Amber, Green, White

Forty seconds, tracking north

Photo by Egor Vikhrev on Unsplash

“Line two.”

The voice in Wyatt’s ear crackled; they sounded unsure. “Thank you,” he said. A second passed, then a click, and the silence in his headpiece was filled with soft static. “Where are you?”

“De colores, de colores,” a voice murmured. Wyatt huffed, glancing up at the digital clock opposite him. “Se visten los campos en la primavera,” still watching the seconds tick down as the voice continued its rendition of De Colores. “De colores, de colores,” Wyatt stepped forward towards the desk, his fingers flying across the keyboard. The lighting in the office changed, more blue now as an overlay of the Pacific Northwest was on his screen.

“Son los pajaritos que vienen de afuera,” a dusty road, shimmering in the heat as two boys walked in between cornfields. Thick air, almost choking as their feet kicked up clouds once they started running. There was a farmhouse at the end of that road. “De colores, de colores,” two rooms; one was a bedroom, the other a living space. A fireplace, a table and a soft rug. “Es el arco iris que vemos lucir,” the voice trailed off to almost a whisper, leaving only the sounds of breathing in Wyatt’s ear.

“You done?” Wyatt asked as boxes were opening on his screen, live satellite footage of a dilapidated farmhouse in Oregon, Marion County, calculations flashing as Wyatt stopped typing. He turned his attention to the headset. “Richard?”

“Yeah,” Richard sighed, then, after a moment, started humming softly. Every so often, there was the sound of a sniff interrupting the rhythm.

“Where are you, Richard?” Wyatt licked his lips, a single finger hovering above a key; almost all the boxes on his screen were flashing amber. The satellite footage showed there was a heat source within the farmhouse. “Tell me.”

“Y por eso los grandes amores,” the singing was cracked now, and the exhales were shaking. Wyatt narrowed his eyes as boxes on his monitor were starting to flash green and close. “De muchos colores me gustan a mí.” It was always cold in that farmhouse, even in the middle of summer; it was a respite. Something about the layout of its windows let it breathe. “Y por eso los grandes amores,” they had huddled one winter around the fireplace. They’d hauled wood inside to dry, split it, lit the fire and then with freezing hands tried to make s'mores. “De muchos colores me gustan a mí,” Richard’s voice once again broke off; the breathing was heavy in Wyatt’s ear.

“Are you proud?” Wyatt said, no change from Richard. “Did you really think you could lead a nation with a microphone?” The sound changed in Wyatt’s ear; something was being scraped across the input. Wyatt waited, then, “Children died, Richard. You know that, right? That was you.”

“Fuck you,” Richard snapped back.

Wyatt closed his eyes briefly, willing his jaw to relax, then softly, almost as soft as Richard's singing had been, he said: “Do you really think I need to ask permission?”

“W-what?”

A finger hovering above a certain key tapped it once. Wyatt half opened his eyes. Keeping his voice soft, he slowly spoke. “De colores, de colores,” Tracking. Wyatt lingered on it. On the map a dot left him and turned north. Forty seconds. “Brillantes y finos se viste la aurora.” Richard was holding his breath; there was just the static filling Wyatt’s ear when he paused. “De colores, de colores,”

“Wait, wait. Wyatt!” Richard’s voice crackled through the headset. “We can talk, I’ll come.”

“Son los mil reflejos que el sol atesora,” was Wyatt’s response as he watched a small dot fly across the Pacific Northwest map on his monitor. He could smell that farmhouse, dust, mildew and damp. The sour tang of bird droppings and smoke, both from the fire and from the packet of Marlboro they’d stolen one night. Wyatt’s voice dropped to a whisper, “De colores, de colores.”

“Wyatt! Listen to me, we can make this right, just talk to me. I’m sorry, okay. I’m sorry. Is that what you wanted?”

“Se viste el diamante que vemos lucir.” Wyatt barely uttered the words as the satellite feed flashed a bright white; there was silence in his ear now, no static. His monitor was still now. The feed was showing fire, smoke and very little remaining of that Oregon farmhouse. That Oregon farmhouse where two boys had walked along that path between the cornfields. Wyatt inhaled shallowly, staring at the feed, watching for movement, straining for any sound. Nothing.

“Yes. It was,” Wyatt said. He closed his eyes, leaning back from his desk.