“Oh, easy,” she says after reading it. “Catch the bus to the eastern outer neighborhoods and get off at the first stop. That’s the Purnells’ street. Then just look for their house number.”

I fold the paper and stuff it back in my pocket.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.” Janie glances at a miniature projector that displays the time. “And hey, if she isn’t there, you can always come here and chill. Fridays are the absolute worst.”

“Ha, all right.”

She smiles. “See you around.”

I leave and walk to the intersection, then wait until a bus labeled E-O-N glides up, which I assume is correct.

The ride is pleasant. The bus travels out of the city and crosses a field into a forest, where the jagged shadows of trees creep over the street. Houses line the road. A projector sticks up from each driveway and displays a number.

The bus stops in front of a projector beside the intersection that reads: ‘Axio Street.’ I get off and walk farther down the street. When I round the bend, the trees become thinner, their orange leaves marked by brown blotches. And about two hundred yards away is a glossy white wall that extends in both directions.

I have a good guess as to what’s behind it.

Each yard changes as I walk farther into the neighborhood. At first the lawns and trees were moist and full of color, blanketing the yards and shading the ground. But now the grasses are drier, with patches of light brown, and the leaves grow sparser on their trees. Those that have fallen to the ground blow across the street as easily as Undil’s dust in a light wind.

The yard of House 48 is yellowing, despite the sprinklers watering every inch of it. Branches creak in the hot wind. Withered flowers and scraggly bushes line porches and windows. A woman with a machine strapped on her back is sucking up piles of dead leaves from the driveway of House 52. Other than the constant VRRRRR of the machine, the neighborhood is layered in silence. These people live in fear. The wall at the end of the street isn’t doing much to stop the creeping desert. It blocks the sight of what’s to come, but nothing more.

I stop walking. I’ve reached House 58.

Ladia’s house.

The number at the head of the driveway flickers. Each time, I hear a tiny crack, as if its power supply keeps shorting out. A tree stands in the center of the yard, its bark peeled back and chipping. There is no grass around its base, but a ring of cracked dirt several feet in radius. The remains of flowerbeds outline the house’s porch and walkway, with stalks of dead flowers still wilted in their places.