---

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Mailin knew it’d be a bad day when Carr told her to take care of the dead dragon.

“Muskin’ thing’s picking up flies. Take care of it. And don’t feed it to the sows, last one made ‘em sick.”

She didn’t bother arguing—there was no point. As Carr so often reminded the ranch hands, they were lucky to have a job, and having that job meant asking “How high?” when he said, “Jump.”

The afternoon winds were starting up, carrying dust and the smoke from the mountains. Mailin retied a bandana across her nose and mouth as she walked to the north field. She found the dead lizard on its back, stiff limbs sticking up almost comically in the air. A juvenile. Probably four feet, tip to tail. Not the biggest she’d seen, but not one you’d want to mess with. No signs of injury. She stared at the long forked tongue, lolling out its open jaw. Maybe it died from dehydration. Wouldn’t be the first.

Komodos had been turning up more and more at the ranch—this was the third in as many months. Carr, of course, thought it was some sort of conspiracy. 

“They gotta be coming over from the plant. Claim they haven’t had any escape, but you can’t trust these fuckers. You know I had some idiot in my office last week tryin’ to sell me on dragon security? You gotta be dry in the head to think you can tame those things.” 

Like most of Carr’s theories, Mailin took this one with a big pinch of salt. Besides, she didn’t care where the dragons came from. It didn’t help with the dead one in front of her now.

She swatted at the flies as she pulled on thick leather gloves. She didn’t know how long a dragon’s venom stayed potent after it died, and she didn’t want to find out. Bending down, she grabbed the long, thick tail and tugged hard. The body moved, barely. The thing probably weighed fifty pounds. 

Mailin cursed under her breath, weighed her options. Burying it wouldn’t work—with the wind, nothing stayed buried long. For a brief moment, she considered covering the body with debris and burning it here…but she knew the danger of that better than most. Nothing for it. She’d have to drag it to the incinerator. Sighing, she grabbed the tail again and started pulling.

The “hot box” was on the far side of the ranch, upwind of the other buildings. Sweat dripped down her spine by the time she reached the shed. Dropping the dragon’s tail, she stepped inside and opened the incinerator door. Already a fire going, thank God. She dragged the Komodo in and tied a rope around its midsection. The rope ran through a block secured to the room’s rafters—a pulley system she’d rigged up years before. Pausing to wipe sweat off her forehead, Mailin grabbed the end and heaved. 

The carcass swayed as it rose inch by inch. When it was level with her chest, Mailin took one hand off the rope and grabbed a long poker leaning against the wall. Straining against the weight, she prodded the body until it passed through the open incinerator door. 

This was the part she hated the most: the smell of burning flesh. She breathed through her mouth as she leaned back, holding the animal in place. Finally, the rope snapped, and the body crashed to the bottom of the incinerator, sending up a flurry of sparks and cinder. Dropping the poker, Mailin slammed the door shut and let out a sigh. One more beast to the flames. One more job done.

Outside, Mailin peeled off her gloves and bandana. She tried to mop the sweat off her forehead as she took stock of herself. Covered in dust and ash and (probably) dead-dragon germs. She needed a shower. And of course, today wasn’t her day.

Sweat pooled in the small of her back. She had to try. Harriet might bend. With a heavy sigh, Mailin headed toward the office.

The harsh light of midday had softened, blurring the edges of the ranch she knew so well. If you squinted, it was almost pretty. In a dry, desolate sort of way. Sometimes, it seemed like the whole world was contained here: the hardscrabble empire built by Carr. She knew that wasn’t true. She’d traveled up and down the coast with her mother, before. But that was a long time ago, and the ranch had a way of swallowing you up. 

There were around ten other workers at the ranch, depending on the season. Mostly young, always single. They’d come asking for work, end up staying a few months. Maybe a few years. They ate their meals at the ranch, slept in the barracks. There was the occasional trip to the town bar, but that was it. Hope Springs didn’t offer much in the way of entertainment.

