His father, tall and broad, looms over him. The top of his head grazes the sky, the moon like a giant spotlight behind him.

“Get up, boy!” he says, poking Mansoor with his silver-tipped cane. “This is not the finish line, boy!” He points his cane toward the farmhouse. “That way!”

“Water, Pappa,” Mansoor whimpers. His mouth is parched; his tongue, thick and dry. He tries to swallow, but can’t.

Govindji pokes at Mansoor again. “Get up, I said.” He then turns and walks toward the farmhouse. “You’ve got to cross the finish line. It doesn’t count if you don’t.”

Mansoor struggles to his feet. “Wait, Pappa! Let me show you…” He grabs at his pocket, but his fingers are thick icicles and he can’t bend them.

Govindji turns back. In his hand, his gold pocket watch. “Hurry up, boy. I don’t have all day.”

Mansoor grasps the fax letter from Abrahams & Abrahams. “Look, Pappa! I got the money.” He stumbles toward his father. He starts out upright but every few steps, he hunches over, further and further, the land softening under him. Soon, he is on all fours.

“What the hell are you? A monkey?” Govindji’s voice booms through the darkness. “Stand up straight, boy! Progress means you must keep marching forward.”

“I did it, Pappa! I’m going to get my plant,” Mansoor cries. Above him the stars turn into twinkling store signs. His name lights up the sky. M.G. Visram & Son Dry Cleaners, Ltd., Suiting Canada Since 1987.

Govindji flips open the pocket watch. “Time’s running out, boy.”

“Look! You see there.” Mansoor points to the sky. “That’s where my plant is going.” It was the reason he drove out here. To look at the property again. He holds out the fax letter to his father. “The digital revolution, Pappa. It’s a goldmine. And we are going to be part of it!” He holds out the fax to his father. “I did it, Pappa! Just like I said I would!”

“Utter waste of my time!” Govindji flips his pocket watch closed. “Hard to believe you are my flesh and blood.”

“No, Pappa. Don’t say that.”

“I knew you’d ruin everything. Turn everything to dust.” He turns and fades into the darkness.

“Wait, Pappa…” Mansoor falls into the wet snow. A sudden gust whips the fax out of his hand and twirls it away.

Dolly-bird sweeps back and forth over Mansoor as if she is waving incense over his body. The fluting sound gets louder and louder. The land continues to soften and soon he is knee-deep in water. He hears a crashing sound. He turns to see the prairie hills collapsing in the distance like ice cliffs into an ocean. Chunks of land break off under his feet. The walls of the farmhouse slap open into the water. The slats float away with the other debris. A wasteland.

Water pools in circles around him. He loses his footing and falls, now fully immersed in water. He frantically searches for land, but there is none. The fields are an ocean. He thrashes his arms and legs, stretching his feet down, trying to touch the bottom. But he can’t. Exhausted from the exertion, he hangs his head back and tries to rest. Waves wash over him. He coughs and sputters. His clothes melt off him like ice cubes in punch. Dolly-bird whirs above him, her wings pumping into a blur. Another Dolly-bird pops out from the blur, then another and another, until the sky is filled with birds. They chant in unison, their small faces like a congregation of old people. The beating of their wings stirs a gentle wind that ripples over the water and carries him forward. Ya Rahman, Ya Rahim. The Most Compassionate, the Most Merciful.