Page 95 of Beneath the Desert Bloom
She bolted to the porch, throwing the door open wide. The wind hit her hard. Hot. Wild. It dragged her hair sideways as she scanned the horizon.
And then she saw it.
At the far edge of the yard, just beyond the last fence post, the earth had split.
A thin, black wound in the dust. Still. Seething.
It hadn’t been there before.
She stepped down, the wood of the porch hot against her soles. She walked slowly, the wind lifting in tremendous gusts around her.
When she reached the edge of the crack, she knelt.
She pressed her palm into the dirt. Into the split. Into the heat that rose from the depths like a warning. Or a hunger.
And then she knew.
Not from a voice. Not from a sign. From inside.
She hadn’t done it right.
She’d walked into the wash, yes.
But not unshod. Not truly.
She hadn’t bled. Not willingly. Not yet.
She’d asked the land to choose her, but she hadn’t offered what it demanded in return.
She hadn’t given everything.
But she would.
She stood, dust streaking her knees, and turned back toward the house.
This time, she wouldn’t go in hoping.
This time, she would go in knowing.
Not for a hike. Not for a rite she half-understood.
But for a reckoning.
She braided her hair back tight, tying it with a strand of her grandfather’s red thread. She lit a bundle of desert herbs, sharp and dry, and let the smoke curl around her. She found the mezcal, took a swig, and threw it into her bag, next to the knife.
She undressed.
Every layer felt like it weighed something. Memory. Hesitation. Grief.
She smeared ash across her cheekbones and down her chest, streaking her skin like war paint.
Like permission. Like a beginning.
She opened the door.
The wind roared.
She didn’t flinch.
