Dana - Lustery

Day three: same.

A hand—familiar, with the same scar across the knuckle from a childhood bike crash—reaches back.

“Dan. I know you hate mess. But I’m not dead. I’m not in Nebraska. I’m here, but ‘here’ isn’t a place you can GPS. I’ve been trying to reach you for 28 years. The oranges are the only things that travel well through the… well, I don’t have a word for it. The Rind. I call it the Rind. The space between the fruit and the peel. I found a door in a bus station bathroom in 1996. I’ve been walking ever since. These oranges are the only proof I can send that I’m still real. Please. I’m not asking you to believe. I’m asking you to remember the summer we tried to build a rocket out of a soda bottle and you cried because the flight path wasn’t straight. You were 9. You told me, ‘If you can’t aim it, don’t launch it.’ I’m launching this anyway. Meet me at the Greyhound station in Omaha. December 21st. 2:17 AM. Bring an orange.” dana lustery

The Gravity of Oranges

On a Tuesday in mid-November, Dana comes home from work. Her condo is immaculate. The air smells of the unscented candle she burns for exactly 45 minutes each evening. She hangs her coat, lines up her shoes, and walks into the kitchen. Day three: same

Dana, the woman who harmonizes global supply chains, cannot explain a piece of fruit.

At 11:00 PM on December 21st, Dana Lustery does not prepare for bed. She puts on her heaviest coat. She takes one of the fresher oranges from the counter—#61—and places it in her coat pocket. She does not drive. She takes a city bus, then a train. She arrives at the Greyhound station in Omaha at 1:45 AM. It smells of stale coffee, floor wax, and lost time. I know you hate mess

She did not buy an orange. She does not like oranges—they are messy, unpredictable in their sweetness, and their peels leave a sticky residue. Her grocery delivery is scheduled for Thursdays. The building’s key fob log shows no one entered her unit. The security camera in the hallway shows no delivery person.