The Toxicity of Water: A Rising Waters Short

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Everything was damp again. Nothing had soaked all the way through, but the wet parts would bloom into mold or worse if he let it go. He pressed a dry sponge against the base of the wooden toolbox, soaking up what he could. The color faded a shade with each pass. Inside the open top, the Ziploc seals were tight, but the metal had gouged the bags too many times. Moisture would get in again soon.

“Is there any more saran, Dot?”

“Not for metal, Sherman. I need it for the cheese, and the herbs.” She called back.

“We shouldn’t preserve them if they don’t have any flavor left.” He said it loud enough she might hear him, if she bothered to listen. It was an old fight. She wanted to save the basil and the tarragon. He wanted to save the Philips heads and the Allan keys. They were both right.

Sherman left the tool box in a slice of sunlight and shuffled back across loose pallets to their main house. It pained him use that word to describe their dwelling. The stand of tent poles he had lashed was working pretty well. High over the wheels the truck bed was cramped but dry. Dot had rolled back their quilted roof of tarps to let things air out for the afternoon. The potted plants were doing fine on the ground, but he needed a better place for his toolbox. Once the rain returned, he couldn’t leave the metals out in the elements. All too soon they’d surely rust.

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