when the subject turned to money. Eyebrows scrunched together. Lips puckered as if she'd caught the sharpness of a bitter pill before water washed it down. Her divorce from my stepfather had been tough for all of us to swallow. After two years of trying to make the marriage work, both wanted out. My mom resented his sudden success after the divorce, Hank resented her resentment, and I was pissed it meant starting at a new school.
Moving, in the middle of my sophomore year, from coastal Reno to the California Panhandle because of my mom’s job on the perovskite solar arrays sucked big time. At my farewell party, everyone made promises that we’d never lose touch, besties forever, all hugs and crying. Only Lissa bothered to text me the first month. Then nothing. Not even on KangaWho, where all my posts went unliked. Sometimes I’d open my message app to check. “Welcome back. Don’t lose touch with the people you care about. Text someone today. *Charges may apply.” Salt meet wound.
Just like when my dad died, a vacuum formed. A horrible gaping void. Death terrified people, like it was contagious and with me as Patient Zero.
My dad, an Army Reserve geologist, had been called up after the second quake unzipped southern California from the mainland. The water from Baja and the Pacific had rushed in, causing devastation like Earth wanted to remind us of human expendability. During my dad’s investigation of the damage on the Panhandle side, an aftershock centered near his mobile base ripped apart the temporary buildings and roads. I always wondered if that’s the real reason we moved to the Panhandle—to be closer to where he died. We never saw him again. My mom insisted on microchips after that. That way, if we got separated, we could find each other in the next disaster. Even if one of us died.
I wasn’t dead yet and my friends seemed tantalizingly close across the Gulf of California. I wanted to visit, to remind them I existed, but no bridges have been built since the Walker Quake in 2028. Now it required a long drive north, up the western California Panhandle past the remnants of Los Angeles, and back south, down the Nevada coast. Hydrofoils were scheduled to start in a few years, once docks replaced the unsalvageable homes and the three new desalinization plants were completed. There wasn’t enough money in the disaster fund to repair or replace everything at once. If they hadn’t wasted it trying to rebuild the L.A. end of the Musk Boring Tunnel to San Francisco, hydrofoils would already be in service.
I pushed those thoughts aside. My old coach had encouraged visualizations. She said I needed to shut down negativity. I stored my losses and grief in a little box I kept in my head. I went old school and gave the metaphor an analog mechanism:
Slam the lid. Click the lock. Spin the tumbler. Poof, problem solved.
Today was my first meet for Summit. Anticipation of the races sizzled inside me and finally settled into a hard lump near my stomach.
I swallowed the scrambled eggs, savored the sting of the hot sauce on my tongue, and imagined my feet hitting the earth, stride after stride, cooling my thoughts while my body perspired. I imagined winning.
Like I imagined what the eggs tasted like.
The second week at Summit High School wasn’t much of an improvement over the first. Track had been the place I could find friends, but my elite runner status backfired on me at Summit. Coach Joe knew my reputation before I showed up at the track. If he hadn’t seen me as a way to redeem the team's fall performance, things might have gone better. He made it evident Anna Lingen's place as the star could be mine. That left Anna unhappy, and the rest of the team ready to undermine me. Their whispers let me know they wouldn't be upset if I tripped at today's meet.
I headed to the gym for an early warm-up. I crossed the basketball court and my stomach tightened as I approached the locker room. I paused before I pushed the door open, preparing myself for the shock of coldness, not from the air conditioning, instead, from the other girls.
Slam. Click. Spin. Poof.
I took a deep breath, pulled the door open, and visualized winning. Unfortunately, reality intervened. Anna stood leaning against my locker, arms crossed.
Anna’s words peppered me. "We were a team before you got here. We'll be a team after. Coach acts like you walk on water. You won’t be Team Captain. Not if I have anything to do with it.” Her eyes flashed with anger.
I froze, motionless in the face of an erupting volcano. I waited for her mood to cool, allowing the ground to return to a solid form. "That's between you and Coach Joe. My focus is on the meet."
Anna stalked away as I opened my locker. Gelatinous goop oozed through the vents, but I couldn't smell anything. I guessed it wasn't something pleasant.