But Mailin suspected it was more than that. Carr attracted the misfits, the half-wits, people who never found their luck. His ranch was a good place for keeping a low profile. Carr didn’t trust authority of any kind and kept his kingdom as independent as possible. He did have a contract with Blue Acre—he complained about it often and bitterly—but there wasn’t much to be done about that. Pigs were thirsty animals but they were good business, luxury goods shipped off to Vancouver, Chicago, Montreal. Places where people could stand the price of pork. 

Of course, you couldn’t count on luxury goods—the market went up and down. But you could always depend on the black market. And that was why Carr was happy to hire the folks he did.

Except for Mailin, of course. The exception to the rule. She knew a lot of Carr’s business happened under the table, despite the fact that he never told her about it. He still saw her as the fifteen-year-old kid he’d brought back to the ranch eight years ago. 

She walked toward the front offices, pulling her hat down low to shield her eyes from the sun. The light had gone hazy, transforming everyday objects of the ranch. The rusted red lines of the truck bled into the horizon, the solar panel mounted to its roof shining like a beacon. The haggard olive tree next to the office—the only tree on the ranch, the only creature resilient enough to get by on rainwater alone—stood dark and ominous. And those two water barrels, they looked like two figures side by side, waiting for some unknown purpose.

Mailin squinted. Those were two figures, standing to the side of the office building. No one she knew, judging by their posture. Visitors were uncommon but not unheard of. She approached with caution.

The man standing on the right was tall and lean, with dark skin and a five-o’clock shadow. The other man was shorter, not much taller than Mailin, but well built. Bright red curls poked out from under his wide-brimmed hat. Their clothes were in good condition, but too casual to be lawyers or collectors. Laborers looking for work? No, they didn’t have that desperate air about them.

They watched Mailin as she approached. She stopped a few yards in front of them. “You lost?”

The taller man took off his hat, revealing close-cut hair about the same length as his stubble. “I don’t believe so.” 

The redhead grinned in a way he probably meant as nonthreatening. It didn’t work.

“We’re hoping to speak with Gustav Carr,” the tall man said.

“He ain’t available. But if you’re looking to buy or sell, you’ll want to talk to Harriet inside.”

“We were hoping to speak with Mr. Carr directly.”

“Well, you can’t.”

“Oh no?” The redhead crossed his arms and leaned against the building wall. There was a barely contained energy about him, like a broken wire dangling from a pole. 

“No,” she said. “Like I said. Not available.”

“Might we ask where he is?”

She felt a rushing in her ears, a sure sign her temper was warming up. “You might, but I ain’t got a good reason to tell you.”

The tall man smiled. “Of course. Excuse us, we’ve been rude. My name is Benjamin Kidd, and this is my friend”—he gestured to the redhead—“Nick Scallabrini. And you are…?”

She hesitated. “Mailin.”

“Mailin. Thank you. As I said, we’re only wanting to talk to Mr. Carr. Nothing untoward, I assure you.” He smiled again, and Mailin noticed how straight his teeth were, how white. Money made those teeth.

Mailin eyed them. They didn’t look like police, but… “I should tell you, Carr never talks to law.”

The man named Scallabrini laughed, a sharp, single bark. “Something we agree on.”

“We’re not law,” Kidd said. “You don’t have to worry about getting in trouble for talking to us.”

“I’m not worried,” she snapped. “But there’s nothing more to tell. Carr left early this morning, and I don’t expect he’ll be back till late. If you want to talk to Harriet, go ahead, but I got work to do.”

“Left for where?” Scallabrini said.

Carr hadn’t told her, of course. He never did. But she just said, “Don’t know. Probably the pork markets in San Francisco.” 

The two men exchanged a look. “All right,” Kidd said. “We’ll get out of your hair then. Would you mind doing me a favor?” He took a notebook and pen out of his jacket pocket, wrote something down, and tore out the page. Mailin stepped forward to take it. 118 Latimer Road. “Ask Carr to get in touch.”

