I leaned into the wind as I walked beside my mother. She held her large tote bag over her right shoulder, pinned between us as we held hands. There was no point in talking. The wind howled through the streets and would steal any words we spoke.

The streets were practically empty. Only a few figures, wearing clothes much the same as us, hurried down the small roadway. They kept to the edges of the road, and rushed along with their heads down. On a normal day, vehicles would be zipping through the streets. The edges of the road would be full of pedestrians hurrying off to work.

Now it was just us, the wind, and the godforsaken sand. It pelted us relentlessly, tap tapping on the canvas that cocooned us. I was grateful for my goggles.

I glanced around the familiar street as we walked. The residential buildings were all much the same as the one Mom and I lived in. Cold, angular concrete and steel doors, windows made of thick glass. The only real difference between them was the number of floors.

The buildings were between two and five floors. They lined both sides of the street. We passed the occasional vehicle parked out front, crammed into any crevice that would keep it clear of the main road. Most were hover scooters, able to carry one or two people at most. Only someone desperate or insane would try to ride one of those in a sandstorm. Maybe one day I'd get one of my own...

There were narrow alleys between the apartment buildings. The roads in this part of town were unpaved. Hard packed sand crunched under our boots instead. It always made the sandstorms seem worse. There was a haze over everything here when they passed through. The wind would pick up speed in the alleys and blast passers by with a fresh, fast spray of sand. Life was put on pause most of the time when a sandstorm blew through. For most of the town, anyway.

Our destination was coming up. It was a two story building that sat back from the road. A small cactus garden was planted out front. Local species were most abundant, but there were a few cacti that had been brought back from a trip by one townsperson or another, or bartered for from a passing trader. There was a bench to either side of the main door, and a pair of small patio tables on a slab of concrete opposite the garden. Someone had the foresight to secure the matching chairs and take the umbrellas in before the storm, it seemed. This lovely building was the smallest residence in town, having only five apartments on each floor.

As we turned up the path to the door, I felt my mom squeeze my hand three times. I smiled beneath my mask before returning the gesture. It was how Mom told me she loved me.

Soon enough, we were inside the entryway. I slid my goggles down to hang around my neck and unwound the scarf from my head. I bounced impatiently on my toes while I waited for the door to seal behind me. It was closed, but the wind was still forcing its way in around the edges. I could see our destination through the inner glass door.

The small hallway was illuminated by a pair of rectangular lights. The short carpet had seen better days. There was a dark gray path worn down the center of the carpet. I thought it might have been black originally. The walls were painted an off-white color. I could see places where repairs had been made, then repainted with not quite the right shade. There were two gray doors on each side of the passage, with a black door at the end. Immediately to the left of the entryway was a propped open beige door. It led to a standard concrete staircase with painted metal railings. This building didn't have an elevator.

The outer door finished hissing and I bolted through the glass door in front of me. I shot straight to the second door on the right. After landing neatly on the flowered doormat, I began knocking on the door. It was a fast, but steady rap.

My mother stepped up beside me - having taken a leisurely stroll down the hallway - just as the door opened a tiny crack. I could see a small shadow through the crack, studying me and Mom from head to toe. There was a small, pleased chirp, and then the door closed.

I looked up at Mom, confused. I lifted my hand to knock again, but before I could, the door snapped open with a loud thunk.

I jumped half a step backwards on reflex.

"Fiona, darling!" A short woman, barely taller than me, stood in the doorway with her arms wide.

I jumped the threshold and lept into her flabby, grandmotherly arms. She was well fed, but not overly indulged.

She had short, curly gray hair, just starting to show the first flecks of white. Her wrinkled skin served as a testament to the trials she'd faced in her nearly seventy years on Caltrox. Her lively blue eyes had seen a lot in their lifetime, but still held their spark.

The woman was dressed simply. A powder blue housecoat was fastened over a pair of loose black sweatpants. She had on a pair of fleece-lined footwear - really more house shoe than slipper. Her thin-rimmed glasses hung from a delicate chain around her neck. I'd never seen her wear much jewelry. Today she sported a simple pair of opal earrings that danced in the light. As always, there was a plain silver band around the third finger on her left hand.

If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

"Ohhhhh, I've missed you!" said the woman. She squeezed me tightly.

"I missed you too, Ms. Reba." I replied, struggling to get the words out. I didn't mind it, and I squeezed back as hard as I was able to.

After a few long seconds, Ms. Reba released me and looked over my head. "To what do I owe this pleasure?" She asked Mom. "I wasn't expecting a visit from Fiona until next week." She grinned. A top tooth was missing near the corner of her smile. I knew she had a favorite.

Mom began to tug the bag off her shoulder so she could deliver Ms. Reba's order.

"Oh no! Where are my manners?" Ms. Reba stepped back from the doorway. "Come in!" She gestured frantically.

