Dana Lustery | ((better))

Dana reads the note seventeen times. She runs a linguistic analysis against an old letter Leo had written her mother. It’s a 99.7% match. The impossible is, by definition, not possible. And yet, the oranges are on her counter.

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. dana lustery

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. Dana reads the note seventeen times

She makes a decision that is, for her, more terrifying than any orange: she chooses the unknown. The impossible is, by definition, not possible

She disposes of the orange in the chute, sanitizes the counter, and runs a diagnostic on her lock.

She changes her locks. She installs a discreet interior camera. The footage shows nothing. Between 2:17 AM and 2:19 AM, the air in her kitchen seems to shimmer —a single frame of pixel distortion—and then the orange is simply there , as if it had always been.