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him, probably put him into death throes, but he knew it could be done with the right amount of energy and time.
    A cautious look to Teresa, Martin sucked in a breath and drove out the mantle like an axe blade. Cacti along the road began to slide in half. Thomp , Thomp , Thhhuwump . The succulents leaned to every direction and dust clouds coughed up. A rapid-fire succession of new thomps sent green flesh spinning. With a hollow sounding punch, a fist of cactus struck the hood and buggered off the side.
    Teresa bolted up. “—the shit?”
    “I think a bird hit the van.”
    At once she slumped back over, closing her eyes. “Poor birdie.”
    Quick as light, Martin brought the mantle back, only three inches away from his window. He couldn’t see it, but felt it just outside. The transparent guillotine pulsed with activated heat. Even through the window he could feel the friction burn on its sharp edges. With an exhale, he launched it as far as his mind could track it, and then reeled it back—it was the flexing of a muscle. The more he did it, the better. Even if Teresa said building one drew unwanted attention, he had to practice for the 31 st . These mantles weren’t just used for barriers, after all. And he wasn’t going to lose another Heart of the Harvest. Not this year.
    Something roared beneath them. The steering wheel violently jammed to the left—Martin hardly heard the tire explode when his shoulder momentarily popped from the socket and bucked at the counterforce. The blowout had sent the van sideways. The tires shrieked and the desert shrugged to one side. Somewhere to his left, the mantle thinned into the atmosphere. A big rig’s horn blared another time. Martin’s hands sought power uselessly—the creation had thrown mud over his reflexes. He cried out, still spent from bringing the mantle. A thought trickled down his mind and into his heart. I can’t believe I did this to—
    —Teresa’s hand caught the steering wheel. The van jumped off the road, the truck rushed past, and the world jackknifed around in a sepia screech. Martin threw up his hands to block his head. He heard Teresa’s knuckles strike the van’s ceiling and she shouted so loud his ears rang. The radio had turned on and unintelligible music cut through the buzz of surprise.
    And as soon as it all happened, it stopped.
    The big rig had come to a stop a quarter mile up the road. The driver was probably emptying his pants out right about now, but nobody was hurt, no damage was done. Martin didn’t look over, but his heart lighted when he heard Teresa’s voice. It was sweet to hear the forgiveness in it, despite the ragged quality of her tone.
    “Goddamn tires were only a month old.”

FOUR
     
    They both fell asleep waiting for the tow truck. Martin had fought against dozing off, but with no spare tire, no radio reception, no outside world, there wasn’t anything left to do. It was strange how his dream took him to somewhere completely different and yet he never thought to question the absurdity. Sense no longer mattered. He drifted in a hot air balloon over eighteenth century London . Should he feel this was absurd? In the real world he possessed an ability few knew possible, so anything could happen; it was perfectly reasonable to suddenly be in a royal purple balloon, swinging over Baroque architecture. Forget rationalization—he was above everything; this was heaven.
    He curled into a tight ball in the corner of the balloon’s basket. The wind burned his face. There was a jet of fire overhead—it nosily blew upward. After brief inspection, Martin’s body stiffened. There were supposed to be sandbags in the basket. Weren’t there? Where were the sandbags? Didn’t he need those? How would he get down? This was a dream, so he shouldn’t care. But he did. He peered over the side. Buildings swam beneath. Above, a ripping sound went from east to west. His heart lashed out, caught in its cage. This balloon was deflating. Why had