They followed the shade. They were able to see out in all directions.
There was no place to go. The mountain was surrounded by desert.
Zero stared at Big Thumb. “It must have a hole in it,” he said, “filled with water.”
“You think?” “Where else could the water be coming from?” Zero asked. “Water doesn’t run uphill.”
Stanley bit into an onion. It didn’t burn his eyes or nose, and, in fact, he no longer noticed a particularly strong taste.
He remembered when he had first carried Zero up the hill, how the air had smelled bitter.
It was the smell of thousands of onions, growing and rotting and sprouting.
Now he didn’t smell a thing. “How many onions do you think we’ve eaten?” he asked.
Zero shrugged. “I don’t even know how long we’ve been here.”
“I’d say about a week,” said Stanley. “And we probably each eat about twenty onions a day, so that’s...”
“Two hundred and eighty onions,” said Zero. Stanley smiled. “I bet we really stink.”
Two nights later, Stanley lay awake staring up at the star-filled sky.
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