Sweet.

A blue house. A makeshift swing in a grove. Figs littering the ground.

“What's wrong?”

He looked at her and saw her glow. The raging static of the sky was simmering down from its boil. The meteoric winds of the upper atmosphere were dissipating, the masses of rock and earth slowing into meandering drifts. A soft light shone through all and cast Marilyn in crepuscular radiance. Empty, branching shadows from the fig tree crawled across her face like the silhouettes of antlers.

“I can't smell.”

“Oh.” Her countenance had softened. Her shoulders had dropped. Her hands had found her pockets. She exhaled. Then she stood, bent for the bucket, and began dusting for figs. She talked as she worked.

“When I first woke up here… over half a day, now, I think. When I first woke up, I was entranced.” She turned her head to the rippling water in the blue light, and Bell found the birthmark a second time.

“Idyllic,” Marilyn said. “That was my first impression. Somehow it made sense that I was here, at first. It was natural.” She turned back toward him. “So, I started cataloging the smells.”

“You… cataloged them?”

“Well, made mental notes. And they're more like memories than smells, really. First, there was the smell of Grandma's garden on an overcast day. Ozone, wet pollen, the like. That one almost felt too obvious. But then there were the faint fair smells —the distant funnel cake, the invisible candy apple. Most recently I smelt Fry's— my uncle Fry's— motorboat ...from that time me and my brothers swamped it for fun. Musty. Gasoline. Salt water ...and anger, of course.” She paused.

“Did that help?”

“Yes,” Bell said. “Thank you for cataloging.”

“Where are we, Bell?”

“A dream, I think.”

“It's getting colder.”