The morning air in the Arizona desert was cool and sharp, a reprieve from the heat that would soon arrive with the sun. Michael Yazzie rolled his shoulders as he tightened his gloves, the chill of the pre-dawn air clinging to his skin. It was just past 4:00 a.m., and the construction site was already alive with the sounds of shifting gears, shouted instructions, and the rhythmic thud of hammers.

  The foreman’s truck sat idling at the edge of the site, its headlights casting long beams across the dirt and unfinished walls of the housing development. This was the best time to work—before the sun turned the desert into a furnace. By noon, they’d all be gone, heading home to escape the worst of the heat.

  Michael adjusted his hard hat and climbed into the cab of the backhoe loader. His hands moved automatically over the controls, the rumble of the engine and the sharp scrape of the bucket against the earth as familiar to him as breathing.

  “Yazzie, dig out that trench by lot four!” the foreman shouted over the growl of machinery.

  Michael raised a hand in acknowledgment, steering the loader toward the marked area. The rhythm of work settled into his muscles, pushing aside the usual swirl of thoughts about bills, his siblings, and the endless grind of days that blurred into each other.

  And then the engine died.

  The silence was jarring, cutting through the steady hum of the site like a knife. Michael frowned, turning the key in the ignition. Nothing. He flipped a few switches, tapped the fuel gauge, and muttered a curse under his breath.

  Across the site, other machines sputtered and stalled. The cement mixer slowed to a halt, its drum frozen mid-rotation. A crane jerked to a stop, its load swaying precariously before settling.

  “Hey! What’s going on?” someone shouted.

  The foreman climbed out of his truck, waving his arms. “What the hell is this? Everyone check your gear!”

  Michael climbed down from the loader, his boots crunching on the dirt. He pulled his phone from his pocket to check the time, but the screen stayed black.

  “What the…” He held the power button, waiting for the usual glow of the screen. Nothing.

  Around him, other workers were doing the same, holding up phones and shaking them as though that might coax them back to life. The foreman grabbed his radio, barking into it, but no sound came through.

  “Everything’s dead,” someone said, their voice tinged with disbelief.

  A shadow moved overhead, and Michael looked up just in time to see a helicopter wobbling unsteadily in the sky. The sound of its rotors was faint and uneven, like a record slowing down.

  “Look!” someone yelled, pointing.

  The chopper dipped, spiraling downward. It hit the ground a few miles away, a plume of smoke rising into the pale light of dawn.

  *

  The foreman’s truck wouldn’t start, nor would the other vehicles parked on-site. Michael leaned against the loader, his arms crossed as he watched the others scramble to make sense of the situation.

  “All right, everyone, pack it up!” the foreman shouted. “Head home. We’ll figure this out later.”

  “How?” someone muttered. “Our cars aren’t working.”

  Michael grabbed his bag from the cab of the loader and slung it over his shoulder. His house was about ten miles away, not far off the main highway—not an easy walk, but not impossible either. He glanced at the rising sun, already beginning to tint the horizon a pale gold.

  “I’m walking,” he said, more to himself than anyone else. He adjusted the strap on his bag and started toward the highway, leaving the confused voices and stalled machinery behind him.

  The desert was quiet in a way Michael had never experienced before. Normally, there’d be the hum of distant traffic or the faint crackle of a radio in the background. Now, there was only the soft whisper of the wind over the sand and the occasional rustle of a lizard darting through the brush.

  The early morning light painted the landscape in muted tones, long shadows stretching across the dirt road. Michael took a sip from his water bottle, the warm plastic taste barely registering as he scanned the horizon.

  He thought of his mom and siblings, wondering if they’d noticed anything strange yet. His mom usually woke early to make breakfast and pack lunches for Sam and Kenzie. She’d probably be sitting on the porch by now, her coffee in hand, watching the sky brighten.

  Michael quickened his pace.

  *

  When he reached the Flying J station a few miles down the road, he saw a small crowd gathered by the pumps. People were yelling, their voices sharp and angry in the still air.

  “What do you mean there’s no gas?” one man shouted, slamming his hand on the counter.

  The attendant, a wiry young guy with sweat beading on his forehead, raised his hands defensively. “The pumps don’t work! Nothing’s working!”

