The Ice Cream Stand by Kelleigh Cram

I am lost, searching this beach for hours to find our Airbnb. There was some kind of accident, you were hurt, but the details are fuzzy, tapping through my subconscious like a toddler poking aquarium glass. An ice cream stand forms out of the fog in front of me like a mirage, its features sharpening the closer I get. It looks familiar, so I must be getting close. The guy working the counter is hidden behind a large newspaper.

He pulls the paper down to reveal the slits of his eyes, full of floaters cracking in and out like TV static. When he speaks, it’s like we are talking through handheld radios, his voice right up to my ear.

“711,467,” he says, showing me his coin-slot mouth.

I hand him a quarter and frantically read the headlines, knowing one of the articles will tell me what happened to us. It has to be here, but I can’t find it. The words start to blur, morphing into jagged number tallies like scars with four hasty stitches. They continue on and on, down every page, counting to infinity. The paper cracks in my hand, its texture brittle as moth wings, dust flying up and making me cough. Ink smears from the oil of my fingertips, the tallies melting into streaks of black rain.

Then, in the classifieds: Help Wanted. Cashier needed at local ice cream shop.

A man approaches and I gaze at him over the paper.

“711,468,” I say.