I walked further into the apartment and my mom followed. She resettled the straps of the tote bag on her shoulder as she entered. I was two thirds of the way to the kitchen when I heard several hard taps followed by fussing. I turned around to see what was going on.

"Oh come on, you silly thing." Ms. Reba grumbled, half under her breath. "Work!" She tried several combinations of buttons on the door controls, but nothing happened. The door remained wide open.

"Would you like some help with that, Mrs. Henry?" Mom offered.

As soon as she'd gotten the statement out, the door slid closed with a hydraulic whir. It was followed by another loud thunk as it struck the doorframe. That wasn't normal.

Ms. Reba turned around with a satisfied look and a shrug. "It always closes for me eventually."

Mom looked extremely confused. "Does it do that often?" She asked.

Ms. Reba replied as she headed past me, towards her small kitchen. "More so as of late, but I manage."

"Have you talked to maintenance?"

"No, no, those boys are busy enough with more important things. I don't want to be a bother." She waved her hand dismissively, her back still towards us.

Mom backtracked to the door panel and set her bag down. She tapped the touch screen and began flipping through the settings. She was probably looking for a log or something.

Behind her, Ms. Reba picked up a clean dish towel and shook it out. She doubled it up and laid it across her right hand before reaching for the oven door with her left. She opened it and maneuvered her towel covered hand inside, removing a baking sheet.

I don't know how I hadn't smelled the perfectly toasted blueberry scones earlier. There were six of them on the baking sheet, a light golden color with large dark spots throughout them. They smelled absolutely divine.

Ms. Reba placed the tray on the stovetop, swapping it with another that was ready for the oven. She opened a cabinet above the stove and pulled out a small, red ceramic pot with two tiny handles. She set the lid to the side. After that, she pinched a bit of the contents and sprinkled it over the top of the scones. She repeated this a few more times while my mother interrogated her about the door.

"How long has your camera been out?" Mom asked, an obvious note of concern in her voice. She was referring to the tiny video camera above the door that let you see who was outside.

"Hmm..." Ms. Reba paused to think. "Not that long. Since about Unity Day, I think."

I heard a small sigh. "That was over three months ago, Mrs. Henry. I'm going to submit a maintenance ticket for this whole system. " Mom said, using her don't-you-dare-argue-with-me-about-this Mom voice.

"You don't have to do that, dear. Let's just visit for a moment."

"I insist." Mom replied. She fished her handheld terminal from her bag on the floor. It looked a lot like mine, except it fit in the palm of her hand. She didn't need it for much. Mostly just for communication and the occasional video.

While Mom switched back and forth between the door control panel and her handheld terminal, I wandered the rest of the way to the kitchen. I pulled myself up into the middle, of three, tall chairs that sat behind Ms. Reba's kitchen island. It was my favorite spot in the whole apartment.

She didn't have a kitchen table, but she had more furniture than my apartment had ever had. Her kitchen was to the right of the door and back a little when you walked in. The kitchen island separated it from her parlor - as she called it. Her parlor contained a three person couch upholstered with light blue fabric. It had four square pillows, two of the same color and two of a pastel purple. Folded neatly across the back was a gray and white crocheted blanket.

There was a small end table to either side of the plush sofa. Each held a small lamp with a stained glass shade. One had a pink tulip design, and the other was some kind of purple flower. The end tables were identical and made out of metal. They had been painted to look like a dark brown wood. In front of the sofa, there was an oval rug with a pattern of pointed purple petal flowers. They were different from the ones on the lamp. A low coffee table rested on top of the rug. It too had been painted to look like wood. On the wall in front of this sitting area, there was a thin metal shelf. This stored Ms. Reba's large room terminal.

Against the far left wall, there was a second seating area with two black leather arm chairs. there was a small round table between them. It was reserved for grown up conversations only. There was a bookshelf with four shelves set against the wall behind one of the chairs. It was filled with hardcover books in all colors of the rainbow. Since most information was available via terminal, such a large collection of physical books was uncommon.

Scattered around the walls were another dozen or so shelves filled with knick knacks and small souvenirs. Ms. Reba sure did have a lot of stuff. Then again, I guess you had a lot of time to collect stuff when you got to live as long as she had.

There were two closed doors off of the parlor. One was the bathroom, and the other was her modest bedroom. I'd only ever gotten to peek in there once, and only for a second. I'd seen a bed big enough for two or three people, a long, low dresser with a big mirror, and an ancient rocking chair in the corner.

I loved visiting Ms. Reba. She always had interesting things to look at, or an entertaining story to tell. She never talked down to me either. She used the same sweet tone she did with my mom. She snuck me pocket candy every time she saw me, always with a wink and a finger pressed to her lips. If I was visiting while she was baking, she always, always had a sample just for me. Speaking of which, I could see one coming my way.