Anna’s laughter rang in my ears as I cleaned it off. Fortunately, it missed my shoes, the only track shoes I owned that wouldn’t eliminate me from traditional events. My others were banned because of their aerodynamic materials and recoil force-assisted soles. People liked to watch the faster races, however, the 2024 International Olympic Committee ruled that assisted events would not be included until the 2032 Games. Coach Joe is old-fashioned and said he’d train traditional until he retired or dropped dead. If he saw me run an assisted race, he’d change his mind.
I called Lissa.
Beep.
“Hey, this is Liss. Leave a message or don’t. Up to you.”
I couldn’t think of anything to say.
Outside, I shook each arm and leg, testing for tight spots. Anxiety would hit me later, after the race.
My best distance was the 1600. In less than five minutes, you know if you’ve won or lost, yet it’s long enough to find your pace. No scouts today. This meet would be about my place on the team. I needed them. I had to make them need me. Belonging somewhere seemed impossible without my running.
I breezed through my race; I took first although I pulled up on the last 200 meters. Thompson High didn’t run at the national level, nevertheless, I high-fived each Thompson runner as she crossed the finish line. My former coach always insisted on respecting the opposing team; I mouthed quiet thanks for her guidance.
We won two relays with me as anchor. Anna took the 3200. She hated giving up relay anchor to me though. She walked around muttering to anyone who would listen, hoping to flip the rest of the girls against me, no doubt.
Lily deserted Anna first. She sat next to me. “What kind of stretches do you do?” she asked. Then, as we won event after event, victory, on so many levels, inched up on me. Anna sputtered alone as everyone surrounded me.
My goals were worked out on a spreadsheet with a list of what I needed for my résumé. College admission required a serious approach. No one would stop me from checking things off, certainly not Anna. Team captain stayed on the list.
After the meet, I hustled home for a shower before I drove to the Caring Kitchen Shelter, also on my list, to help serve meals to the homeless. Colleges ate that stuff up, especially schools on the East Coast.
The rest of the country felt sorry for us. A large homeless population existed before the earthquake. After, it became epidemic. Now that the airport could handle supersonic planes again and the desalinization plants had helped the area recover from drought, vacationers, long-absent, returned. I guessed it helped that the rebound tremors have stopped, too. East Coasters visitors dabbled in Disaster Chic and posted sentimental stories of survivors under clickbait headlines
I thought again about college on the East Coast.
Slam. Click. Spin. Poof.
As I pulled into the Caring Kitchen lot, John hovered at the entrance. He bounced on the balls of his feet and, every few minutes, he glanced over his shoulder with an exaggerated twitch. We’d become friends after I'd talked him down from a panic attack triggered when the shattering of a dropped glass exposed his simmering fears. Plus, can’t forget that whole thing when he kind of saved my life last month. I winced as I remembered how I thought of him as a résumé bullet point when we’d first met.
"Hey, John, how's it going this week?" I asked when he held the door open for me. He wanted me to go first, to protect him from whatever he imagined waited inside. I wondered if he'd taken a shower since I’d seen him last. His matted and greasy brown hair poked out of a dingy cap. His head was more beard than face.
"Tough week for me. There's new construction near my spot on Fourth Street. Can't sleep with all the noise."
"Sleep here for a while. 'Til the construction stops."
"It's not safe here. People look at me strangely. Then I get mad. Never ends well."
I nodded and said, “I’m sorry to hear that. Really sorry.”
It seemed as if he reached deep into himself to smile, like it didn’t come naturally. He said, “How’s kitty litter duty these days?”
I laughed. He remembered my story about my mom assigning that chore to me when I lost my sense of smell. “You know how it is. No bad experience goes unpunished.”
Now John laughed. “I don’t think that’s the expression. Still, I get your meaning,”
The line for the serving station had grown. The meal coordinator, Mike, motioned me over.
Before I walked away, I asked, "Can you find someplace new?” We both knew it had a zero percent chance of happening.
John shook his head. His attention tumbled away deeper into one of his down cycles. I couldn’t help him when he went there. Someone told me he had PTSD from the war. Someone else said schizophrenia. I thought the loss of his family in the earthquake buried him in grief. I knew all about that.
After I finished, I found John outside. The temperature had dropped since I’d arrived. I pulled my dad's old camo jacket out of my backpack and slipped it on.
He said, "Nice coat." He pointed to the name on the pocket. "Klees. I used to know a guy named Klees." Then he pivoted away, coughing. "See you next week."
"Oh, I won't be here my normal day next week. I've got an important meet. There'll be college scouts there. I'm trying for a scholarship."
