Broken Worlds Super Boxset

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Brooke watched the ceiling fan blades circle above her. Beads of sweat rolled down her forehead. A small drop hung from her eyelash. She squinted, the salty sweat stinging her eyes. When she peeled herself off the sheets, a damp imprint formed an outline of her body.

Her feet rubbed against the hot wooden floorboards covered in a thin, grainy layer of sand. Footprints from the night before were still etched in the granules. Waging war against the invading dirt was a losing battle, one that she had stopped fighting so rigorously as of late.

Brooke tugged at her shirt in attempt to separate the cotton fabric from her skin. The slowly circling fan in her room did little more than push the already hot air around. She made her way to the bathroom, fanning herself along the way and trying to loosen the strands of hair glued to her forehead.

The digital display of the water gauge, which broke down the level of water usage by day along with their total weekly allowance, beeped on the bathroom wall next to the mirror. It was a constant reminder of their dry world. Brooke tapped the screen, shaking her head.

“That can’t be right,” she said.

Rations for her family of three gave them usage of five hundred gallons of water per week. According to the gauge, more than a quarter of that was gone. And it was only Monday. Brooke checked the usage log. The time limit had been overridden three times.

“Jonathan!”

Brooke almost broke her son's door in half with the force of her entrance. The reflection of the mirror John was using captured the scowl on his mother's face. He was shirtless, a towel draped around his waist, fresh from his morning shower.

“Mom, I’m changing!”

“Do you know how much water you used this morning?”

Water dripped from his elbows and rolled down his legs. The droplets splashed onto the floor. The mixture of sand and moisture formed bits of mud around John's feet.

“You used over one hundred gallons of water. One
hundred
, John.”

John turned to check his reflection in the mirror. He carefully ran the comb through his blond curls, slicking his hair back.

“It’s my first day of high school, Mom. I can’t show up dirty.”

“And how do you expect us to make it through the rest of the week?”

“I’ll make it up over the next few days.”

“By not eating or drinking?”

“Mom, you’re being dramatic.”

Brooke snatched the comb out of her son’s hand.

“Hey!” John said.

“You’re on filter duty this morning,” Brooke said.

“Mom, I’m already clean! That’s not fair!”

“Maybe you’ll think of that next time you need to wash your hair.”

John stomped after Brooke as she exited his room. John's slamming of the door behind her rattled the entire house and blew a rush of sand against her calves.

The living room shared the same fine layer of sand that plagued the rest of the house. The only item that Brooke refused to allow any particle of dirt or dust to touch was a triangular case enclosing an American flag.

It rested atop a cherry-finished oak table, the sturdiest surface in the entire house. A picture of Brooke's late husband Jason rested alongside the flag.

Brooke used the bottom of her shirt to clear the table, case, and picture frame of any particles. She kissed the fingertips of her left hand then placed them on her husband's face, revealing the wedding ring she still wore.

Emily was still sleeping when Brooke opened her daughter's door. The sheets were stripped from the bed, and Emily rolled around, sensing her mother's presence.

“Time to get up, Em,” Brooke said.

Brooke patted Emily's stomach as her daughter stretched, wiggling her fingers and toes, yawning.

“Do I have to go to school today?” Emily asked, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

“Yes.”

“But I don’t want to go.”

“What are you talking about? You’re going to have a blast! You’ll get to see all your friends, learn cool stuff, and you know they always turn the sprinklers on at the end of the first day for all the students to play in.”

“Yeah, but everyone is going to make fun of my tooth.”

“No, they won’t. And besides, it’s not that bad. Let me see.”

Emily smiled, flicking her tongue through the open space where her left front tooth was supposed to be.

“Seeeeeeeeee?” Emily asked.

“Oh, man. You could fit a train through that thing,” Brooke said, putting her pinky in the gap. “You know what you could do is shoot water out of it like a fountain.”

“Cool!”

“And guess what?”

“What?”

“You don’t have to take a shower this morning!”

“Really?” Emily asked, smiling from ear to ear.

“Absolutely.”

“Thanks, Mom!”

Emily bounced off the bed. Her tiny feet thumped across the floor as she ran to the kitchen. Brooke wasn't sure how much longer her daughter's disdain of showers would last, but she was going to milk it for as long as possible.

