Falcons on the Floor
by Justin Sirois
– excerpted from the forthcoming novel, Falcons on the Floor
“Oh.” Sal groaned.
“Did you bring aspirin?” Khalil said.
“Why would I bring aspirin?” Sal groaned again, held his head with shaking hands. His ears were as hot as light bulbs.
Biting his thumbnail, Khalil looked at the river and looked at Sal then back at the river. It was too far to carry or drag him, too far to make him walk. He would have to run.
“I’m going to get your more water, ok?”
“Yeah.”
“It’d be better if you just came with me, take a swim.”
“Can’t,” Salim shuddered, uncharacteristically weak.
“Can’t move?”
“Yeah.”
“Ok. Alright. Just stay right here.”
Grabbing both plastic bags and the knife, Khalil sprinted. He didn’t care if his blistered feet would mash into blood-pink hummus or if the stinging would last for the rest of the trip. The sand was mostly soft and he favored his better foot as he ran, skipping gimped across it. The shoreline bounced and grew and he sucked in the hot air, skirting mournful Joshua trees with twisted antlers clawing out of the earth, and when he skidded to the water, the gravel shattering, he clenched the knife in his teeth, panting, nose gargling snot. He filled one bag until it swelled like a balloon. He looked back at Sal. He was still there, still melting. But when Khalil twisted the fat bag closed, it burst with a smack and all the water he had scooped splashed back into the river.
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