Elion

July 4, 1985. Thursday, 2 p.m. Timber Hollow. The Webb's porch. The heat hung over the town thick as a wet sheet. Zoe sat on the top step of the porch, legs stretched out in sneakers. Pollen from cut grass clung to her fingers; the wind wasn't bothering with it—there was no wind at all. The air shimmered over the hot asphalt of Maple Street, and no one was out. Only the mayor's dog slept under a pickup across the road, tongue lolling. Voices came from inside the house. Her mother spoke fast and sharp, like a knife on glass; her father put in something muffled, as if driving nails into an empty wall. Zoe couldn't make out the words—didn't want to. She knew this conversation by heart. Money, work, Mark. She pulled her hoodie sleeve down to the very edge of her wrist. Winter one, grey, with worn elbows. The fabric stuck to her skin, but Zoe didn't roll up the sleeves—otherwise the bracelet would show. A thin woven cord, once blue, now almost white. Mark had worn one just like it until he disappeared three years ago. Zoe had found it in her brother's toolbox and put it on, never taking it off. It wasn't magical. Nothing changed. But if she took it off, it would feel somehow… final. Somewhere far off, behind the houses, a firecracker popped. Then another. The town was getting ready for the fireworks. Inside, something clattered—her mother must have thrown a spoon into the sink. Zoe stood, brushed off her jeans, and walked down the steps. She didn't take off the hoodie. July 4, 1985. Thursday, 2:45 p.m. Timber Hollow. The Turners' garage. The garage smelled of rosin and old iron. Leo leaned over the workbench, cluttered with circuit boards, wire clippings, and empty Coke cans. A soldering iron smoked in his fingers, the tip touching a contact—thin white fumes rose and vanished in the slivers of light coming through the dusty window. He squinted, checked the trace, exhaled. Through the half-open door to the house came a raspy voice. His father was watching TV and talking to himself—or to the baseball announcer, but the announcer, of course, only answered with static. Sometimes his father fell silent, and then you could hear the bottle clunk against the armrest of the chair. Leo set down the soldering iron and put on his headphones. Big ones, with foam cushions cracked with age. The cord ran into nowhere—to a player that wasn't spinning a tape. He put them on without any music. Just so the sound from outside became muffled, as if coming through a thick door. It didn't save him, but it pushed things back. His hands were thin, with long fingers, but they handled the soldering iron confidently. The only thing he could control were circuits. Everything else was held together by spit and duct tape. July 4, 1985. Thursday, 3:30 p.m. Timber Hollow. The Sanders' attic. Under the ridge of the roof, the air stood hot and still, as if sealed in a jar. Mira sat on an old mattress, legs tucked under her. The dormer window was wide open, but it didn't let in a draft. On her knees lay a battered squared notebook. She was drawing. The graphite of a soft pencil glided across the paper, tracing long curved branches. The tree grew not from the ground but seemingly from the air—roots coiled into spirals, drawn back into the trunk. There were no leaves; instead, tiny light bulbs hung at the tips of the branches. Pear-shaped, without shades. Mira shaded one of them to make it look like it glowed with a dim yellow light. Then she drew another—three, five, seven. The sleeves of her shirt were buttoned all the way down, even at the cuffs. The heat didn't matter. The shirt was soft, flannel, out of season. On her left arm, under the fabric, ran a line of thin scars—shallow, old. No one saw them except the bathroom mirror. Mira wasn't about to change that. She put down the pencil and looked at the drawing. Something was missing. She added a wire running from bulb to bulb and smiled faintly. From below, her mother called out something about lunch. Mira closed the notebook and shoved it under the mattress. July 4, 1985. Thursday, 5:00 p.m. Timber Hollow. Maple Street. The skateboard rattled over the cracks so that the echo bounced off the facades of empty houses. Tim raced toward the abandoned auto shop, crouching low like a surfer on a wave. At the rusty gates he tried a kickflip, but the board wobbled and he slammed his knee onto the asphalt. Blood soaked his jeans. He burst out laughing. The dog sleeping in the shade lifted its head and dropped it again. "No big deal!" Tim yelled at himself, smearing the blood with his palm. He lived fast, loud, with a crackle. Because if he stopped, the silence would crash down from the house where his mother stared at one spot and his father worked a job that had long stopped bringing him any joy. Tim jumped back on the board and sped off. July 4, 1985. Thursday, 10:15 p.m. The shore of Crater Lake. The campfire was dying down. The embers breathed orange, and sparks rose into the black sky where fireworks were already bursting—far off, beyond the woods. Four of them sat by the water: Zoe on a crate, Leo on a log, Mira on the grass, Tim on his skateboard. The dog had followed Tim and now slept curled in a ball. They talked about boredom. In Timber Hollow, nothing ever happened. Nothing at all. The fair in September, the fireworks in July—and that was it. "Last year at least a tornado came close," Tim said, tossing a twig into the fire. "And now?" "A satellite fell, they say," Zoe said quietly. "Or a meteorite. In the western woods." A soft rustle. Mira looked up from her notebook. "The forest ranger's beacon buzzed all night. I heard it." Tim jumped up, nearly knocking over his water bottle. "So let's go! Why sit around? We'll find it before anyone cordons it off." "At night?" Leo asked, not taking off his headphones. "When else? Imagine: a space rock, still smoking. We're the first. Heroes." Zoe exchanged a glance with Mira. Leo sighed but didn't argue. Tim was already stomping toward the trail, waving his arms. "In an hour at the gas station! I'm bringing a flashlight," he called over his shoulder and vanished into the dark. The others parted silently. They doused the fire with water; steam hissed and rose to the tops of the pines. In the woods to the west, somewhere deep, the crater from the fall was already cooling, but the stone inside it was still warm. It wasn't smoking—it was waiting.