Hell or High Water
Hell or High Water
She set the pot on low to make sure she had plenty of time to prepare for first light. With careful little tugs, she pulled each individual staple away from the tarp she placed over the attic; and with a powerful tug, she pried away the boards.
In a fit of whimsy, she turned the barrel on its side—splashing the water inside it on the floor—stood atop it and rolled herself toward the whistle beckoning her back to the kitchen. She'd been wandering the old town parks and patrolling the rampant gardens searching for her favorite flowers; she gathered them together in a small scrap from his shirt and set them to dry in the trunk of an abandoned car; she made a friend and was rewarded with a lemon; and now, she was ready to enjoy.
Leaping from the barrel to the counter top, she swept the pot away from the heat and pulled the frayed wire from the generator with her bare toes. She carefully stuffed her makeshift bag into her favorite chipped mug and poured the hot water over it. She squatted over her seated mug and took a long sniff of the rising steam. If love had a smell, this was certainly it.
She sprang back to her barrel and wildly rolled back to the hole she'd cleared moments ago. With a chaotic jump, she grasped the rope and pulled the rotting stairs down from the attic. A good heave set the barrel aright, and she raced to the kitchen to gather her drink.
Careful not to spill a drop—and pinky held high—she walked her mug to the attic stairs, double-touched four stairs, high-stepped onto the barrel and strained the mug to the attic's lip before tugging herself up like she were climbing a tree.
She greeted her friends, the pigeons, by their names: “Good morning, Mr. Chestervelt. Top'o'tha'mornin' to ya' Mrs. McDuff—your feathers are looking splendid this morning. Who's been preening you?”
She giggled as the plump gray bird ruffled its feathers with offense and turned away. “I'm only teasing, Miss.”
The bird cooed and pecked at an invisible scrap in the wooden floor.
“Ohio-gozaimasu, San-chan! Any messages for me.” The young dove held a scrap of newspaper in its talon. She gathered it up and read: Hell or High Water: Is the End Upon Us?
“I certainly think not, San-chan! You're always so negative. You should join me. It might make you smile too.”
She lifted her free arm and the bird alighted upon it. She stepped through the open window into a brilliant red sunrise and took her first sip of tea.
“I really miss him ya' know, San-chan?” The silver dove cooed in agreement as she raised a hopeful arm to the new day.
She sipped as it disappeared into the horizon to scour the Kansas Ocean for the boy in the torn shirt.