Mailin folded the paper, stuck it in her pocket. “You should know, he probably won’t.”

Kidd smiled—and somehow, this one seemed genuine. “Well luckily, we’re hard to discourage. Thanks for your time, Mailin.” 

Kidd put his hat back on and started walking. Scallabrini grinned, pushed off the wall and followed after. Mailin watched them go until they were just a pair of black lines against the sun.

---

“Those two hassle you?”

Harriet sat at her desk, bent over a ledger. Mailin guessed the bookkeeper was in her early fifties, although she looked at least ten years older than her age (just like everyone else in Hope Springs). She wore her signature denim vest with four pens tucked into the floral patch pockets. She’d been hired shortly after Mailin came to the ranch—now they were both considered “old timers.” 

Her office was the smaller of the two, across the front room from Carr’s. Stacks of paper covered every inch of her desk, each held down by a different rock. Red, green, yellow, black, purple, most of them fist-sized or bigger. 

“Not too much. They asked about Carr.” Mailin picked up one of the rocks near her—a huge chunk of unpolished olivine. One of the prized pieces of Harriet’s collection. She could probably sell it for a good price, and Mailin knew she never would.

Harriet waved a hand toward her. “Put that back down, I don’t want my papers gettin’ messed. What’d you tell them?”

“That he wasn’t around.”

“That’s what I told them, too. If they won’t tell me their business, they sure as heck aren’t getting a chance to talk to Carr. Probably selling some scam.”

“He’s not actually back yet, right?” Mailin said.

“Nope. He said not to expect them back before supper.” 

“Who’s them?”

Harriet’s gaze flicked toward Mailin. “Took Yen with him.”

“Yen? Seriously?” Yen arrived at the ranch barely three months ago, but apparently Carr trusted him with some side business.

“Doesn’t concern you, Mailin,” Harriet said in her and that’s final voice.

“Never does,” she grumbled. 

“What do you need, Mailin?”

Please, please could she just get a little bit of luck today? “I have a favor to ask.”

Without pausing from her work, Harriet lowered her right hand, opened a desk drawer, and pulled out a plastic blue coin. “Let me guess. One of these?”

Mailin nodded, realized Harriet still wasn’t looking up, and said, “I just need one. That’s it.”

Harriet put the coin back and closed the drawer. “Not your day.” 

“I know, but—”

“I can’t be handing out extra caps, not with the new restrictions Goose laid down.” 

Goose—the locals’ nickname for G.O.O.S., the Global Organization for Oceanographic Security—recently announced that the Pacific supply had dropped more than expected. In their defense, their monitoring system was becoming less and less reliable—space junk had obliterated the last satellite—and without Blue Acre’s permission to tap into their positioning system, Goose couldn’t collect data for the more remote parts of the Pacific. And of course, Blue Acre would never give permission. That system was proprietary. 

So there was more buckling down, more restrictions. Of course, all this was just in time for the centennial anniversary of the Subduction, an event that the world’s governments promised would not be a sad day, but a hopeful one. A celebration of how they had come together, amidst sacrifice and struggle, to solve this urgent global crisis. 

And now, with a smoked-out sun setting outside, Mailin had to negotiate one extra shower. “Harriet. Look at me.”

Sighing, Harriet looked up. Her eyes widened. “Jesus, girl, what’d you get yourself into?”

“Dead dragon. You know I wouldn’t ask for an extra cap if I didn’t really need it.” 

Harriet wrinkled her nose, and Mailin held her breath. 

“Nope,” Harriet said. “Can’t do it. I wish I could, but I can’t be playing favorites. Even though my favorite is the one asking me.” 

Mailin was too tired and sweaty for the comment to make her smile. “Fine. But when I die from some gross dragon disease, you’ll know it’s because you wouldn’t give me that cap.” She turned to leave.

