Halfway across the yard with the C10’s alternator, I notice the dirt’s changed. Same corner of the trailer where the skirting’s been kicked in, but now the ground is darker, humped.

I set the alternator on the hood and watch roaches work the edges. They don’t scatter like they do in the kitchen. They keep climbing and dropping. I feel myself tilting toward it.

I test the dirt with the toe of my boot. It doesn’t collapse. Feels like there’s something under there giving it structure. Could be roots or rocks. Might be worth digging, if I can free the shovel from under the stripped Flathead on the kitchen floor.

Inside, the grease smell is thick, but something putrid cuts it. Rot in the sink. The Flathead sits on plywood sheets where the kitchen table used to be, the shovel handle jutting from under one side, taped to a jack stand to keep it from tipping.

Tires on the drive. I think it’s Will. Then her voice at the steps. 

“Dad? You here?”

I open the door and she’s at the bottom of the stoop, holding a to-go bag, eyes on the yard.

“Brought you lunch,” she says.

I come down halfway. She hands me the bag.

“Smells worse every time I come by.”

I shift the bag. 

“Saturday’s the ceremony.”

I wasn’t sure I’d be invited.

“Lee’s mom gave me the dress she wore to hers. It’s white.”

“Careful with it. Easy to stain.”

“Be ready when we get here.”

She turns back toward her car, steady as she moves. She never stays long. She takes care of herself better than I ever did. 

#

I eat the burger on the C10’s hood, watching weeds along the fence line tilt toward the trailer. Everything along the fence line leans the same way now.

The orange cat from under the shed waits by the steps, skinnier. I set what’s left of the burger on the bottom step.

The sun drops low, casting the trailer in pink-orange light. I go inside, rinse my hands, and kill the lights. In bed, the feeling stays. Like before, but sharper. More pointed. Pushing the same way.

#

Will’s truck door slams. From the driveway I can see the whole front stoop sitting a couple inches higher than the porch slab and slightly angled. This morning the bathroom door was swinging shut on its own.

The mound’s bigger, the air around it hotter. Roaches loop the ridges in steady circuits. Pill bugs tamp grit into the seams between their tunnels. Earwigs wedge moss into cracks. Ants set fungal caps in place like markers. They never touch. All of it moves the same way, up the mound, leaving what they’ve carried, then peeling off to circle back down.

I’ve seen crews work like that in scrapyards. Used to be part of one. 

The Flathead on the shovel is too much for one person. Always one thing under another.

“Perfect timing,” I tell him. “Need a hand.”

We get the Flathead onto the counter and pull the shovel free.

Up close, the mound radiates heat that sticks my shirt to my stomach. The first shove of the blade hits something dense, fibrous but rigid, like wet wicker. I push harder. The point slides under a knot of pale roots.

Will crouches beside me. He peels a section back, then wipes his hands on a rag he keeps pulling from his pocket. Dirt’s back on them by the time he tucks it away.

I dig at the knot, wet roots snapping, until the hole opens wider.

Two squirrels, packed in tight, fur clotted with dirt. Their eyes are open, dull in the half-light. Roots wind around their legs, into their ribs. The chest of one jerks in a shallow hitch, the other following, both breathing in quick, uneven pulls. 

Strands run down into the soil. Between them, beetles and pill bugs crawl without touching, each vanishing into separate seams. 

“They’re still alive,” Will says.

He glances past me toward the tree line. “Look.”

I follow his hand. The pines on the far side tilt toward the trailer, their tops hooked down, straining. I lean that way, too.

He shakes his head. The exposed roots twitch, like they’re trying to pull the soil back. He straightens, watching.

“You feel that?” he says. “Let’s dig it out. Things like this, you finish it once you’ve started.”

Something in the dirt pulls. The no is out before the thought even forms. “Leave it,” I say. I don’t move. 

The bugs keep at it, filing in with their cargo. 

Will wipes his hands again and says he’ll head out. He keeps studying me now, the way he looked at the mound. He watches me all the way to the truck.

#

In the morning, the light through the window is off. The curtain’s shadow is higher. From the window I can’t see the yard or the shed anymore, only upper branches and strips of sky. I open the front door and find myself ten feet from the ground. I slam it shut. Call Will. No answer.

The floor’s steady, but I can feel the work in it. A low, constant vibration. I move to the window. From here the mound’s all channels, ridges feeding inward. 

The orange cat from under the shed picks its way up one ridge, tail high, paws light between the roots. The bugs don’t break stride. Halfway up, they start crawling over its legs and back, moving with it. I think I see pale strands work around its legs, but the light shifts and it’s gone into a gap near the top. I watch the spot. It doesn’t come back out. 

The light changes. I don’t leave the window.

Voices snap me out of it. Lee’s laugh, then her voice. I step back as they appear at the base of the stoop, staring up. Her car’s in the road, doors left open. 

“Dad?” she calls.

Lee squints at the mound, hands on his hips. 

“Don’t go near it,” I say. 

She looks up, startled. “What is this?”

“It’s fine.”

“I’ll get the ladder,” she says.

“No.” Sharper than I mean. “It won’t reach.”

She shades her eyes. “We’re here to take you.”

Lee’s still watching the mound. 

“I know,” I say. The ants are hauling scraps toward the gap where the cat went under. 

“There’s a seat for you.”

The mound bulges, barely enough to notice. “Go on ahead.”

She watches me, waiting for something I can’t give. I duck behind the wall. 

Their voices fade toward the road. The floor shakes under my feet. I steal another look out the window. Below, the mound sinks at the edges, pulling the dirt inward. The ground is farther than when they arrived. 

#

I lie on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The vibration comes and goes. The trailer shifts. 

Hours slip. I’m not sure if I’ve been dozing. When the next tremor rolls through, it shakes the trailer harder. Somewhere below, wood pops.

I sit up and go to the window.

The light is thin, the sun halfway under. The yard and shed are gone. The mound swells past the trailer’s edge, over the driveway, past the fence line to the trees. From here, the grid of roads runs in all directions.

At the mound’s base, specks move in unbroken streams. Some come from the tree line, others cross the roads from farther out. All flow into the channels and vanish under the ridges.

Her car’s still at the edge where the driveway used to be, doors open. A white dress hangs in the back. The ceremony should’ve started by now. I don’t see either of them.

Down the street, a pickup sits stalled in the road, driver door hanging open. Looks like Will’s.

Farther out, rows of headlights. A jam lines the highway in both directions. Windshields are dark. Doors hang open. Specks move between the lanes, all headed this way.

Another tremor. The trailer groans. Metal tears below.

I lie back down and close my eyes. The mound’s work is in the floor, in the walls. I feel it through the mattress, then on my skin. Skittering feet trace over me in hundreds of directions. Something thicker winds up my calf, damp.

Another crack splits the frame. The bed lists.

The heat presses up through the floor. I keep my eyes shut and trace lines to the center.