John wished me luck. He seemed even sadder now. For a moment, I thought I'd invite him for dinner. I pictured walking in the door with John, a man down on his luck and old enough to be my father. My mom would freak. And she'd probably be right to. I said, "Next time, John. Be safe."
Sedimentary rock forms when small rock fragments fuse together.
I ran to the abandoned stone quarry under the pre-dawn cloudless sky. Even with the full moon, I needed my graphene lenses to help my night vision. Beyond the new townhouses, the trail through the woods had become my favorite loop to run. Two miles, round trip, then a shower and school.
Every thud of my feet pounded home the knowledge I hadn't made any new friends here, except for John, assuming he qualified. I'd never told him much about me. The shelter wouldn't allow us to give out personal info. The pebbles skittered under my feet, reminding me of the shaky ground of my world.
Nearing the quarry, I slowed. I checked at my wrist implant for the time. Nice. My pace, faster than usual, gave me the chance to relax.
Standing close to the tree line, I had a good view of the rock formations. A small slice through the rocks along the rim led to a pond at the bottom of the quarry. The limestone, slick with dew, paved a jagged path. I sat on the rocks I had dubbed "The Throne” and tried to remember if the quarry had a distinct odor. From the slivers of what I remembered, I was sure my dad would’ve loved this place.
“Damn it!”
Someone had chiseled one side of The Throne and left rubble behind. The small pile of rock triggered a memory of rock hunting with my dad when I was six, right before he died. We had celebrated our find—a piece of limestone with the fossilized evidence of coral. Everything else remained vague, even my dad's face. What happened to that stone? Mixed in with all the other rocks in my collection probably.
Sitting, calmed by the sunrise through the trees and the aquamarine water of the pond, another memory surfaced, one long-buried: I sat with my dad in the kitchen as he sliced a banana for his cereal. He lopped off an end and gave it to me. He did that every morning, a sweet gesture meant only for me. I held his love in my head on my jog home.
As soon as my right foot hit the doormat, an electronic voice said, “Hello, Sarah. Did you have a productive run?
I refused to answer a computer, letting my microchip do the work. No hassles with lost keys or worrying about forgetting to lock the door.
“Mom! Do you remember that thing dad used to do with his morning banana? Mom?”
Her voice, faint, floated from her office down the hall. “Send me the docs with all the detail. We should be able to use that to get you some answers.”
I stared at the honeymoon photo my mom had rehung after her divorce from Frank. My dad had his arms around my mom from behind and she held a heart-shaped rock in her open palms. They beamed.
A soft sadness drifted over me as I longed for what I'd lost. A childhood protected by a father who loved me. The tightness in my chest pressed for the release of tears. None came. I didn't know how to cry for a man I hardly remembered. When loss led my mind to the fact that I might never smell fresh cut grass again, I discovered I hadn’t forgotten how to cry.
Slam. Click. Spin. Poof.
I grabbed a seat in geoscience class. Understanding the Earth soothed me. To other people, the processes churning every day seemed like chaos. Volcanoes, earthquakes, floods. I saw the forces behind them. The more we understood, the better we could prepare although we couldn’t prevent, not yet anyhow. My friends at my old school told me it was seriously weird. I didn't tell anyone at Summit. Not even Ms. Warnstead.
Ms. Warnstead, the coolest teacher at Summit, had a full class every semester and not because geology had an unfair reputation for being easy. Today she passed around samples of obsidian and pumice and asked us to guess their classifications.
My hand shot up. "They are both igneous rocks. The obsidian is cooled magma, and the pumice is cooled lava."
I held the obsidian. My fingers slid across its glassy surface. I rubbed it on my cheek.
Anna tittered and her friends join in. She said, "Sarah's making out with a rock."
“As long as I’m not as dumb as a box of rocks. Like some people.” I blurted.
Ms. Warnstead directed a frown at me. No benefit of the doubt for a fellow rock hound it seemed. When the bell rang, Ms. Warnstead asked me to stay behind. Anna and friends smirked as they passed by.
"Sarah, if you want that scholarship recommendation, I'll need evidence of more maturity. It's not only about athletics."
The five-year-old in me said, "Anna started it."
Ms. Warnstead's face set hard like the granite block on her desk.
I had references from Coach Joe and my math teacher. I needed three teachers to sponsor me. I assumed Ms. Warnstead would be a lock. I hoped I hadn’t screwed things up.
