Mama and Step-Daddy went looking for what happened to the Rapture. Before they left they told me to watch Daniel, so I keep him in a sack tied so just his head shows. He’s six and I’m twelve, but he’s smart. He stays real calm while he’s trying to talk his way out of the bag. Last week I let him out but taped mittens on him and nailed his boots to the floor.  That was when I had to go through the back roof of the survival people’s bunker to pick at their stuff. I don’t think they noticed my first trip there. They probably look at the ash everywhere and just stay drunk.

When I got back Daniel had made soup with cut up pieces of can sausage in it. That was the start of me just keeping him in a headlock most of the time, or putting him in the big trunk when I go out.

I keep trying to remember everything Mama said, on her way out. She smiled and touched me, fixing my shirt collar and smoothing my hair like she was trying to paint the words on me. Step-Daddy just looking like the door had something in it. But I can’t read for myself.

Sometimes we are sitting there like we would if we still had TV, and Daniel says—Joel? And I say—What. And he says—Joel? and I say—what? And he keeps it up until I’m mad and he knows I’m thinking only about him. Yesterday he asked how Mama could love us and leave like that. I said maybe she couldn’t stand not going for help, even when there isn’t any to be had. He said Great, so she Feels good about going and says it’s for us. I put him back in the bag for an hour after that. But he wasn’t that wrong about things.

Last night Daniel did a miracle. Mama always watched for signs and wonders, and I was looking at Daniel when he could suddenly read things from the blank pages at the end of Mama’s diary. His voice was like a radio preacher describing fire on the far side of hills at night. I asked him what it meant and he read more. He said Lo, two boys will hark to getting out of a super jam, and will cleave to the road. They will look for a grandmother, and invisible hands will guide them through valleys and shadows of death.

I asked him if he saw any invisible maps and he said no, but he had found an address in an old purse Mama left. Grandma–somewhere in Canada.

I don’t know if there still is a Canada. But Mama listened when she heard stuff like this. Maybe she’s there, and we can all be there. Maybe this is faith. I can see her, all proud. She’s saying—Come on in. Let me fix you something to eat. You must be cold.

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Daryl Scroggins taught creative writing and literature for a number of years at The University of Texas at Dallas and The University of North Texas. He now lives in Marfa, Texas. His poems, short stories, and creative non-fictions have appeared in magazines and anthologies across the country, and his most recent book is This Is Not the Way We Came In, a collection of flash fiction and a flash novel (Ravenna Press).

Photo:  Easton Oliver