Fall came to Dune from two places—the trees flecked with fire’s palette outside Kama’s window, and the news on her phone and Mama Vivian’s radio. Summer was gone and H-8 had had a voracious opening season.

Dune wondered where she could find out who was here and who had gone, even just amongst the people she knew. What were the numbers of the city now, in this rapid tragedy?

She couldn’t look at social media—her notifications were full of people sending “prayers and love” to her, or her family, or to the city of Detroit. At some point, these trite condolences had replaced the act of grieving, of actually feeling a wave of sadness. Before, a loss could make you gasp. Before, it reached your heart. You were expected to have a coherent articulation for it, a way to say you knew something had happened and you had the right response. These meaningless words, combined with conspiracy theories, misguided cancellations and misinformation, made it too nauseating to even log on.

She let Mama Vivian’s radio be her main source of information, even though it wasn’t necessarily more accurate. She was putting the names of the deceased on the model now, names she sometimes recognized or felt she should have known. Hundreds of names.

The main theory running the news cycle now was that tap water was somehow to blame for this sickness. Dune thought it was an informed suspicion, given the battles against lead-poisoned water up the road in Flint and the years of tension over water control in Detroit. Kama had had her hands buried in sink water when she’d gotten sick. It was a theory, but Dune felt more practical than conspiratorial. She was beginning to feel aware of her own aliveness again—not quite a desire to live, just a growing, surprising awareness that she was not dead. Sometimes, while longing for her mother, she wished she could cross over. But still, she was not dead. She felt, however slight, the pull of life.

Dune had always suspected that Mama Vivian was selective with her deafness. Not necessarily by choice—it was more like her ears wouldn’t let in any small talk.

Dune still came to sit with her, to be company. Once, she started humming. The humming gave way to Otis Redding.

Sittin’ in the mornin’ sun

I’ll be sittin’ when the evenin’ comes

Watchin’ the ships roll in

Then I watch ’em roll away again

She was humming and singing with her eyes closed, but when she peeked, Mama Vivian’s eyes were on her, mouth open in a near smile. Dune slipped into another song, a slow one she’d written.

My heart is a song

With lost words

I don’t know the way

To the end

What else can I do

But pray up

My song is a wave

Crashing shore