I resented that I needed her, that I needed that scholarship.
Coach Joe sent the team an email with a list of the college scouts who would be at the meet. I Googled the scouts for University of North Carolina, my dream school, and my fallback, UC Santa Barbara. I focused on the scout from UCSB. Being in-state would improve my odds of getting in.
Today, at our last training before the meet, I’d have another chance to establish myself with the team. Tomorrow we’d review our meet strategy. I hoped Coach Joe would give me some tips on the scouts, although if I didn't win, it wouldn't matter. The knots in my stomach hurdled over each other.
Anna crossed the gym ahead of me. When she entered the locker room, I slowed to kill a few minutes, leaving Anna to finish and leave. Then I jogged in place on a blue mat under the basketball hoop. I wore my espadrilles, not my running shoes, so I moved carefully. I wanted to get my heart pumping a bit, not injure myself. My favorite local band, Buoyant Force, streamed through my AV implant while I visualized shaving a fraction of a second off my personal best.
Deep into the virtual reality program where I practically flew around the track, I started when someone tapped my shoulder. Spinning, I saw Anna. She gestured to her ears and I flicked off the sound.
"Were you going to tell the team?" Anna asked, with lips curling away from her teeth in a snarl.
"Tell you all what? What are you talking about?"
Anna said, "Sure, you have no idea about the private meeting Coach Joe set up for you."
I shook my head as I processed what she said. She shoved me, throwing me off balance. Pain in my ankle drowned out every other possible sensation, dropping me to the mat. Anna stared at my foot. Her mouth hung open, her body rigid.
Coach Joe appeared at my side, but his voice seemed far away. "Be still. It's your ankle. It’s dislocated. I’ve called the EMTs." He stood. "Anna, what happened? Anna?"
Anna said nothing.
Coach grabbed Anna and shook her gently. “Anna, I need you to help me. I need you to hold Sarah’s shoulders down. Put all your weight into it.”
Vaguely aware of the overhead lights, I watched Coach Joe kneeling at my feet. He placed one hand on my shin and one on my ankle. He shouted at a kid gawking at us. “Sean, get over here. Hold Sarah’s leg to the mat. Tight. Okay, ready? Sarah, this will hurt.”
A bolt of lightning shot to my brain and then vanished. Like nothing had happened. Anna darted across the gym and out the door.
Coach Joe asked, “Are you okay? Did Anna do this?”
“My ankle has stopped hurting. Maybe if I ice it tonight, I’ll make the meet.” I sent pleas out into the universe.
Coach Joe said, “Maybe.” His eyes said, “No.”
As the EMTs wheeled me out, I imagined a million ways I could make Anna suffer. Starting with getting her kicked off the team.
3. Metamorphic rock forms when heat and pressure change the original rock.
Coach Joe’s re-location of my ankle received a gold star from the ER doctor. Swollen and purple now, in the splint, it didn't hurt at all. The pain med they injected crushed it.
The doctor came in with my mom. “No weight on your foot for several days, then you should be okay to walk. We injected nanobots to repair the tendons and ligaments. You’ll be able to run again in a month. The design file for your 3D brace will be available tomorrow. If you don’t have a printer, we can do it here.”
Nanobots. I couldn’t believe it. I said, “You should’ve told me before injecting me. You’ve ruined everything.”
The doctor glanced at my mom.
I knew in that instant that my mom had approved it. I shot my anger at her with my eyes then I looked away.
No meets for the rest of the season. The nanobots, designated as performance enhancers, had been forbidden in competition. It would be five months before I’d test clean. Anna would be ecstatic.
My mom rested her hand on my arm. I shook it off.
“Sarah, I didn’t have any choice. You’d miss the season either way. I know you think there isn’t much damage because there’s no pain. That’s the nanobots doing their job.”
Coach Joe came in and that stopped me from saying, “Thanks for nothing.” From my mom’s face, she knew my thoughts.
Coach waited until the doctor pulled my mom into the hall. He asked, “Did Anna have anything to do with your accident?”
I swatted aside my guilt for ratting on her. “She pushed me. She ruined my chance for a scholarship.” My thoughts raged with what I could do to Anna, like I had become that large green superhero I’d been known to admire.
Coach Joe grimaced. “I can tell her she’s off the team effective immediately or she can stay on until after the meet. I’ll let you decide.”
