Part of her needed to see the homes, see if they looked at all like hers—were they painted gold? Two floors? Was there an abandoned apartment building nearby? Was there a pattern in terms of what was growing around the home—fatal chicory? Were they at the same proximity to water, or the incinerator, or old factories, or other homes? Did the houses seem to droop an inch with sorrow?

Theories rooted and dispersed in her, dandelions seeking proof and then, poof, on the wind.

Summer and fall were usually Detroit’s outdoor seasons, long days full of Black people outside blasting music, seeing and being seen; biking with or without bike lanes, walking and loitering on sidewalks, shopping at farmers markets, out on their boats, working all day long. The city soundscape uplifted its own creative children, boomboxes competing as soul wrapped around rap up against techno, strolling through jazz—all swallowing petty pop as cultures did subtle battle for the city’s surface.

Dune felt the dearth of people, that familiar flow of strangers that had made the river of sound and life around her. Now everyone she met was like her, a droplet falling a great distance, certain to crash land at some point, to become a part of the flood.

When, occasionally, she would cross the path of someone still sentient and willing to stand apart and share information, she began to ask questions of the survivors: How many have you lost? Was he looking out a window when it happened? Was she alone? Or were you there? Did she say anything after she got sick, words, murmurs? Were they crying? What are you going to do with them? What happened to them?

Sometimes it was too soon to be asking anything. She would learn this in the conversation, when the griever before her would come out of their shock enough to get angry with her, usually three or four questions in. She didn’t take it on. They were angry at what had happened and she only had questions, no answers.

One morning, agitation pushed her to flip through the stack of papers on the mail table until she found the slip of paper where she’d written Dr. Roger’s phone number down. She called it. Someone picked up the phone, but didn’t seem to speak. They breathed together, strangers. Eventually Dune broke the silence, “Hello?”

“Yes. Hi.”

“Dr. Rogers?”

“I am she.” The doctor sounded tired.

“This is Dune Chin—”

“Oh,” a spark of life. “Kama’s daughter? Yes, I remember you! I ... how are you?”

“Uh. Ok I guess. I’ve been researching H-8 since my mom died. And. I was wondering what you were able to learn about it.”