The world around us changed.
The hillside dissolved.
The stream vanished.
The city below us became a smear of silver light.
I felt as if I were falling without moving.
Then I stood in a field at the end of day.
The grass rose like green pillars. Flowers, enormous and luminous, their petals curved like colored sails. The sky had softened into amber and rose. The last light of evening moved through the field as if the sun itself were reluctant to leave.
Two young bees flew through the flowers.
They were tiny.
Not tiny the way a bee is tiny to us.
Tiny the way children are tiny in relation to the world.
They darted between the blossoms, clumsy with joy, chasing one another through the warm evening air.
One of them tumbled into a cloud of pollen and emerged golden and indignant.
The other laughed.
I did not hear the laughter with my ears.
I felt it.
“Children?” I asked.
“Yes,” Elian said.
Her voice came from beside me, though I could not see her.
The sky darkened.
A wind moved through the field.
The flowers began closing for the night.
One petal folded inward.
Then another.
The great blossoms, which had seemed so open and welcoming moments before, slowly drew themselves shut.
The two young bees stopped playing.
The first drop of rain fell.
It struck a leaf with the force of a thrown stone.
Then another.
Then hundreds.
The storm arrived with terrifying speed.
To a human being, rain is weather.
To something small enough, rain is artillery.
The two young bees fought the wind.
One was blown sideways, tumbling helplessly toward the darkening grass.
The other chased after her.
He caught her hand.
Together they struggled toward a flower that was already closing for the night.
The blossom was folding inward petal by petal.
Behind them the storm raced across the field.
The first heavy drops exploded against leaves.
Then came dozens more.
Hundreds.
The sky seemed to collapse into water.
“They aren’t going to make it,” I said.
“Watch,” Elian replied.
The tiny bees flew harder.
The flower narrowed.
The opening became a slit.
The rain was almost upon them.
For one terrible second I was certain they would arrive too late.
Then both children dove forward.
They vanished between the petals.
The flower closed completely.
A heartbeat later the storm struck.
Rain hammered the blossom.
The stem bent nearly to the ground.
Water streamed down its sides.
The flower swayed violently in the wind.
“What happens now?” I asked.
“Now they wait.”
“Inside?”
“Yes.”
I watched the flower shake under the assault of the storm.
“Can you see them?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know they’re all right?”
Elian turned toward me.
“Why do you assume I do?”
“Because you’re being annoyingly calm.”
“That is not evidence.”
“It’s the best I’ve got.”
The flower bent again beneath the rain.
“Seriously,” I said. “What’s happening inside?”
“You could ask.”
“Ask who?”
“The flower.”
I stared at her.
“The flower.”
“Yes.”
“The plant.”
“Yes.”
“The vegetable.”
“Flowers are not vegetables.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.”
“I doubt it speaks English.”
“It does not.”
“Then I don’t think we’re going to have much of a conversation.”
Elian looked genuinely puzzled.
“You do not speak Flower?”
“Most medical schools skipped that elective.”
For a moment I thought she might actually believe me.
Then she stepped toward the blossom.
The storm continued raging around it.
She gently touched one petal.
Not with force.
Not with technology.
Just a touch.
The flower vibrated.
A low hum moved through its stem.
The petals trembled.
For several seconds the vibration continued.
Then it stopped.
Elian nodded.
“What did it say?” I asked.
“The children are safe.”
I blinked.
“That’s it?”
“What more do you require?”
“Details.”
“Humans always require details.”
“Occupational hazard.”
The vibration returned briefly.
Elian listened.
A softness came into her expression.
“What now?” I asked.
“The flower says the little female is frightened.”
“And?”
“The little male is holding her.”
The storm continued to pound the blossom.
Yet somehow it no longer seemed fragile.
“Anything else?”
Elian smiled.
It was the smallest smile I had seen from her.
“Yes.”
“What?”
“The flower says they have fallen asleep in each other’s arms.”
The storm raged on through the night.
Rain battered the petals.
The stem bent low.
The wind howled across the field.
But the flower held.
And somewhere inside its living walls, two tiny children slept.
Slowly the darkness softened.
The rain weakened.
The wind lowered its voice.
Beyond the horizon, dawn arrived.
A faint golden light touched the flower.
The blossom stirred.
One petal opened.
Then another.
Then another.
Morning unfolded the flower the same way evening had closed it.
Patiently.
Carefully.
Like a gift being unwrapped.
I found myself leaning forward.
Inside the flower sat the two young bees.
Alive.
Safe.
Still touching.
They blinked at the morning sunlight.
Neither seemed eager to let go.
The little female smiled first.
The little male looked embarrassed.
Then both of them laughed.
Moments later they launched themselves into the clean morning air.
The storm was gone.
The flower had opened.
The children had survived the night.
The field slowly faded.
The hillside returned.
Los Angeles glittered below us.
My hand was still in Elian’s.
For once, I did not pull away.
“Did they survive?” I asked.
Elian looked at me for a long moment.
“Obviously.”
“How do you know?”
Her eyes remained on the distant horizon.
For the first time since I had met her, Elian looked very young. “Because I was one of them.”