I knew what he meant. We could still win the meet if Anna raced. “Let her run.”
“Are you sure? If you are, and I know this is asking a lot, but if you come to the meet to show support for the team, it would set a positive example for the younger girls.”
Nothing else could’ve convinced me to go. I wanted to skip the meet and do my usual volunteer work at Caring Kitchen, but I needed the strongest reference possible from Coach to still have any kind of chance at a scholarship.
Slam. Click. Spin. Poof.
The team talked during warm-up. They laughed as they tried to shake off their nerves. I recognized it because that’s how I used to be. Generalized numbness encased me, except for the moment Anna walked onto the track. If my brain could’ve engaged the forces of the universe, Anna would have been shot into a black hole in some distant galaxy. College would probably mean some ginormous loan now. My mom offered to call Hank. I wasn’t holding out much hope.
When John sat down next to me, I jumped.
He said, "I heard the news. Sorry about your accident. Trust me, I know how tough it is when life knocks you back a peg."
I took in the mess of him. "What are you doing here?" I asked. He stood. The hurt in his eyes made me wish I could stuff my words back in my mouth. "No, sit down. I'm surprised is all."
"I wanted to watch my girl run. I wanted to see you doing the thing you love. And I wanted to make sure you’re okay."
The "my girl" creeped me out a little. I didn't believe he'd do anything bad. I'd never seen the anger others had. I liked him and decided he meant well. I hoped it wasn’t a mistake.
"I'm not really doing okay. My ankle doesn't hurt at all, but...never mind. It’s a long story.”
“Tell me anyhow.”
So I did. I told him about the scouts, the scholarship, and what the nanobots meant. Through it all, he listened and nodded. John wasn't like other adults, telling me to suck it up and be happy for what I had. He understood although the words I used hadn’t told the whole story.
He held out his arms and mimicked a dog paddle. "You going to try swimming for a change of, um, pace?" His voice lilted on the last word.
I laughed in spite of myself. Hard to say which was worse, the dog paddle or the pun.
The bleacher shook. Students goofing around behind us bounced their feet up and down. People looked around as several rows vibrated. One guy, who I knew from math class, sat to my right. He said, "Is Stinky bothering you or is he your new boyfriend?" The other kids laughed and not in a way that seemed happy. They chanted. "Stinky. Stinky. Stinky."
I had no idea, with my inability to smell and all. Then one kid offered him a shower and emptied a drink over his head.
Horrified and paralyzed, I didn’t tell them to shut up, to stop. In that space where I didn't defend John, he bolted. His expression revealed humiliation seasoned with righteous anger.
I arrived at the Caring Kitchen early the next morning. I’d never been there in the morning. I wanted to make up for missing my usual shift and I wanted to apologize to John for my idiocy at the meet. Inside I scanned for him. Every second I didn't see him, my heart contracted tighter and tighter. I was aware of a new sensation, a sense that warned me of a disturbance in my world. I tried to pinpoint it but it slid away from me.
Mike waved from the back of the dining hall. I fumbled with a time lag between the awareness someone had been calling my name for a while and finally hearing it. Not sure how that worked. My name echoed in my head somehow.
I shrugged and laughed. "Sorry, I...uh…" I stopped. I didn't want him to find out about my friendship with John.
Mike smiled. "You want to work the serving line or food prep this morning?"
“I’ll work the line.” If I served, I could watch for John.
I discovered why they had trouble staffing for breakfast. The food revolted me. Runny fake eggs, watery coffee for the benefit of clients who'd had a rough night either from lack of sleep or too much alcohol or worse. I didn’t want to think about any of it. I visualized tiny healing robots strengthening my ankle.
A family stopped at my station. Their daughter, about six, wore a red bow in her hair. The father chatted with everyone nearby about his recent job offer. When the girl asked me about John, guilt grabbed me again. They'd been part of an anonymous crowd to me. I didn't remember seeing this family before. Obviously, they’d seen me.
I smiled and said. "He hasn’t been around this morning. Maybe he doesn't come for breakfast. I normally see him at dinner."
Her father slid both their trays past me along the counter. The girl said, "He's nice to me. He always cuts off the top of his banana and gives it to me. He said he used to do it for his daughter a long time ago."
I dropped the spatula into the eggs. It sank into the muck. While I fished it out, my mind raced. In my head, I heard over and over, "my girl." I recalled photos of my dad, but I couldn't bring the details of his face to mind. The harder I tried, the more John's face got superimposed.
