The lack of sea ice forces the walruses to the bedrock where most fall victim to their own stampede, trampling each other and their pups. Would you rescue me if I suffocated under one thousand kilograms of blubber? I ask, but he’s tipsy from Maotai, jabbing at the gorilla glass screen, trying to fat finger a seven in a sudoku square. Several walruses climb up the slope, flopping over crumbling stones and jagged edges to avoid the overcrowding. He rubs his stomach with his free hand; I offer the bowl of bayberries, bumping elbows; he walks to the sink to gargle and spit—better out than in, he says, but I follow him to the kitchen to make sure he stays away from the chef’s knife whose blade once blew kisses down his arms. The walruses move out for mollusks; the desperate, for seal carcasses. The few at the mountain top slip—flippers built to grip ice instead of rock, short limbs designed to tuck inward rather than break a fall—one after the other hurtling down like lumps of sticky rice held together by bamboo leaves and a single piece of twine, until they hit the ground, rolling until friction leaves them limp at the feet of a polar bear. He falls asleep on my shoulder; I smell musty socks, cumin, pepper, sebum and sweat. The walruses who follow land like sacks of salt; every granule exits the same thin rip. They were not meant to climb such high heights to begin with, the narrator says as I lower the volume, pull the phone from his grip and rest him on the sofa, contemplating telling dad he’s here, he’s safe, he’s fine, I’ll drop him off at school tomorrow, he’ll be right up.
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Lucy Zhang writes, codes, and watches anime. Her work has appeared in Quarterly West, The Fourth River, New Orleans Review, and elsewhere, and was selected for Best Microfiction and Best Small Fictions. Her chapbook, HOLLOWED, is forthcoming in 2022 with Thirty West. Find her on Twitter @Dango_Ramen.