Ring ring ring ring ring ring. 3:29 AM. The orange smears against the darkness and seeps under his eyelids. He squeezes his eyes shut. The thin cotton sheet clings to his skin as he stretches his arms and legs. After seven minutes of ringing, he finally sits up and turns off the alarm. He wonders if he woke his wife asleep downstairs, though truthfully he does not care.His pale, knobbly hands practically glow in the dark as he throws off the rumpled sheet to find the cold edge of the chair jammed between the bed and the worn wall. He crawls onto the chair and takes his position. Exhales a long, shuddering breath. With the reverence of a priest crowning a monarch, he picks up his virtual reality headset and slides it over his eyes and ears, sealing himself in. The radio on the table connects with the headset… like stepping right into another world. You’re not just seeing. An advertisement for the newly released EchoLens X. The radio is always on and connected to any activated listening device nowadays.

The headset pulses faint orange, and the display turns bright white like a canvas with no edges and no shadows. The whiteness dims until pure darkness engulfs him. A blue and green globe appears. With one finger he scrolls the air in front of him like a delusional witch weaving threads of invisible magic. He traces these threads and the globe spins: oceans rush past, continents blur and enlarge. An old house emerges. From there, he tracks the swirling roads out of the circle of hills to a ribbon of asphalt above a turquoise expanse. ‘Great Ocean Road’He follows the route east past gum trees, sun-bleached sandstone and coastal towns until the landscape shifts and grows rugged. 

He arrives at the foot of Mount Rwenzori. He lifts his head.

—

The father brought his boy here. As they trekked along the winding path, the boy struggled to keep up, so he whined and mainly remained on his father’s shoulders. The boy locked his thin arms around his father’s neck and buried his face into the worn canvas of his father’s jacket. The sound of his father’s boots  crunching over pebbles and twigs as they approached the mountain’s base lulled the boy to sleep. 

The mountain peak rose high, dusted with powdered sugar that caught the rose-gold ember of twilight. When they reached the meadow, the father knelt, and together they sank onto the soft, cool grass.

“Dad,” the boy asked, “why does climbing have to be so tiring?” They planned to climb the mountain the next morning to see the sunrise. Clouds drifted like flaming ships across the navy sky.

“Climbing’s fun,” the father ruffled the boy’s hair, “and when you’re having fun, time passes fast, and nothing is tiring.”

“Still,” the boy touched his legs, “my legs are sore.”

“Can a wave carry me to the peak instead?” The boy turned his hand into a wave that rose from the horizon to the peak. Earth began to dim itself. 

“No,” the father replied, smiling, “but sometimes, the best part is right down here.”

The boy looked at the mountain, wondering what life would be like if all lands were covered with mountains. Rough. A breeze carried leaves and dandelions across the night sky. The boy caught one, brought it close to his mouth, and in his excitement inhaled some of it. He sputtered. The air smelt of damp pine and soaked earth.

—

He sinks deeper into his chair, gaze lifted. He catches a brief whisper of pine, hears his dad’s voice, feels the soft grass beneath him, and tastes the dandelions. Global sea levels continue to rise, and the rate is accelerating beyond all previous models. Projections indicate an additional two meters within the next five years. More land will, unfortunately, be submerged. Commentator Jonas Verity from News interrupts the advertisements in a clipped, urgent tone. Advertisement break concluded. We will now return to our ongoing crisis report.

He inhales sharply, desperately clinging.

His body stiffens and he scrolls again. The mountain blurs as a vast body of water comes into view.The world dissolves into a spectrum of color before reforming.

The Zambezi.

The boy ran along the river. Beside him, his younger brother matched him stride for stride, their bare feet slapping the soft earth near the water’s edge in perfect synchronicity. The two of them joked and laughed, kicking up sprays of dew-damp grass along the riverbank. The river flowed rhythmically alongside them and the willows swayed in the wind, swish-swishing. When they reached the lake, they slowed to meander along its pebbly bank. A fruity, lemon-honey scent filled their nostrils as a breeze carried pollen from the cherry, magnolia, and lilac trees, brushing against their faces

“Bet I can skip this three times!” The boy said, clutching a perfectly smooth and flat pebble. He brought it close to his nose, and smelled its dirt-iron smell. 

“Let me try!” The younger ran over, pleading.

The boy handed it over, feeling its smooth yet harsh surface slide across his fingertips.  Face screwed up in concentration, tongue poking out, his brother threw the pebble.

Ping, “One,”

Ping, “Two,”

Ping, “Three,”

Ping, “Four,” Dwuang. The pebble sank.

