Anna McCuaig

Mirage

“What do you think is over there?” a boy, no older than seven, asked from Dante’s side as he clutched at his sweaty hand. “Do you think it’s beautiful?” He fumbled over the last word, getting caught on the heavy B where his chapped lips didn’t stick together properly and instead, dry and raw, slid over each other to blur into the rest of the word. He made a face as if he were thinking about correcting himself, but it faded away quickly. He was a child after all and the air around them was too hot, too heavy, to worry about anything much more than getting one foot above the next as the pair climbed the mountain. But still, he muttered, “I think it will be.”