One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 15, page 7

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Fírí Parızada woke up. What’s that noise? A repetitive rasp filled the darkness. Where am I? This wasn’t her home. It didn’t smell right. Too much old-person scent.

She sat up, straining her eyes in the darkness.

The last thing she remembered was watching television in the living room after an argument with Zhíno. And before that, jumping off a cliff. . . ?

She rubbed her eyes with one hand. The other held a can of pepper spray. Think. This isn’t home. Where are you?

The rattling rasp sounded like heavy breathing--snoring, almost. Zhíno didn’t snore like that. Much too quiet to be him.

Her memories opened further back. She was in Sarıma, at an old lady’s house, in a bedroom, on the floor. But what about the television and Zhíno and the cliff? It must’ve been a dream, but it still felt so fresh and real to her that she had a hard time shaking it.

The snorer in the bed sounded like an old person, now that she thought about it. Weak, congested, loose, and flabby. It was probably Vata.

Fírí quietly stood and crept around the bed toward the door. The house was silent. No helicopter flew nearby. Perhaps the police had moved on, searching ever outward. If they weren’t around, now would be a good time to leave.

Slowly, she turned the doorknob and opened the door a crack. Darkness. Fírí slipped out into the hallway, closing the door behind her, and cautiously snuck down the dark hall in the direction opposite from the chapel. She felt along the wall with her left hand, holding the other out in front of her.

Her hand found a corner. She paused and listened. Silence. She rounded the corner and continued.

The dream haunted her. It felt like she had had an actual conversation with Zhíno, back at their house. It was a memory, not a dream. But that was impossible.

The carpet gave way to tile, and then the wall took another corner, opening into a room. Light filtered through the curtains to her right. Since it was still nighttime, those were probably the floodlights on the front of the house. Thanks to the light, otherwise-invisible furniture loomed around the edges of the room.

Were the police really gone? One way to check: peek out the window.

Fírí left the comfort of the wall and crossed the open room with her hands outstretched towards the shadows of furniture.

Her shin banged into a coffee table.

“Plague of Rékaré,” she cursed through tight lips.

Emanating from extremely close in the darkness, a deep moan culminated in a coughing fit.

Fírí froze, bent halfway over to grab her shin. Is that Zhíno? She backed away from the person and bumped into a television. Something slipped off the top and clattered to the floor behind the set.

Oh, plagues. If it was Zhíno, would it be the apologizing Zhíno from her dream or the murderous Zhíno from the chapel?

Fírí strained her eyes, looking for movement that might be an attack. The dark bulk of a couch occupied the area where the sound originated. Adrenaline raced up her back and flooded her brain, urging her to run while she had the chance.

A deep voice whispered, “Who’s there?” It wasn’t Zhíno.

Fírí sank to the carpeted floor, her legs suddenly lacking strength. Lightheaded, she hesitantly replied, “It’s me, Fírí. Who are you? Where’s Zhíno?”

The man sat up on the couch, groaning. He was huge. It had to be Vata’s husband, the man who carried the foreign kid into the chapel.

“I am Pí‘oro Kılímo,” he whispered, “husband of Vata Kılímí, who I hope did not startle you when you awoke. Zhíno is in our bed, comatose, so Vata had to use the spare room.”

“Why are you whispering?”

“Even though most of the police are gone, the last time I checked, a couple lawmen were still camped out in the driveway. I’m whispering just in case they decided to snoop around.”

Her guess about the police had proven correct. Most were gone. This was Fírí’s moment to escape. If Zhíno was comatose at the moment, all the better. She needed to put some distance between herself and him, just in case her dream was just that, a dream.

It wasn’t just a dream, though. It really happened. Zhíno had somehow conversed with her while she slept. His divine experience had changed him. He was repentant. And now that he was in a coma and unable to help himself, he deserved Fírí’s assistance.

But even repentance didn’t erase all the horrors he perpetrated. She couldn’t afford to be associated with Zhíno any longer.

“Where’s the back door?” she whispered.

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