Thousand: Seven Hundred Four

The closer they get to it, the more the voices make sense, even though they say things like, “The mail burns the French horn with a haberdashery persistence,” and “Flunking the parliamentary math capitulates among escalation routines the retrograde marigold paddle.” Yes, the girl thinks, scratching an ear. Of course, it would. When she feels the mist from the fountain on her cheek the hall comes to a T with another. Daylight pours through broad, unglassed openings in the wall. “Here, Eula,” says a voice. It sounds familiar. “Ever been up a tree?” A smiling man in desert robes winks