“Ha! Four times!” He cried happily, dipping his hands into the lake and splashing his older brother. He didn’t move fast enough to block the splash with his hands, and he found that the lake tasted like the pebble smelled—dirt-iron, but sweet.

“Alright, alright you win,” the boy chuckled, slicking the water from his skin. Together they sat on the banks, the air swirling with that fruity lemon-honey fragrance. The boy drew a deep delicious breath, even though pollen made him sneeze. Dawn spilled through the leaves and scattered ghost rose petals over their bare feet. The colors softened and bled into one another like watercolors. In the sky, the sun hung like a smudged thumbprint of light. Beneath the line, the lake lost its edges, and the brilliant blue faded to a dreamy wash of cerulean. 

Beside him, his brother sat with his eyes closed, his face shining and golden, nostrils expanding and contracting. Strange—for him, the air had emptied of fragrance. Heavy exhale, deep inhale. Nothing. He poked at his nose and tried again. Still nothing. 

—

Closing his eyes to the watercolor scene, he swears he hears the swish-swishing, feels the warm sun, and tastes  that dirt-iron sweetness. He flares his nostrils and catches, instead, the smell of rusting iron. Scientists confirm that freshwater rivers are diminishing. Freshwater ponds, too. On the other hand, the rate of ocean encroachment continues to drown historic records.

He slouches and continues swiping. The blue of the lake merges into grey and green and brown, then back to blue.

He lands in the middle of the Bialowieza Forest.

—

Beside him, his mother. A carpet of fallen leaves and moss cushioned their steps. They strolled through cool, scentless air, her hand warm in his. She walked slowly, deliberately, pointing out  clusters of orange mini-umbrellas, Spiderman’s web, a fluffy stick, a blue popsicle. He wondered if the popsicle was blue raspberry-flavored and drooled a little. 

They passed a massive tree, its trunk a towering  column of grooved bark. Up close, its roots rose from the earth like the ridged backs of sleeping giants. “You know, this tree has always been here and will probably remain for ages to come,” said his mother.

She pressed one hand to the bark and waved him over with the other.“Feel how rough but soft it is…” Her lips moved but no sound came.

With his small palm flat against the bark, he triedto feel the tree’s heartbeat, but again, nothing. No crevices, no rough bark, no pulse. It was only when his mother lifted her palm that he saw she had been pressing it against the back of his own hand, but he couldn’t feel the warmth of her.

—

He straightens, eyes still on the trunk of the tree, and believes he tastes a melted blue raspberry-flavored popsicle. He dangles his arms by his sides so that the blood reaches his numbed fingertips, but even then, he doesn’t feel any warmth. He widens his ears too, and instead of the forest, hears the sound of waves breaking. Once a vital carbon sink, Sector Eight’s rainforest is now fully underwater. Scientists report that the decay beneath the surface is releasing massive amounts of trapped carbon dioxide that is turning the drowned forest into a major carbon emitter—accelerating the very climate spiral that caused its— He slams the radio off before the newscaster can finish. 6:11 AM. He types Praia do Forte directly into the search bar.

The transition is instantaneous. He’s on a beach. 

—

The boy sprinted back from the waves, feet digging into dazzling white sand, and yet he could feel no particles, only smooth, solid ground. Palm trees wavered before him; sunlight ribboned through cheese-like clouds; the surf danced along the coastline. No smell of salt, coconut oil, or wet sand. 

“So salty!” the boy shouted, emerging from the water with hair dripping, face sunburnt and beaming. 

On the shore, his grandpa rolled up his sleeves, and his mouth curved. Bending down, he towelled the boy’s wet hair. The boy rushed again toward the waves, stopping just as his feet met the water’s edge, ran back, and grabbed his grandpa’s large, calloused hand. 

“Come! Come with me!” The boy pleaded, jumping up and down.

The grandpa’s mouth opened twice before he gave in. His mouth widened as if he was saying something but the boy couldn’t hear him. He could tell from his grandpa’s right hand salute that he, the boy, had become a captain.

Big hand in small hand, the boy, chest puffed, led his grandfather toward the incoming waves. A few distant figures, blurred by the sun, moved in parallel. Someone short. Another tall. The other very tall.

The boy dove headfirst into the surf. But still he smelled no freshness from the sea, heard no splashing of waves, no laughter, and felt no shock of cold, no sting of salt, no tug of current or hand. The boy closed his eyes for one second, and when he looked back, a black grandpa-like hole had replaced his grandpa, and the world exploded into a kaleidoscope. The world went void-dark. No distant figures.

He tastes nothing.

He murmurs into the headset. Restart.