  Michael skirted the edge of the group, keeping his head down. He didn’t have time for this.

  “Hey, you got anything?” a man called out, stepping toward him.

  Michael glanced at him, his expression hardening. “No.”

  The man muttered something under his breath but didn’t follow. Michael kept walking, his grip tightening on the strap of his bag.

  The sun was climbing higher by the time Michael reached his house. The small, single-story building stood not far outside the borders of the Navajo nation, its peeling paint and rusted gutters a testament to years of weathering the harsh desert climate.

  Sam and Kenzie were sitting on the shaded porch steps, their faces anxious. Sam stood up as soon as he saw Michael, his expression shifting to relief.

  “You’re back!” Sam said, running up to him.

  Michael ruffled his little brother’s hair, his lips quirking into a faint smile. “Of course I’m back. And dead tired after that walk. What’s going on?”

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  Their mom stepped out onto the porch, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Nothing’s working,” she said quietly. “No AC. No anything. The pump, the stove, the phones… everything just stopped.”

  Michael nodded, setting his bag down by the door. “Yeah. Same thing at the site.”

  Kenzie looked up at him, her voice small. “Is it going to be okay?”

  Michael glanced at his mom, who watched him with quiet expectation. He could feel the weight of their trust, their hope, pressing down on him.

  “Yeah,” he said finally. “We’ll figure it out.”

  But as he looked up at the cloudless sky, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was only the beginning.

  *

  The morning came too quietly. Michael woke before the sun, the gray light of dawn just beginning to spill through the windows. The silence in the house was unnerving. Normally, there’d be the hum of the refrigerator, the whir of the AC and faint buzz of the ceiling fans, or the radio his mom played while making breakfast. Now, there was nothing but the rustle of wind outside and the soft creaks of the old wooden floor.

  He stretched his legs off the couch, where he’d slept to keep close to the front door. The knife he’d taken to carrying sat on the floor beside him. He picked it up and slid it into his pocket, the weight of it an uneasy comfort.

  In the kitchen, his mom was standing at the counter, looking worried. “Still no power. The food in the fridge is gonna spoil if this goes on much longer.” His younger siblings, Sam and Kenzie, sat at the small table, both unusually quiet.

  “Morning,” Michael said, his voice breaking the stillness.

  His mom glanced at him and offered a faint smile. “Morning. You slept okay?”

  “Not really.” He sat down and eyed the two small cups of coffee she’d made. One was pushed toward him.

  “I boiled two bottles worth of water in the firepit out back,” his mom explained.

  He nodded his thanks and took a sip, the bitter taste sharper than usual.

  Kenzie pushed a half-empty bag of bread across the table. “Breakfast,” she said quietly.

  Michael opened it and frowned. Six slices. “This all we have left?”

  Sam looked up. “What about the rice?”

  Their mom sighed. “There’s some rice and beans, but not much. Enough for a few days. We’ll need to make it last.”

  Michael leaned back, staring at the ceiling. He could feel the weight of their expectations pressing down on him. He’d been the one holding things together since his dad just up and left two years ago, during Michael’s senior year at school.

  “We’ll be fine,” he said, his voice steadier than he felt. “We’ll find out what’s going on, figure something out.”

  *

  Later that morning, Michael decided to check on the neighbors. It wasn’t something he wanted to do—he’d rather focus on his own family—but he couldn’t shake the sense that isolation would make things worse.

  “Sam, come with me,” he said, grabbing a water bottle and slinging his bag over his shoulder. “We need to go find out what’s happening. We can start by checking with the Atcittys.”

  Sam looked up from where he was sitting cross-legged on the floor. “Why me?”

  “Because you need to learn how to handle stuff like this,” Michael said, his tone firm.

  Sam groaned but got up, shoving his hands into his pockets as he followed Michael out the door.

  The air was cool, the sun just starting to climb over the horizon. The dirt road leading to their neighbors’ house was lined with patches of sagebrush and the occasional juniper tree. In the distance, a hawk circled lazily against the pale blue sky.

  “Do you think the lights will come back on soon?” Sam asked, kicking a rock as they walked.

  Michael glanced at him. “I don’t know. Maybe. But we can’t wait around for it. We have to take care of ourselves.”

