Missy woke with her cheek against cold stone.
For a moment, she waited for the familiar rocking of the train. It did not come.
There were no wheels beneath her, no lamps swaying overhead, and no Bob occupying more of the seat than his size could reasonably explain.
There was only a cave.
The air smelled of damp earth and old rain. A small squirrel sat nearby, holding an acorn as though he had been expecting her.
Missy slowly sat up.
In front of her, twenty-two pictures stared back from the stone wall.
The ox.
The house.
The camel.
The door.
The fish.
The eye.
The tooth.
The mark.
There, on the stone wall of the cave, the Phoenician alphabet was still deciding whether it wanted to be pictures or letters.
She smiled.
“I like this alphabet,” she said. “It looks rather ancient.”
The squirrel nodded thoughtfully.
“That is because it is.”
Missy pointed at the fish.
“At least I know what that one means.”
The squirrel pointed at the basket.
“Nobody agrees about that one.”
Missy laughed.
The squirrel laughed too.
“What does the fish mean?” he asked.
Missy pointed at it.
“Fish.”
“I can see that it is a fish.”
Missy sighed.
“I think it is a warning.”
“A warning about what?”
She considered the question.
“The water is coming.”
The squirrel studied the fish.
“That sounds serious.”
“It is.”
“What should we do?”
“Learn how to swim.”
The squirrel was quiet.
For once.
Missy pointed at the basket on the cave wall.
“What does that one mean?”
The squirrel stood very still.
“A basket.”
“Yes, but what does it mean?”
He looked toward the river beyond the cave.
“It means collect.”
“Collect what?”
“Acorns.”
“Why?”
The squirrel lowered his voice.
“Because the water is coming.”
The cave grew quiet.
Missy looked at the fish.
“So the fish says to learn how to swim.”
The squirrel nodded.
“And the basket says to gather what will keep you alive.”
The squirrel pointed toward the fish.
“Because the water is coming.”
The fish looked offended.
“I did not say that.”
“You literally live in water,” said the squirrel.
“That is different.”
Missy turned toward the fish.
“So what do you mean?”
The fish flicked its tail.
“Learn how to swim.”
The squirrel shook his head.
“Terrible advice.”
“It is excellent advice.”
“Not if you do not have any acorns.”
The basket nodded.
“He has a point.”
Missy blinked.
“The basket can talk?”
“Everyone can talk,” said the fish. “Most people do not listen.”
The basket cleared its throat.
“When the water comes, you will wish you had collected something.”
The fish rolled its eyes.
“When the water comes, you will wish you had learned how to swim.”
The basket pointed at the fish.
“And where exactly do you expect people to keep their acorns?”
The fish pointed back at the basket.
“And where exactly do you expect them to put their basket when it is floating downstream?”
Missy sighed.
“This cave is exhausting.”
Just then, the hand stepped forward from the wall.
“You are both wrong.”
The basket and the fish turned toward it.
“What do you mean?”
The hand flexed dramatically.
“If nobody picks up the acorns, the basket remains empty.”
The fish groaned.
“Here we go.”
Then the eye opened.
“Actually, none of you noticed the river rising.”
The fish looked embarrassed.
The hand looked embarrassed.
The eye looked extremely pleased.
Then the mouth spoke.
“I noticed.”
The eye rolled.
“No. You talked.”
The mouth smiled.
“Same thing.”
“No, it is not.”
“Close enough.”
By this point, the squirrel was taking notes.
Missy looked around the cave. Nearly everyone was arguing.
Meanwhile, the door sat quietly in the corner.
“If anyone is interested,” it said, “the water is already inside.”
The entire cave fell silent.
The mouth stopped talking for nearly three seconds.
Then the squirrel pointed at the basket.
“I still think we should collect more acorns.”
The basket smiled.
“Finally. Someone understands me.”
Missy looked at the cave wall.
The argument spread from symbol to symbol until the cave seemed less like a wall and more like the beginning of a world.
“So that is how the world was created?”
The squirrel picked up his acorn.
“According to somebody.”
“And according to you?”
The squirrel smiled.
“Acorns.”
“Of course.”
Missy paused.
“Acorns created the world?”
“Of course.”
“They are the building blocks of reality.”
Missy stared at him.
“The building blocks of reality are acorns?”
“Obviously.”
“I should have known.”
The squirrel tucked the acorn beneath one arm and looked toward the cave entrance.
“Come on, Missy. We have a story to tell.”
Behind them, water touched the bottom of the painted door.
Then it began to rise.
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