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Baggage: Outtakes

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Garcia will tell you shes a city girl born and bred. She doesn't like quiet. Nature spirits make her nervous. Phoenix suits her; its full of walls and ceilings, air conditioning, lines drawn between people and nature.

The thunderbird called her out, though, and you didn't say no to that.

She can see the storm coming miles away. There's nothing but dirt and empty space between them and she imagines she can smell rain and ozone long before she should be able to.

The egg is light as paper and gives her a shock when she touches it. As the storm creeps forward, she takes it from the basket and holds it in front of her. Thunder greets it, and she knows she did the right thing.

The wind comes first, raking dust across her face until she fumbles for sunglasses. Her skin is raw in moments. The rain starts and the temperature drops fifteen degrees. She shivers, but she doesn't flinch as the water whips through her clothes.

Lightning cracks through the air around her. The last flash bathes her in light and her hands are empty.

She runs for Susan's car, wet and aching for her claustrophobic city.