Castles by Benjamin X Wretlind

felt something missing—a piece of the puzzle I didn't see before. I thought burying Dusty would be akin to burying Grandma; in the end, we're all fodder for the maggots, the worms and time. What is left is trivial: a coffin, a few bones and nothing more.
    I wanted to cry again, but I knew it was pointless. The tears would run from my eyes, dry on my cheeks, and Dusty would still be dead. He was a victim of mischievous violence, and I had projected that sentence on Dusty myself. I knew it was my fault. Michael bought the dog for me , after all. It was put in the trailer park with those other kids because of me . I took the dog on walks, and if I had paid more attention to my surroundings and avoided the confrontation with Steve and his gang, Dusty would still be safe.
    I had made the mess.
    What if someone walking around the Bus found the freshly moved dirt that covered Dusty's body? It was something I hadn't thought about before. After all, we didn't plan to bury the dog, nor did we plan to tell anyone where he went. If Michael's parents cared, signs might be posted about a lost dog. People would keep their eyes open, and if one those eyes turned to the desert, they might find something of interest. People would know.
    I left too much unraveled. Rather than a spotless floor, I'd swept my problems under a rug. Time would pass and the rug would be moved, exposing the truth. They would pin the blame on me and tie Dusty's death to Michael's disappearance. In no time, I would be suspected of more than I could handle.
    "You're not done."
    I looked to my right. Grandma stood on the patio, the nightgown she wore the day she died was as clean as ever. In the faint, humid breeze, I thought I smelled her—a memory released by scent and scent alone.
    "Grandma?"
    "You need to clean up your mess."
    "I did. I buried Dusty in the desert by the Bus."
    "You're not done."
    She vanished as quickly as she came, but the scent lingered for moments after. I thought at the time I was dreaming, but I've seen her since. Between her words of warning, her persistent instructions on the folds of my brain and her unexpected appearances, I knew I had lessons still to learn.
    The wind picked up a little more and I looked out toward the storms. The tops had collapsed, too heavy for the air to keep them suspended. In moments, I knew their flattening would create a swirl of wind that would pick up the dust from the desert floor and construct a wall that would sweep across the land. Inside that wall, the eels would ride.
    Memories flashed though me. The mysterious body, Michael's death, my father, the carousel of singing men: they all had one thing in common.
    The Bus.
    Mama would be home in a few hours, and I had to move fast.

6
     
    Dusty wasn't light, and I'm not the strongest person in the world. I'm thankful he was buried next to the Bus in a shallow grave; I don't think I could have carried his body any further. It took enough effort to drag the bag of parts that was now Dusty and lift it onto the passenger's side, but it needed to be done. The driver's side door was rusted shut.
    I could see the wall of dust a few miles away. It was only a matter of minutes—maybe fifteen—and the Bus would be engulfed by the tempest. The eels would come through the broken windows and clean up the mess I had made. I shuddered at the thought. The last time I'd seen them work their magic was on Michael's body, and I won't lie and say his death wasn't at the forefront of my mind.
    I finally pulled Dusty's body into the back and rested. I could smell death in the air mixed with rusted metal, humidity and dust. My nose twitched involuntarily.
    I didn't want to stay there. I wanted to run home before Mama got off work, but again the sight of death tempted me. Or was it the eels? They had always captivated me. Sure, they were frightening and I could never get those translucent teeth out of my mind, but they were there for me , to clean up my mess and—apparently—the