Scorch Atlas by Blake Butler

fingerprints, no dust, no locks.
    On the nightstand beside the bed there was a small picture in a frame. In it, a young man stood beside a tree with both hands behind his back.
    The girl lifted the frame and stroked the glass grain with her thumb.
    “My father,” she said. “He looks young.”
    She propped the photo back on the stand to face the bed.
    Across the hall they found a larger bedroom with a large oak-framed mattress and a roll-top desk stacked with new paper. The longer wall was made of bookshelves, husky spines packed end to
end. Some of the books were filled with blather, math, rune symbols. The clothes inside the walk-in closet fit Randall close enough. He changed out of his sandy jean suit into blue fur pajamas and stood in the mirror trying to recognize his face.
    Above the bed was an enormous painting of an ocean, slung with froth, mostly opaque.
    Back downstairs, in the kitchen, they found the pantry fully stocked; the fridge overflowing with clean light. They ate peanut butter and corned beef. They ate avocado and pineapple spears, drank cold filtered water from a pitcher. As they ate, their skins began to loosen, the texture of their tanned skin and going smooth. They carried plates into the living room and ate in front of the TV where now the cartoon dog and cat were smiling and on fire. The sofas were large and comfortable and smooth. There was enough room for both of them to sit sprawled out on their own seat and sink their skins into the cushions. They watched the TV, droning. There were no news clips and no commercials.
    In sleep, their warm brains drifted, slow pulses still and steady.
    Randall slept with his mouth open, drooling, seeing his son was made of light, full and stitched and spotless.
    The girl nuzzled a pillow and rolled over upside down and hummed.
    While they lay, the house made short clicking sounds around them, slight settlings, shifts of air.
    Randall woke later to the touch of something crawling in his hair. He sat up quick, with fists clenched. The girl lay across from him with the transistor. In her sleep she’d turned it on. The signal came in clearly, broadcasting the same soft-sunned song he could not place—throbbing and monotone and wordless. It sang out from the tiny, salvaged speaker from everywhere at once.
    Randall blinked, his body sponging. He tried to think of where he’d been. He muttered something old beneath his breath.
    The girl opened her eyes.
    She smiled and watched him, her sleep still glazed and changing. She pointed past him to the window, between the thick green curtains parted wide.
    Through the glass into the sand yard, Randall saw the rain there coming down—liquid rain. Plain water poured in droves. It sluiced against the paneled glass so thick he couldn’t see a foot beyond. He moved to the frame and pressed his face against it, saw
where below the lip the runoff had already gathered several feet. It lapped at the bottom panes, compiling upward, beaded droplets cascading down the glass.
    Inside, the song continued, drawing upward, its long calm chords vibrating the air, his hair, the house.
    INK
    Hard to decipher in its squall—the long squirts of liquid in stretched blue pyramids descending on the yard. Soon the windows streaked so thick you could no longer trace your name. The house was full of drip: the chimney glutted; the ceiling leaking; the sinks overflowed a new pool on the carpet. What books could have been written with this excess. What squid would hide from light. Out on the back porch the level rose to lap the welcome mat. You couldn’t see into the street. Everything clogged and burped and sopping. The surface reflected whatever peered into it. Overhead some sound like choking: gooed helicopters, gummy birds. The seas were heavy somewhere. I scratched my cheek and half-expected the unctuous gleam to come pouring out of me. Instead: my blood, several shades of brown. I slept what hours I could manage. I waited to wake up to