I moved down the food line to the girl’s father, "Have you seen John recently? Maybe at dinner?"
He nodded. "If you mean John K, we saw him last night. I'm not sure he'll be back. He acted upset. Real upset. Mike made him leave."
I ran back into the kitchen. "Mike, what happened with John yesterday?"
Mike’s eyes narrowed at my question. "Why? Is there a problem? Is he back?" When I told Mike about what the kids did at the meet, Mike said, "That explains it. He kept yelling, 'It's too late for me. It's too late.' We haven't seen him angry in forever. We thought things were better. He started slamming the table with his fists. When I approached him, he punched at me. Security made him leave. I hoped he'd be back this morning. I'm worried he might hurt himself."
I needed to find John.
John K.
John Raymond Klees, better known as Ray. My dad. I couldn't explain the past ten years. I couldn't lose him again when I've lost so much else.
I wished I’d driven, but my mom took the car today. Our second car rested under a tarp in the garage. She couldn’t afford to replace the fuel line.
A sob heaved out of me. John saved my life the day I met him. I could’ve died because of that fuel line. I’d pulled into a parking space and the engine idled while I flipped through some posts on KangaWho. John scared me when he made a lunging movement toward my door and yelled at me to get out. Before I could lock the door, he yanked the handle and grasped my arm. “Don’t you smell the gasoline? Get out!” He reached past me and cut off the engine. My knees wobble whenever I think of it, of the realization that at any moment a spark would’ve been disastrous.
The bus wasn’t due for another fifteen minutes. Too long. I knew with the certainty of the ground beneath my feet he'd gone to the quarry. I jogged a few steps to test my ankle. Then I ran faster as I gained confidence. I ignored the achiness building toward something more. As long as that’s all there was, I’d make it to the quarry.
A car swerved onto the shoulder in front of me. Anna got out. "What are you doing? You'll destroy your ankle."
With no desire to explain, I said, "I need to get to the quarry. This is the fastest way."
Anna's eyes squinched like she was trying to make sense of what I said. "Get in. I'll take you to the trailhead."
No choice really. And for sure I wouldn’t spare her my silence on the drive.
Anna said, “Thanks for telling Coach I could run the last meet. I won’t be running anymore this season. He kicked me off the team.”
I let dead air say all the things my words couldn’t.
“I’m sorry,” Anna said in a low voice. “I never meant to hurt you.”
We arrived at the trailhead. I’d think about her apology later. I jumped from the car. Her car door slammed and her feet pounded behind me. I didn't have time to care.
Steps in, I thrust the pain outside my body. It moved from an annoying ache through throbbing and straight into stop-right-now levels of pain. Petrified I'd be too late, I wouldn't allow myself to stop.
A few yards from the quarry, the pain hobbled me. The tendons in my ankle felt shredded. Limping didn't solve the problem. Anna had been following and helped me hop to the quarry, then I shrugged her away. The pain flashed in bright pinpricks of light at the edges of my vision. Uncertainty engulfed me. Uncertainty about winning. About losing. About everything.
I spotted John on a narrow ledge beyond trees overgrown with flowering vines. Low muttering drifted toward me. I stepped carefully; a few stones skittered toward John as I progressed.
"John! It's me, Sarah."
His back to me, he said, "Get out of here. I don't want you to see this." He shuffled closer to the edge.
"Don't. Please don't jump."
"What do you care?"
"Dad. Please."
A stillness settled over the quarry. My dad's shoulders sagged. Fear riddled me with thoughts that it didn't matter we'd found each other. That I was too late.
"I miss you," I said. I limped closer.
He bent down to pick up something. I panicked he'd topple over.
My dad twisted around. He held out two rocks and I took one in each hand. In my right hand, I cupped the heart-shaped piece of marble I recognized from the photo in our living room. She’d found the rock on their honeymoon in Greece. The second rock was polished as if it’d been rubbed like a magic lamp. I rolled it in my hand. My fingertips grazed the coral fossil.
He said, “I looked for you and your mom, you know. You moved before the hospital discharged me. I’d been in a coma for more than a year. They didn’t know my name. Just another John Doe. I wanted to tell you but I’ve been too messed up.”
I breathed in deeply.
The sweet smell of honeysuckle lit up my brain.
Poof. The box is empty.