  Sam didn’t respond, his expression turning sullen. Michael sighed but didn’t push it.

  *

  The Atcittys, a weathered older couple, were sitting on their porch when Michael and Sam arrived. The couple waved as they approached, though their smiles didn’t quite reach their eyes.

  “Michael, Sam,” Mr. Atcitty said, standing up and dusting off his pants. “Good to see you boys.”

  “You too,” Michael replied, shaking his hand. “Everything okay here?”

  Mrs. Atcitty shrugged, her thin frame looking even smaller in the oversized chair she sat in. “As okay as it can be, I guess. No news, no power. Radio doesn’t work. It’s… strange.”

  Michael nodded. “We came to check in,” he said. “Make sure you’re doing alright.”

  Mr. Atcitty gave him a tired smile. “We’re managing. For now, anyway. Got some dried fruit and meat, a few cans of soup, and a jug of water. You and your family holding up?”

  “We’re alright,” Michael said. “Same as everyone, I guess. Just trying to figure out what the hell’s going on.”

  The Atcittys offered them some dried apples, but Michael declined, thanking them and making a mental note of their limited resources. They were good people, but they wouldn’t be able to hold out long if things got worse.

  *

  On the way back home, Michael noticed smoke rising in the distance, far off to the west toward Winona. It was faint but unmistakable, a thin black line against the brightening sky.

  “Is that a fire?” Sam asked, squinting at the horizon.

  “Probably,” Michael said. “Could be anything, though. A car, a building…”

  Sam stopped walking. “Should we go check it out?”

  Michael shook his head. “No. We don’t know what’s out there, and we don’t need to get involved in someone else’s mess.”

  Sam frowned but didn’t argue.

  As they neared their house, Michael spotted someone walking along the road ahead. The man was tall and broad, carrying a heavy bag slung over one shoulder. He walked with his head down, his steps slow and deliberate.

  Michael stopped, his hand drifting toward the knife in his pocket. “Stay behind me,” he said quietly to Sam.

  Sam’s eyes widened and he quickly shuffled behind his older brother.

  The man glanced up as they got closer but didn’t say anything. His face was weathered, his eyes wary. He nodded once at Michael and kept walking, his pace never changing.

  “Who was that?” Sam asked once the man was out of earshot.

  Michael shook his head. “No idea. Just someone trying to get somewhere, I guess.”

  Sam looked back over his shoulder. “You think he was dangerous?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. But in times like this, we better be ready for anything,” Michael said.

  *

  That evening, Michael sat on the porch, staring out at the darkening sky. The stars were brighter than he’d ever seen them, sharp pinpricks of light in a sky so black it felt endless.

  The weight of the day settled on his shoulders. The Atcittys, the smoke, the stranger—they all added up to a world that felt less stable with every passing hour. He thought about his dad, about how easily he’d left them behind, and wondered if the man had ever felt this kind of pressure.

  Michael leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He was so lost in thought that the sound of footsteps on the gravel didn’t register at first.

  When he did hear it, his body tensed. He stood, peering into the darkness, his hand instinctively going to his knife.

  “Who’s there?” he called, his voice low and steady.

  The footsteps stopped, and for a moment, there was only silence. Then a voice answered, calm and familiar: “Relax, Yazzie. It’s us.”

  Michael frowned as three figures stepped into the faint light of the porch. Gabe Tso, Jonah Begay, and Elena Begay.

  “Long time, huh?” Gabe said with a grin, but Michael barely noticed him. His eyes were on Elena, her dark hair pulled back, her expression cautious but kind.

  “What are you guys doing here?” Michael asked, his voice sharper than he intended.

  Elena spoke up. “Elder Nez wanted us to check on the families nearby, make sure everyone’s alright.”

  Michael stared at her, his mind scrambling to process her presence. The last time they’d spoken, she’d broken up with him, saying it wasn’t the right time for either of them. And now, here she was, standing on his porch like no time had passed at all.

  “Come in,” he said finally, stepping aside. “You might as well tell me what’s going on.”

  As they walked inside, Michael couldn’t shake the knot in his chest. The world was falling apart, and now Elena was back. He wasn’t sure if that made things better—or worse.