The Only Sound Is the Wind Pascha Sotolongo (bio) You might think the desert dreams of the sea, but I think deserts dream of other deserts, scorched spaces just like themselves. With them, they don’t feel so alien, so bizarre. They don’t have the bother of explaining—the way they would with the sea—how it is they’re all sand and rock and sagebrush and how the only sound is the wind across the earth. My back aches. Three minutes is a long time to stand at the sink rinsing rice, but then—the arsenic. When I hear the beep, I dump the rice in a sizzling pan and reach in the fridge for a Belgian dark. Gluten free. I have an antibody for most everything. The smell of saffron rises, takes me back to Miami, Mamá’s kitchen. In those days the world was good and sweet and I could eat mountains of paella without sprouting the kind of shrimp rash ER doctors term “impressive.” After dinner, I set my plate in the sink and head for the garage. Finally I get to open the box. An Ebay buy from a year ago. Lot of assorted items. Books, toys, etc. Sci-fi geek’s fantasy. Something like that. I don’t quite remember anymore. It’s been in the garage ever since, waiting out its quarantine. Bed bugs can live up to a whole year without feeding, and they’re immune to cold. Since books are among their favorite haunts, I circled the date on the calendar and—until today—closed my mind to it. Bending back the cardboard flaps, I see the Spock collection. There are plastic action figures with real clothes, stickers, a coloring book, and a Starfleet Academy Vulcan language guide—all in great condition. For years, I wanted to marry Spock. We’ll find you a nice Cuban boy, Papi would say, maybe someone rich. But I only had eyes for the Vulcan. Which Papi didn’t mind, in theory. At least Spock wasn’t blonde and square-jawed. Papi hated those kinds of guys. But then no girl can marry a fiction. At the bottom of the box, just beneath some goofy Next Generation stuff, there is a Popular Science magazine from the eighties. I sweep the vacuum over it, page by page, then head inside to peruse. Candles always plunk the cherry on anything enjoyable, so I light one. Soy wax. Lead free wick. The warm yellow glow lights me up. I find a lot of the content funny. An entire month’s salary for a VCR. An article about the revolution that is Apple’s 32-bit Mac Mini. Others on plastic engines, earth homes, an 88-pound plane. The classifieds are the best though. There’s the Thompson Vocal Eliminator, a machine that removes most of the lead vocals from a standard record and leaves most of the background music untouched. All your favorite songs cleaved like walnuts just for you. One ad contains a whole block of words so tiny I go get the magnifying glass and turn on another light. The big type reads simply, CLONE AT HOME, then I hold up the glass and squint: One clone sent directly to your house. Glitch free process based on cutting edge science. Simply take a 1/16” bundle of hair from whatever you wish to have cloned (human or animal) and mail it to the address below in a well-sealed plastic container. Allow 4-6 weeks processing. All sales final! $250. [End Page 101] After this, the address and a little order form which you’re supposed to snip out of the magazine and include with your hair and payment. I guffaw, looking for clues that it’s a joke. But everything about the ad—from the font, to the wording, to the drawing of a fluffy-haired man and his shadowy double—suggests otherwise. Yeah, it’s laughable, but not meant to be. Tossing the magazine aside, I rise, stretch, and head to the kitchen. I’ll need a new loaf of gluten free bread for the week. I’ve just lined up the five...