The boy sprinted back from the waves, feet digging into dazzling white sand, and yet he could feel no particles, only smooth, solid ground. Palm trees wavered before him; sunlight ribboned through cheese-like clouds; the surf danced along the coastline. No smell of salt, coconut oil, or wet sand. 

“So salty!” he shouted, emerging from the water with hair dripping, face sunburnt and beaming. 

His grandpa rolled up his sleeves, smiling. Bent down to towel the boy’s hair. The boy rushed again toward the waves, stopping just as his feet met the water’s edge, ran back, and grabbed his grandpa’s large hand. 

Grandpa saluted the boy.

They walked toward the waves. The boy led, grandfather followed. A few distant figures, blurred by sun, moved too. Hazy.

The waves hung suspended. His grandfather’s face caught mid-laugh. The scene held its breath. 

A kaleidoscope.

Then, he sees nothing. He tastes nothing.

He also smells nothing, hears nothing, feels nothing.

The boy walked beside his mother. Soft layers of fallen leaves and moss underfoot like a carpet. The mother’s hand in the boy’s as they walked through the scentless air. The mother walked slowly. The mother pointed. His mouth watered.

A tree towered above, would remain for ages to come. That’s what the mother had said.

The mother pressed her hand onto the bark. 

“Feel how rough,” the mother’s voice trailed off, as with the warmth.

Then, he hears nothing. He feels nothing.

He also smells nothing, sees nothing, tastes nothing.

The boy ran. Their bare feet slapped wet earth. Kicking up dew-sparks. The river. The willows. A lake. Pebbles.

“Let me try!” 

The perfect pebble changing hands.

Little tongue poking out.

He inhales.

He smells nothing. He hears nothing. He feels nothing. He tastes nothing. He sees nothing. 

Meadow. Twilight. Scent of pine.

The father knelt, lowering the boy.

They lay on the grass.

“Why is climbing so tiring?”

“When you’re having fun, nothing is tiring.”

The father’s image flickered. Disappeared into the dark canvas. The scent was gone, replaced by the acrid smell of corroding iron.

He smells nothing, hears—

BANG BANG BANG. The sound reverberates through the thin plastic floor.

Get down here! His wife yells. Those glasses of yours are rotting your— 

Please, I just woke up. I’ll be down in a minute. 

He places his hands on his headset. Lifts it off slowly. Sweat slicks his temples.

He trudges toward the rusty sink. 7:00 AM.

Mind swirling with words like understanding, suffering, death, family, crybaby, and plenty of swears, he spins the locking wheel and bursts out of the door. 

On the small, swaying platform that serves as their porch, his eyes follow the waves from passing wooden canoes that drift onto the plastic, which  bounces  sunlight into his eyes, casting a spectrum of circular radiance that almost blinds him. Lifting his gaze, he sees a black and red canvas. Sea and sky are fused, and the rooftops and sails drifting up with the tide seem to stand still in red clusters. A pale haze drapes low over the water in diaphanous folds, blurring the jagged peaks and wooden frames. Only the faint creak of oars cuts through the muffled quiet.

He walks toward the canoe tied to the right railing. He leaves the lifebuoy on the porch. He rows in the opposite direction of the vast open water, passes over what used to be a tall redwood forest, catches a distant hump on the horizon, and sees a low, tilted sign, with paint blistered and peeled: ‘Ocean Road’. The first word is underwater, but he remembers what it says. He arrives at a circle of hills and manages to travel into the center through a rupture in the natural wall. Before his eyes stands a vast mirror under the gleaming stars.

… repeat… code11830… sector seven… rescue operations ongoing… reach survivors in the flooded quadrant… heavy structural instability… water levels rising faster than projected… advise all non-essential craft to clear the area… try our best to— He shuts off the small, rust-speckled radio at the front of the canoe. He strips off and dives into the cool water.

The wave engulfs him, and the boy feels the cold this time. The boy thinks that the wave is pulling him into the depths of the water. As he drifts down,  the boy’s breath bubbles in his ears like a lullaby. Swaying leaves and dandelions flow past his cheeks, and through them, a tree presses its bark into his outstretched hand, willow branches swish-swishing in the current. Below the tree, a canvas of perfectly-round-and-smooth pebbles. The boy inhales, and the coolness reaches deep into his lungs  carrying the scent of pine, soaked earth, fruity lemon-honey, coconut oil and wet sand. Four dark silhouettes flicker at the edge of the canvas. One short. One taller. Another even taller. The last, very tall.

He swims with the wave toward them. Tastes salt and sweet iron-dirt. His fingers prune. His toes grow cold. His skin goes purplish-blue, and yet—his heart beats warm and red.