Chapter 3
Uranus was gone. That’s what they heard when they turned on the radio on the sixth day of their trip.
In a trembling voice, the newscaster said that Uranus had been ripped apart.
Given the position of the planets, Jupiter was next.
The Great Red Spot—the stormy eye of the planet that had raged on for centuries—didn’t hold a candle to what was coming for it.
Don turned the dial on the radio away from the news, right as they began to theorize how electronics would be affected soon: At some point in the coming weeks—perhaps days—satellites would become useless.
Internet not working. Cell phones not working.
It was necessary information, but at the same time, too much to listen to.
Though Rodney would never admit it, Don knew it was making him anxious.
He felt the same, responding to texts from friends back home, asking about their journey, how far they’d made it, if they thought they’d have enough time.
Too much, all of it. Especially when he’d spent the morning screenshotting the maps on his phone just in case service went down.
He found classical music—“Clair de Lune,” the bittersweet piano.
Then country—Garth Brooks and the thunder rolled.
He stopped on Pat Benatar for just a moment as she sang that whatever we deny or embrace for worse or for better, we belong, we belong, we belong together.
Back to “Clair de Lune,” and there it stayed.
Such a terribly sad song. The window down, the air cool, sky cloudy.
It was slow going. They’d just gotten out of New York state, having had to make several detours to avoid major cities and highways.
They’d come across long lines of cars, people standing on the road, conversing.
They’d met up with a group of young people who’d shown them a way around using dirt roads so small that trees scraped against the side of the RV.
They’d almost made it out before they’d gotten stuck in a muddy patch of ground deeper than it looked.
The kids had stopped, gotten out, and proceeded to push the RV.
By the time it was free, their new friends were covered in mud.
They hugged before going their separate ways.
They didn’t travel at night. Rodney liked to drive, but his vision wasn’t as good as it used to be, and Don didn’t trust himself to drive on strange roads in the dark.
Thankfully, they chased the sun as they traveled west. They took breaks often, getting out of the RV and stretching, Don massaging Rodney’s neck and shoulders as they grew stiff.
His back was bothering him too, but he didn’t complain much.
On the eighth day since they had started their trip—and with approximately three weeks remaining until the end—they found themselves in rural Ohio.
Don had never been to Ohio before. It was flat.
So much of it was flat. Large empty fields that stretched on as far as the eye could see, dotted sparsely with withered trees.
It was getting dark, and the two-lane road they were on seemed to grow smaller the farther they went. According to the GPS on Don’s phone, they still had another three hours to go before they found a larger road.
No places to pull off. No rest stops, no empty parking lots.
Just miles and miles of nothing with darkened houses every now and then.
They were about to start arguing—Don could feel it building—when they crested a rare hill and saw a large fire in the distance.
Behind it, the sun approaching the horizon.
“What’s that?” Don asked nervously. “Is it a house? Do we try and call the fire department?” In his mind, he could imagine the fields catching on fire, surrounding them, keeping them from finishing what they’d started out to do.
“Too small,” Rodney said. “See sunlight flashing near it? Cars. I think it’s a bonfire.”
He was right. As they got closer, they could see people standing around the large fire.
It looked to be in the middle of a field, surrounded by at least a dozen vehicles: cars, SUVs, campers.
Tents too, some small for only one or two people, and others much larger that could easily fit at least five adults with room to spare.
They stopped on the blacktop as they came to a dirt road that led up to the bonfire. No one behind them. No one in front of them.
“Well?” Don asked. “What are we doing?”
“Hush,” Rodney said, staring straight ahead. “I’m thinking.”
They both let out yelps when a knock came at the passenger window.
Don jerked away from the door, only to have his seat belt pull tight against his chest. He pressed a hand against his throat as he turned his head.
A young woman stood outside the RV. She looked to be in her early twenties, and was stunningly beautiful.
Her long, cascading hair rested on her shoulders.
Atop her head, a crown of white daisies with yellow centers.
She wore a cropped shirt, her bare stomach pale, and a long flowing pink skirt with lace.
She was barefoot, her toenails painted lime green.
Don cracked the window.
The woman stepped closer. She smiled. “Hi. Are you lost?”