“You coming for dinner tomorrow? Carol’s making her rosemary beans.”

“I would, but I don’t think I’ll be welcome smelling like this.” She tossed her hair and huffed out of the room before Harriet had a chance to respond.

The moment she stepped outside, she cringed. A dramatic exit? This was why Carr and the others still treated her like a kid. But musk it, she really needed that shower.

Mailin walked past the main entrance of the bunkhouse to a small door at the back. Carved into the wood was a small figure with a vaguely feminine form. Since she was the only girl who lived at the ranch, Mailin got her own room. “So those idiots don’t do nothin’ stupid,” as Carr put it.

She unlocked the door and walked in. A single bed, a dresser—not much else fit into the former utility closet. But it was hers.

She picked up a thin towel and left for the shower room. It was a bygone of busier, more prosperous times: large and open, twenty shower heads and covered in white tiles. Buckets filled with grey water lined the walls. Mailin grabbed one and jammed it up next to the door—not as good as a lock, but it’d buy her a little time if someone tried to barge in. 

She grabbed another bucket and dunked her towel in. Grimacing at the dirt-and-sweat smell coming off her body, she stripped down and started scrubbing at the grime covering her. It was better than nothing. And a hell of a lot worse than a shower.

What would it be like to bathe whenever she wanted, for however long she wanted? Something she could only imagine. Mailin was born too late—more than seventy years too late—to just turn on a faucet and watch water rush out.

She hated that she wondered about the before. Imagined what it must have been like. Before scientists noticed declining ocean levels. Before they identified an unknown subduction zone in the west Pacific and realized there was something truly, horribly broken with the earth’s deep-water cycle. They and the world watched in horror as the ocean inched further and further from its eastern shore, sucked into the earth’s molten core.

A disappearing ocean meant less rain. Meant the middle of the earth became too hot, while its outer ends froze. Meant more and more people crowding the in-between spaces, trying to scrape by. And all the while, the Subduction continued, drinking up the ocean and reshaping the world. 

Of course, there were people trying to stop it. Fix it. Her mother had been one of those. Before Mailin was born, Lyra Johansson worked as a hydrologist for Blue Acre, the biggest of the aqueous management companies—the AMCs. She left after having a baby and marrying a man she loved—and after he left, she went rogue. Not that Lyra ever would have phrased it that way. But what else would you call it? Traveling up and down the west coast, finding water sources for people too cheap (or too paranoid) to pay the AMCs. 

It was fine for a while—good, even. Some of Mailin’s happiest memories were from those years. But they were hard years, constantly on the go, constantly hunting down the next paycheck. When she turned thirteen , Mailin told her mom that all she wanted for her birthday was a home, a real home. 

Mailin never did understand why Lyra agreed. Maybe she was tired, too. Ready for roots. She’d heard that Hope Springs, Inc. was hiring hydrologists for a new hydroponic farm a few hours north of San Francisco. She’d done some work in that area once, for a rancher named Gustav Carr.

“You’ll like it,” she told Mailin. “You can see the mountains.”

Except you couldn’t, of course—not with the constant haze and smoke. Wasn’t that just so like her mom though? Always seeing the bright side of a dry, broken world.

And then Lyra died, and Carr brought her here, and now Mailin sat on a cold tile floor scrubbing dragon grime off her body with gray water. 

 She splashed water on her face, shook her head to get the rushing sound out of her ears. There wasn’t any point mulling on the past or wondering about the future. It wasn’t the lesson Lyra intended, but it was the one Mailin learned: the world was what it was, and you couldn’t change that. This was her reality. This bunkhouse, this ranch, this job. Could it be better? Yes. But it could be a hell of a lot worse, too. 

