As he closed the door to the cabin behind him, he was blinded by the harsh light of the static sky. Gnarled shadows the size of cars and buses darted haphazardly across the bright, dusty ground, cast by the orbiting bolides overhead.

“Where to today, Bell?” The Dog asked with a scraggly mew, prancing to Bell's side, and winding his way between his legs.

Bell started. He rubbed the tinnitus from his ears.

The Dog was a splotchy orange color, and a cat as well. What The Dog lacked in likeability he made up for with the booming voice of a partially deaf sportscaster.

“Go back inside,” Bell said, sternly. “Bother someone else.”

“No can do, Bell,” The Dog intoned. He sat on his haunches. “I lack the dexterity to operate a butterknife.” The Dog beamed his clueless smile, a fading Cheshire cat whose brain had already vanished.

“You'll have to butter your own toast today, Bell. Say, what's a fella gotta do to get a scratch behind the ears these days?”

“Bother. Someone. Else.”

“There is no one else, Bell. It's only us.”

“Go read a book—” Bell tumbled words through his head like a dryer full of the kinds of epithets one delivers through windows with a hearty lob. His mouth produced a brick labeled “Cretin.”

“Alright, Bell, alright. No need to get brisk. Now then,” The Dog said, flopping into croissant formation. “What's a book?”

Bell huffed. “They're self-explanatory.” He batted him with his foot.

On occasions when Bell found himself outside, he made it a rule to keep his head low and his guard up. He hated rules; they made him irritable.

Winds still raged beyond the bounds of the land. All around, the earth was broken. Islands of driest dirt connected and branched as far as the eye could discern with nothing but air between them. It racked his brain. He averted his gaze.