Free Hour of the Bees by Lindsay Eagar

she did, like an eagle perched on a crag, strong in the uncertainty of midnight’s shadows
.
    When his own family called him home, he leapt into the lake, arms flailing. As he plunged under the chilly water, he pictured Rosa, splayed bleeding on the rocks, vultures circling overhead
.
    And as usual, he was terrified
.

“Rise and shine, girls! Breakfast!”
    Mom’s call comes five minutes after I fall asleep. At least that’s how it feels. The disorientation of waking up in a strange new place hits me like a volleyball in gym class. Instead of my crisp white bedroom walls, I open my eyes to a poster of some ancient band called U2. Crackles in the blue ceiling reach out to the corners, like spindly tree branches.
    Where am I?
    “Girls?” Mom pokes her head into the room, and I remember. The ranch. Dad’s old bedroom. Serge. Bees.
    Bees. I dreamed of bees. They’re following me, even when I sleep.
    I sit up, so Mom sees I’m awake.
    “Morning, hon,” she says, a smear of flour across her forehead. “Breakfast is ready. Come eat, Alta.”
    The lump known as Alta grunts.
    “You have ten minutes to get up and dressed, or your phone stays in my pocket all day.” Mom’s warning to my sister may seem harsh, but my family knows not to underestimate Alta’s sleeping-in abilities. A zombie apocalypse could start and Alta would snooze right through it. She’d be so zonked, the zombies would mistake her for one of their own.
    How is the desert already preheated and ready for baking at eight o’clock in the morning? The warmth seeps through the walls, dry and oppressive. I’m already sticky with sweat. I kick off the sleeping bag like it’s suffocating me.
    I remember last night: Dad’s truck woke me, and there were stars, and snakes, and a bloody sheep’s head . . .
    There was Serge’s story, about the tree and the lake and the children, Rosa and Sergio.
    Funny that he used his and Grandma’s names in the story. Funny, and also sad; he misses Grandma Rosa so much that she creeps into his fictional world.
    My phone vibrates with a message from Gabby.
Raging Waters day! It sucks that you aren’t here. :P :(
    A picture tries to download but stalls. Reception at the ranch flickers more than Serge’s memory. I know what the picture will show, anyway: Gabby and Sofie squinting in their striped tankinis, sunscreened head to toe, both of them hovering near Manny in the first row of the group shot.
    Raging Waters day is for kids who graduate sixth grade. A bus picks them up in the morning, and they swim and talk and play at the water park until closing time.
    I wonder if my friends left my space empty, the spot I usually occupy in photos, right between them, since I’m the shortest.
    I peck out my reply to Gabby with extra force in my fingers.
I know :( Eat a mango-tango snow cone for me
.
    Is it going to be like this all summer? My friends send me updates on all the fun things I’m missing, and I start every morning in a jealous haze? And then, a worse thought:
How long until they forget to send me updates at all? Until they forget me?
    You’ll get caught up
, I reassure myself.
Two months at the ranch. Then junior high will be here, and you and Sofie and Gabby will pick up right where you left off
.
    I almost convince myself.
    Almost.
    I get dressed and leave Alta to face the harsh reality of morning alone. The divine smell of breakfast leads me to the kitchen. Mom’s cooking again, apron tied around her middle, whipping up another gourmet Mexican meal from scratch: spinach omelets,
pan dulce
, and fresh spiced chorizo.
    Mom waits until I’ve got a mouthful of cheesy eggs before she says, “I need you to help Serge in the barn today.”
    Suddenly my food tastes of bribery. “Aw, Mom,” I say.
    “Serge says the sheep need to be dosed and sheared.” Mom flips another perfectly symmetrical omelet onto a plate, a delicious bribe for some other unsuspecting soul.
    “But I don’t know how to do any of that sheep