The Should
Garret was sick of the ash. For miles, it had been crunching under his worn treads. Every plume of dust was a microcosm of suffocation. Even his mask could not filter out the finer particles. So as he walked he choked just like the countless millions that lay somewhere underneath it all or had become one with the ash themselves. His eyes might have narrowed at the thought but they had already settled into a permanent squint some years ago. Though he wore goggles nearly as dark as welders’ glass, the intense red-orange light in the sky still found a way to burn its way into his skull; maddening him, driving him forward.
