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Holly

“Die-off” is what the radio stations have begun calling it, and downstairs the anchor sounds tinny and nervous–three meteorologists in two weeks can’t explain the heat.

Holly’s hand stings under the bandage she tore from a shirt; her sweat is gone as soon as it’s there, but the salt sticks around. Glass crunches under her flip-flops on the rotten little deck.

She’s finally sobbing. It doesn’t feel good. “I’m sorry!” she cries to nobody. “I hate you, I hate him, I’m sorry!”

She’ll have to fix the glass door, use duct tape or something. All the AC will get out.

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