“Yo, Con!” he shouted. “We need another.”
“Can’t,” Conner said. “Wish I could.”
Guilla shrugged, and the boys returned to their storm of sand-clouds and scrapes.
Past the wall, there was a line at the cistern. Conner fished in his pockets for three coins and waited his turn. He watched a mother scold her son in the middle of a path, saw Jenkins’s dad emerge from their small walled garden holding a headless snake in one hand and a hoe in the other, then march inside their house probably to cook it. He became hyperalert at any gathering like this, saw all the tiny details of normal life humming right along. This was when the bombs came and ripped through crowds. At funerals and weddings and religious celebrations. At cisterns and cafes and protests. It was strange how tense one could become while surrounded by the banal. It was the waiting, waiting. It made Conner want to flee his flesh, sitting still in that creeping line. It was why he had to go.
Finally, it was his turn. He paid his coins and watched the canteens fill. “To the brim,” he said. The pumpman looked at him with disdain but didn’t skimp. Conner put the three straps over his head, the canteens heavy and full on his hip. He headed off to buy some jerky. It would wipe him out, this trip. He reached into his pocket and felt the last of his coins there. Crossing the empty patch of dunes between the cistern and the market, mentally packing for his journey, the ground suddenly shifted beneath his feet—
Conner stumbled. He nearly fell forward, had to throw his arms out for balance, his mind seizing on the idea that it was the damn boots, the band shorting out in his pocket from canteen water, fucking Rob. But he heard the hiss of flowing sand, and then the laughter of boys, and Conner couldn’t move. He looked down to see his legs buried up to his knees, the sand packed so hard around his shins that his feet throbbed. He couldn’t fall over if he tried.
“Whadja step in, Whoreson?”
Twisting at the waist and craning his neck, Conner could see Ryder and two others behind him. They had sand in their hair and on their shoulders, visors pressed up on their foreheads, had probably been diving in the training dunes near school or had seen him checking the dorms. Conner tried to pull his boots free but couldn’t.
“Let me go, Ryder.” He stopped struggling and fought the urge to say This isn’t funny, because that would only draw laughter. He fought the urge to remind the boys that sandtrapping someone like this was a buryable offense, because that would only bring more threats. Reaching into his pocket, he felt the band there that his brother had made. If only the power weren’t in the boots—
“Hey, Whoreson, I’ve got a question.” Ryder stepped around in front of him, grinning. The other two boys flanked Conner to either side. “When you were a baby, how much did your mommy charge you to suck her tits? ’Cause she charges my dad five coin each!”
The laughter echoed over the dunes. The sun was barely up, but to Conner it suddenly felt like midday. Ryder stepped close. Conner could smell stale beer and onions on the boy’s breath.
“I don’t want to see you near her,” he said.
Conner knew who Ryder meant. He tried to hold his tongue, but couldn’t. He should’ve told Ryder the truth right then and said he would never see her again anyway. That none of this bullshit mattered. That they were kids and the fucking sand didn’t care. Instead, he sneered at Ryder, unable to resist. “That’s for her to decide.”
Ryder smiled. “That’s where you’re wrong, boy. Ask your mom who decides.” He gripped the back of Conner’s neck and squeezed. Conner wanted to punch the bigger boy, but he knew how badly that would go. There were three of them, and his boots were pinched. “There are men in these dunes and then there are little boys like you. I’m a sand diver, and we take what we find. And I found her first.”
“You’re a trainee,” Conner said. “You’re not even a sand—”
There was a flash of rage on Ryder’s face—a horrible spasm of bared teeth and wrinkled brow—just before the sands opened and Conner was sucked down.
Conner’s mouth filled with grit. The earth had opened for him, dropping him down beneath sand as loose as water. His feet hit something solid below. Swimming with his arms, his head bumped into a wall of sand above. There were walls on all sides. Ryder had made a solid box filled with flowing sand, a death coffin.
Conner sealed his lips, half a dune in his mouth, the loud crunch of grit between his teeth, and fought the urge to swallow or spit. Only had the barest of lungfuls. Had been talking. But his sister had done this to him before, had taught him to be calm, to last a minute or more. If he counted to ten, Ryder would bring him up. He was just trying to scare him. Conner thought this, but part of his brain screamed: We’re gonna fucking drown. Do something, asshole.
With sand burning his eyes, Conner fumbled blindly at his father’s boots. His head flipped upside down. He had to remember which way was up. Had to remember. Goddamn, he couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t swallow. He hit the power switch under the tongue of the left boot with one hand and pulled the band out of his pocket with the other. C’mon, Rob, he thought. C’mon, brother.
Conner pressed the band to his forehead, couldn’t feel anything, too much sand between the contacts. Damn thing was upside down, that’s why. The wires were coming out the top. He tried it again. Could feel the sand now. No idea if this would be strong enough. Needed to be stronger than Ryder. Was about to black out. Had to go. Had to go. With desperation, he didn’t flow the sand so much as explode it. Arms over his head, expecting a collision, hoping this was up, that this was up, not sure—he felt the sandwall above him shatter, felt his arm break the surface, his head and then his entire body rising out of the sand.
The other boys lost their footing in the flow. Conner was on his hands and knees, spitting the grit out of his mouth—grit that had turned to mud. He coughed and wheezed, and the black edges of his vision receded. Arms and legs weak, he fumbled for the band, tried to get it back on his head before they came at him again. Damn—the boots—strong as a whole suit. Shouldn’t have been possible. Fucking Rob—
A hand clenched over his knuckles and squeezed into a fist, the bones of his fingers grinding together. Conner dropped the band and grimaced in agony. Ryder was down on one knee, casting a long shadow over him, his face a mask of rage.
“You think you’re a diver, boy?” Conner watched as Ryder grabbed the band with his free hand and yanked it free, ripping the wires. “Patrol would bury you for this.” He shook the band in front of Conner’s face, and the grip with his other hand tightened, crushing his knuckles. “You’re lucky I don’t tell them. That’s your life I just saved.” Ryder spit into the sand and dropped the band. “I fucking own you. Don’t you forget that, Whoreson. I own you like every man in Springston owns your goddamn mother.”
A swift kick in the ribs for punctuation. And then the boys were back to laughing. The sand trembled and opened up, and they dove and disappeared.
Conner rested his forehead on the warming sand and took deep breaths. When he spit, it colored the sand like a sunrise. This is my life, he thought miserably. But not for long.
15 • Sins of a Father
Conner got up and dusted himself off, probed his tender ribs. A sip of water swished and spat got most of the grit out of his mouth. His anger soon abated. It was from looking down—not at the pink sand between his father’s boots—but at the old band torn loose and curled amid a tangle of wires.