sing me to the mountain

        There you are, standing strong and beautiful even as the sandpaper wind tears through your hair, grains of cheap gold settling deep and painful against your scalp. The mountain stands large and looming ahead of you, the same distance away as it has been since the very first time you saw it. The pickup besides you sputters in protest as you fill it with oil, baby blue paint long since blown away.

        "Hey," he says, leaning so far out of the truck bed that you fear he will lose his balance and fall. "How much longer do you think it'll take?"

        You shove him back to safety before your heart can beat itself out of your chest, and only when he laughs in delight and settles in do you make a show of peering at that enormous shadow in the distance, hand rising to shield your eyes from the wind.

        "Soon," you tell him. "We'll be there soon."

        The sun sets in blood, sky stained a red so bright it hurts your eyes to look at it directly. He's barely awake, head lolling limply as the two of you bump on towards the mountain.

        It's late, you think.  It's probably not safe to keep driving. So you pull into a roadside hotel and carry him into a room, locking it safely behind you both. You let him have the first shower, and as the drumming of the water builds, your thoughts wander back to the city you passed some time back. You have nightmares, still, of the bodies that piled high into the air, but you are more terrified of the ones that had turned towards you in hunger as you passed.

        You thank whatever greater being may be out there for the small blessing that had come in the form of his frequent naps, grateful that he, at least, had not seen the same horror that you had.

        He emerges, then, shaking his head to fling off excess water, and you take your turn, heart thumping painfully as you strain your ears for any sign of movement in the hallway outside. You turn off the shower before the water runs cold, too fearful to stay any longer.

        "Don't worry," he whispers when he sees you, breaking into a small smile. "They said San Fran's still safe."

        You smile back and toss him an armful of the hotel's finest courtesy snacks, and try not think about the bodies in the town you passed by days ago. You do not tell him that you are no longer headed to San Francisco.

        "Hey," he says later when the stars shine through the window, eyes swollen and voice soft and low from exhaustion. "How much longer do you think it'll take?"

        You smooth his hair back and tuck the blankets close, hands closing tightly around the gun that he can not see, that you will not let him see. You are all that stands between him and death.

        "Soon," you tell him. "We'll be there soon."