And for the first time since that forgotten June, I did.
“You’re not real,” I whispered.
A sound emerged from the ground: a low, harmonic whistle, the same three-note tune I’d whistled into a well on my tenth birthday. My shadow shuddered, then began to grow. It tipped an invisible hat.
I drove to the Salt Flats.
And for the first time since that forgotten June, I did.
“You’re not real,” I whispered.
A sound emerged from the ground: a low, harmonic whistle, the same three-note tune I’d whistled into a well on my tenth birthday. My shadow shuddered, then began to grow. It tipped an invisible hat.
I drove to the Salt Flats.