---

The wind cleared out the worst of the smoke by evening and, as Mailin left the bunkhouse, she caught the familiar scent of caramelizing onions. Smiling, she headed around back to the camp kitchen. Dusk was the only time of day it actually felt good to be outside, so the ranch hands usually ate dinner there. She found Felix at the grill tending the skillet, Yen and Rick at the picnic table playing cards. A can of Olivenelle was already burning in the firepit, casting pale-green shadows over the group. 

She hadn’t realized Yen was back—must mean Carr was back, too. She pushed the irritation out of her mind.

Felix nodded and smiled at Mailin as she walked up. 

“Just us tonight?” she said.

“Yup. Others headed into town. Squirrel Cage’s having some kind of special tonight.”

A low bray carried across the fields. Mailin looked over at the west paddock and could just make out the antlers and double humps of the caribels, silhouetted in the twilight. She shuddered. She couldn’t help it, the things gave her the creeps. She knew they were useful—transpacific trade would pretty much stop without them, as there were some sections only caribels could cross—but some things just shouldn’t mix together, and caribou and camels were two of them. She’d be glad when this pair was gone. Carr accepted them as payment a few months back but was having trouble finding a buyer. Not surprising. No one around here could afford even one caribel, let alone a pair. 

One of them gave another bray, and Mailin said, “You fed them today, Rick?”

Rick looked up from his cards. “Course I did. Ginger’s just chatty, that’s all.”

“Ginger?”

“She’s the smaller one. I named them.”

Mailin shook her head. Sweet Rick. Dumb as a rock but always well-intentioned.

“You want in?” Yen said, shuffling the deck.

Mailin nodded, sat down next to Rick. She very pointedly was not going to ask Yen about his side trip with Carr. She wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. Yen knew how much it bothered her, getting left on the sidelines.

Instead, she said, “Abram go to the bar, too?”

Yen laughed. “He left two days ago.”

“What do you mean, ‘left?’” She knew, though. It always meant the same thing.

“Headed out. Haven’t you noticed he hasn’t been around?”

“Thought he was on a job.” Yen and Abram had arrived at the ranch together, and while Yen was pretty much an asshole, she’d liked Abram—liked liked him, and thought he had liked her, too. But why was she disappointed? That was life on the ranch. She was used to it. People came, people left, Mailin stayed. “Where’d he go?”

Yen shrugged as he dealt the next hand. “Didn’t say.”

“I thought you two was friends,” Rick said.

Yen scoffed. “So that means I track his every move? He’s got his own plans and I got mine.” 

Felix chuckled. “Goes on one errand with the boss and thinks he’s king of the world. Tell Mailin what you was telling us.” 

Yen threw him a glare but said, “I’m headed north. Got a pay day comin’ my way and I’m out.”

He was an asshole, but… “Please tell me you’re not going to the PRQ. I know they pay well, but it ain’t worth it.” 

Yen snorted. “No. I’m not dying in some olivine pit.”

“So what’s the plan?”

He gave a smug grin. “Got myself a ticket to Flathead.” 

After a pause, Mailin burst out laughing.

“Rich, ain’t it?” Felix said.

Flathead was the location for Blue Acre’s next biodome—the biggest one they’d announced so far, an entire city encompassed in a climate-controlled dome. More than 100,000 people could supposedly live there. After they paid their way in, of course. 

Yen flushed. “Laugh all you want, doesn’t make a belshit of difference to me.” 

“Blue Acre hasn’t even started building that thing yet,” Mailin said. 

“Yeah, and it’s already selling out. Some of us think ahead, Mailin. I’m not gonna work at a pig farm my whole life.”

“Yen says if I get the money, I can go too,” Rick said.

Mailin glared. Lying to himself was one thing, but looping Rick in was just cruel. “You could work here for twenty years and never make enough money for that ticket. Not with what Carr pays us.”

Yen smirked. “Well, that much is true.”

Mailin opened her mouth to retort, but Felix cleared his throat. “Boss coming.”

