Phoenix in the Ashes

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The sun’s blind, burning face pushed upward past the scarred rim of the river canyon; brands of light seared Hoffmann’s closed eyelids. He stirred, and sighed. The tem­perature rose with the sun; flies and red ants took the day shift from the mosquitoes.

Hoffmann kicked free of the blankets and sat up. He brushed flies from his face, sand from his watch crystal. “Six a.m. ...” Something stung his foot. “God damn!” He crushed an ant, felt the familiar throbbing begin to spread up his foot; he was allergic to ants. There was no antidote—it meant half a day’s nagging pain and nausea. He put on his pants, hobbled down to the river to splash his head and shoulders with the still-cool waters of dawn. The river moved sluggishly past him, only two hundred kilometers from the Gulf; the water was silted to the color of coffee with too much cream. But Colorado meant “the color red.” He won­dered whether it had been different, in the past, or whether, somewhere upstream, the river still ran red. . . . “Someday we’ll get to find out, Hoffmann.” He stood up, dripping, noticed a piece of scrap metal half-buried in the sand. He squatted down again, dug with his fingers. “Steel . . . talk about the middle of nowhere! Yeah. Looks good. . . .” He went back up the bank.

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