The refrigerator hummed loudly. A cool blast of air greeted Brooke's face as she mulled over the breakfast options. She grabbed the jug of milk and set it on the counter.

Brooke walked over to the thermostat. She wiped the layer of dust from the screen with her thumb. It was only seven o'clock, and it was already one hundred and four degrees outside.

“I wonder what the high will be?” she asked herself.

Emily swung her feet back and forth as she sat on the stool. She tilted her head side to side and drummed her hands on the countertop. Brooke poured the cereal and milk into her daughter's bowl.

“Thanks, Mom,” Emily said.

John walked into the kitchen and grabbed his own bowl out of the cabinet. He didn't acknowledge anyone's presence. He poured himself some cereal and sat at the table by himself instead of at the counter with his sister and mother.

Brooke looked him over. Despite how mad she was with him, she had to admit he did look very handsome. He had been lucky enough to receive his father’s genes.

“Did you clean out the filters yet?” Brooke asked.

John dropped the spoon, and it clanged against the edge of the bowl. His mouth was full of cereal when he spoke.

“Mom, you’re serious? I already got dressed,” John said.

“Then you better put on the jumpsuit. Out you go,” Brooke answered.

John slammed his hands against the table. He pushed his chair back, and the legs squeaked across the kitchen tile. He mumbled under his breath on his way outside.
“What was that, young man?” Brooke asked.

Her answer was the slam of the back door.

“Teenagers,” Emily said.

***

After breakfast, Brooke hurried Emily to her room to get dressed then walked out back to gather her gear for work. She passed John on her way to the shed.

The jumpsuit covered every inch of his body. John scraped the circular sweeper against the vents on the side of the house. They needed to be cleaned daily to prevent the air in their home from becoming completely unbreathable. It was the most hated job in the house. Brooke usually did it herself but was never afraid to use it for punishment.

Brooke couldn't see John's face when he looked at her because of the mask, but she imagined there was some irritated gaze staring back at her.

The work shed was on its last legs. The roof sagged, and Brooke swore the whole structure tilted farther to the left every day. But there wasn't any room in the budget for a new storage facility, so she made do with what she had. And besides, it wasn't the outside that mattered. It was the inside, which the shed didn't lack in at all.

Brooke opened the lock on the shed's door and pulled the door open. It was small, only around fifty square feet, but it was the perfect size to store her equipment. She checked her phone for the job orders that had come in for today.

There were two solar panel repairs in downtown San Diego, four repair orders just north of the city, and six at La Jolla, which ran right along the cliffs at the beach.

Repairs were the only thing Brooke seemed to do these days. It had been a year since she'd done a new installation. The economy was almost as dry as the desert they lived in.

Before she lugged her repair kit out to the cruiser, Brooke pulled one of the tables from the back wall. Hidden underneath was a small hatch.

Brooke pulled the door open and descended the staircase into the basement. There was a flashlight on a tiny shelf at the bottom, which she used to scan the contents around her.

The basement was even smaller than the shed above it, and Brooke had to keep her body hunched over to avoid knocking her head against the ceiling. Her late husband, Jason, had kept emergency supplies down here in case something ever happened.

The flashlight shone on twenty one-gallon jugs of water, a first aid kit, a case of MREs, and four backpacks stocked with flashlights, batteries, sleeping bags, emergency blankets, fire starters, iodine tablets, sunscreen, lip balm, and aloe.

When Jason had been home, he would come down here every Monday morning and check the inventory. It was a tradition Brooke had continued after he was gone.

After inventory was complete, Brooke relocked the shed. John peeled off the cleaning suit as Brooke passed him on her way to drop her tools off in the cruiser.

“C'mon, we don't want to be late,” Brooke said.

Sitting in Brooke's front yard was her Toyota Cruiser 70 series. Most of the paint had worn off, and it had more dents than a kicked soup can, but what it lacked in curb appeal it made up for with performance.

The cruiser's 5.7-liter V8 engine put out 381 horsepower and 401 pound feet of torque. Its belly was lined with reinforced skid plates, and the combination of 4WD with the front and rear live axle allowed her to handle any desert terrain with ease.

Whenever she had to visit any of the solar fields out in the desert, she would always get stuck using one of the company trucks, so she invested in her own. She never regretted it.