“I don’t … think so?” Don said. “We’re headed west.”
“Where?”
“Washington state.”
Her eyes widened. “That’s far away.”
“I know.”
She said, “You’re headed west, but the road you’re coming up on can get a little tricky.
It’s better during the day.” She glanced back over her shoulder.
Don could hear music now, coming from the people around the fire.
Bob Marley and the Wailers. They shot the sheriff, but they didn’t shoot no deputy.
People danced, hands high above their heads.
Turning back to them, the woman said, “You wouldn’t hurt anyone, would you?
Rob someone. Take something that doesn’t belong to you. ”
Don shook his head slowly. “I don’t think we’d know how.”
The woman chuckled. “You can stay with us for tonight, if you want. We have wine and weed and the vibes are to die for. We also have chili, if you’re hungry. One of the people in the caravan used to be a chef and had some venison.”
“Used to be?” Don asked.
The woman leaned forward, her face inches from the window. “Well, we all used to be something, didn’t we? Now, we’re something else. Room to park. We’ll see you up there?” And with that, she spun on her bare heels and walked back toward the fire, her skirt billowing around her feet.
“What do you think?” Don asked, staring after the woman.
“Hippies,” Rodney muttered. “It’s always gotta be hippies. You hear her? She said they have a commune.”
“Caravan,” Don corrected without thinking.
Rodney waved a hand. “Same difference. Caravan leads to communes which leads to Communism.”
“Rodney.”
“What?”
“I don’t think that matters anymore.”
Rodney opened his mouth to retort, but no sound came out. He tried again. Nothing. He sighed. “It matters to me.”
“Duly noted. I’m tired. And hungry. Let’s go hang out with the hippies and their wine and weed.”
Rodney gaped at him.
Don stared back.
Grumbling, Rodney put the RV in drive and pulled down the road.
The woman was waiting for them. She clapped when they parked and turned off the RV, hurrying to the passenger door to fling it open.
In her hand, another flower crown. She curtsied neatly in front of Don as he clambered out of the RV.
Then she placed the flower crown on his head before kissing the tip of his nose.
“There,” she said, taking a step back. “Now you look the part.” Dropping her voice, she whispered, “I don’t think your travel companion wants one. ”
“He’s my husband,” Don said. “And no, I don’t think you should try and give him one.”
Rodney rounded the RV and rolled his eyes when he saw Don’s new accessory. “I’ll leave you here,” he threatened.
“You wouldn’t dare,” Don said.
Rodney demurred, grimacing as he glared at the flower crown.
“My name is Pantomime,” the woman said. “What are yours?”
Rodney groaned. “Are you out of your—”
“I’m Don,” he said quickly. “This is Rodney. It’s a pleasure to meet you … Pantomime.”
She grinned at them. “Oh, aren’t you precious. Come on, let me introduce you to my friends.”
And she did just that. They met everyone, people with names like Corn Blue and Violetta and Aberdeen.
They were all young, the oldest appearing around thirty, or thereabouts.
There was food and fire smoke and weed smoke.
Plastic cups filled with white wine, with red wine.
Stacks of wood for the fire. Speakers set up on the back of a truck, the music blaring.
The biggest bong Don had ever seen, at least five feet tall and popular, if the line was any indication.
Don and Rodney took a seat on a log about ten feet from the bonfire, the flames rising and crackling toward the sky.
And that was to say nothing of the sky itself: stars in only half the sky.
The other half was pure black, as if those stars had all been swallowed up.
Or, that something was so close that it blocked the light from ever reaching them.
Pantomime had disappeared after making sure they were settled in, reappearing a few minutes later carrying two bowls filled with chili. She gave them each a bowl and pulled two plastic spoons out of a pocket on her skirt. Rodney made a face as he took the spoon from her, but otherwise didn’t react.
She sat down next to them, stretching her long legs out toward the fire. Her toes dug into the coarse grass of the field. Across from them, people sat or stood in small groups, laughing and chatting away. On the other side of the fire, two women slow danced, their heads on each other’s shoulders.
“So,” Pantomime said as Don and Rodney dug into their food. “How’s it going?”
Don stopped, his spoon halfway to his mouth. “It’s … going?”