Brandon slept deeply through the night. He did not wander. He did not sketch mad pictures choked with cragged lines and shifting shadows. Each time he stirred in his sleep, Mercy eased his dreams with a touch.
Brandon felt thankful for the surge in energy the next day. The paths twisting through the salvage grew more narrow. The edges turned sharper.
Mercy recognized the peril. Rather than look for treasures, she kept her eyes open for any dangers Brandon might have missed. Dead-ends often forced them to retrace their steps. Both felt the bite of stacked steel. Mercy bore the cuts stoically, for she often felt Brandon’s body shudder as result of some gash suffered at the vanguard, and she knew he would spill more blood than she in search of a mythic heart to the salvage yard.
Brandon’s pace slowed in the early afternoon. Mercy followed his stare at the ground, and she too recognized how their footprints told how they walked in circles.
“We’re lost.” Brandon kicked at the ground, throwing dust into both of their eyes.
Mercy swiveled but could not guess how one direction might be better than another. “Do you think we could be trapped?”
“I don’t know,” Brandon answered. “Getting lost feels just as bad. I didn’t make enough sandwiches, and the peanut butter makes us so thirsty.”
Mercy closed her eyes and refused to think about crying. She refused to think about running. She would hold on to faith rather than to fear. An army of uncles had believed there was a heart amid all the piles. Something inspired Brandon’s dream to walk him in his sleep and move his fingers to sketch paths through shifting mazes. Mercy would believe in magic instead of fear. The salvage yard had to contain a heart, and Mercy suddenly thought she might know how to uncover it.
“Let me consider the awning map again.”
Brandon rolled his eyes. “We’ve been over everything that might be a trail.”
“I know,” Mercy nodded. “We just need to let the lines shift again. We just need to shake it and show some faith.”
Mercy grabbed a corner of the awning with each hand, stretching her arms as wide as able. Before Brandon realized what she planned, Mercy snapped the awning in the air like one might snap a blanket when making the bed. The lines etched in rust leapt into air and left the awning erased and white. Brandon stammered, but as he watched, the motes of rust hovered in the air and gathered into a swirling cloud. The cloud shifted into complex, three dimensional shapes as the cloud twisted so quickly as to throw off orange sparks in its friction. The swirling stopped in a flash, and the rust shimmered. Mercy stretched the awning upon the ground beneath the cloud, and in a blink of an eye, the rust fell from the air.
“Do you see it?” Brandon was amazed at the new awning map that stretched at their feet, pointing at the new collection of shapes and lines.
“I do!” Mercy clapped her hands.
Brandon hugged Mercy. “That space has never been there before!”
A large circle of empty space rested in the redrawn map’s center. Not a single particle of rust smudged the oval. Not a line bisected its dimensions. The shape nearly glowed for its clean absence of grime. All the map’s paths and twisting trails led to that open center.
“What do you think it is?” Brandon whispered.
Mercy winked. “I don’t think you have to ask me.”
Brandon kissed her. “I only trust your imagination better than mine. You find such treasures in all of my piles of salvage.”
Mercy beamed. “And we’re still surrounded by those sharp piles. Pick up that map and let’s get going. Let’s see what’s waiting in the heart of this yard before you try to kiss me another time.”
Brandon held no haste back from his legs and continued deeper into the salvage, discovering new turns and trails where they swore there had earlier been walls. The paths widened. The sharp edges retreated from their skin. The overhanging smog of dust started to dissipate, and the air tasted fresher than Brandon had ever known. The map became easier to read as Brandon and Mercy unraveled the knots of their journey. They felt confident they neared the yard’s elusive center.
“We should be standing at the edge of the circle,” Brandon suddenly stopped and Mercy bumped into his back. “But where is it? We’re so close. That magic with the rust can’t be so cruel.”
Mercy stared at the wall of salvage that blocked them.
“Look!” Her heart raced. “Look at that aluminum panel. There’s a corner upturned at the bottom. Sunlight is streaming through the space. We could bend it and make room for us to crawl through.”
The salvage yard had bitten Brandon over his lifetime. So many rebar corners and slivers of rusting steel tasted his blood’s flavor. His ancestors’ sharp acres showed him little kindness. His skin bore the scars. For once, however, those edges showed him a little compassion. Though his fingers pulled hastily at the aluminum, and though his hands clamped the edges so tightly, the salvage that he grasped left no laceration upon Brandon’s skin. Brandon pulled aside the aluminum panel with a hissing sound of grating rust as sunlight streamed into his eyes.
Brandon gazed through the space and his soul ignited. He thought of his uncles, and though he never felt such joy, Brandon fell to his knees and wept.
“What is it, Brandon?’
Brandon turned to her with glowing eyes. “It’s so much color.”