Mailin turned just as Carr strode up and stopped at the edge of the fire’s glow. The green light of the Olivinelle played off his hawkish nose and round belly, and in the shadows his sun-leathered skin looked almost reptilian. Whatever you could say about Gustav Carr, no one could argue he hadn’t built up his small empire through hard, determined labor. 

He nodded at each of them. “Felix. Yen. Rick. Blue eyes.”

As tired (and annoyed) as she was, Mailin still smiled. “Brown.” 

Growing up, Mailin had always been self-conscious of her two-colored eyes—one blue, one brown. Lyra said it made her special, one for earth, one for water. “Special” was the last thing Mailin wanted to be. 

During her first week on the ranch, Carr made some sort of comment about her blue eyes. “One’s brown,” teenage-Mailin spat out. Carr stopped what he was doing and studied her. “Huh. You’re right. Never noticed.” 

And that was the whole joke. A stupid thing, really, but it stuck. 

Looking around, Carr’s gaze landed on the skillet. “Where’d the meat come from?”

“Kid came by the kitchen selling ground squirrel,” Felix said. “I didn’t have the heart to tell him no.” 

Carr spit into the fire. The Olivinelle flames crackled, and Mailin’s nose wrinkled at their irony scent. “Rodent. Waste of money.”

Mailin studied him. Carr could be generous, jovial even when the mood struck him. In a foul mood—much more common when business lagged—watch out. It could be hard to gauge, though. Carr’s ability to mask any and all emotion had helped him in many business dealings over the years. And Mailin wasn’t sure if the news she had to share was good or bad.

“Two guys came looking for you today,” she said. “No one I knew.”

Carr looked over at her. “What’d they want?”

“Wouldn’t say.”

“Law?”

“I don’t think so. They left an address, asked you to get in touch.”

“You tell ‘em where I was?”

How the musk would I tell them if I didn’t even know? But she simply said, “No. Just said you weren’t around.” 

He spat again. “Good girl.” He shifted his weight. “Tomorrow I want you working on the new well. Contract renewal’s coming up with Blue Acre next month.”

It took everything in Mailin’s power not to roll her eyes. A few months back, after a particularly high water bill, Carr got it into his head that Mailin—being the offspring of a woman who had once located water on his property—could replicate her mother’s trick. He’d even wasted money on a set of dowsing rods. 

Mailin was running out of ways to tell him it wasn’t going to happen. Fortunately, she had a valid excuse for tomorrow. “Tomorrow’s first Thursday. I’m headed into town with Harriet for inventory.” 

“Tell her to take Yen or Rick,” Carr said.

“I don’t shop,” Yen said.

“And Rick isn’t good with numbers,” Mailin added.

“That’s true, boss.”

“Fine,” Carr snapped. “The day after then. Until I can tell those AMC bastards to screw off once and for all, I don’t wanna give them a dime more than I have to.”

Mailin frowned. “What do you mean, once and for all?”

“Never mind. Just get it done.” He eyed the skillet. “And stop buying muskin’ rodent, Felix.” He spit again, hitched up his pants, and strode off.

Rick turned to Mailin. “Where’s the new well gonna be?” 

She groaned. “There’s not going to be a new well. I keep trying to tell him.”

“Well just remember, Mailin…” She stopped rubbing her temples and glared at Yen, sitting there with that cocky grin on this face. “While you try to magic some water out of this drained dirt, I’ll be on my way to a brand new world.”

 

---

L.D. OXFORD writes speculative fiction. Her stories have appeared in Electric Spec, All Worlds Wayfarer, Bards and Sages Quarterly, and Metaphorosis (the last of which selected “The Girl Who Drew the World” for its Best of 2022 anthology). She is a member of the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers Association and a graduate of the Viable Paradise workshop. When she’s not writing, you can find her in Seattle playing with paint, digging in dirt, or parenting her semi-feral doppelgänger. Find her on Bluesky @ldoxford.

Featured image by Gianna B, courtesy of Unsplash.