Shownotes
The river has turned purple. Herman will know how to fix it; the only problem is that you’re still in love with him.
Today’s story is “Herman” by Coda, which first appeared in the Southern Humanities Review. Coda is a writer and marine biologist currently based on the Oregon Coast. You can find more of his stories on his Medium page.
Read for you by Rob MacWolf — werewolf hitchhiker.
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Transcripts
You’re listening to The Voice of Dog.
Speaker:This is Rob MacWolf, your fellow traveler,
Speaker:and Today’s story is
Speaker:“Herman” by Coda, which first appeared in the Southern Humanities Review.
Speaker:Coda is a writer and marine biologist currently based on the Oregon Coast.
Speaker:You can find more of his stories
Speaker:on his Medium page.
Speaker:Please enjoy “Herman”
Speaker:by Coda You’ve always considered yourself lucky
Speaker:to live in a city bisected by a large river,
Speaker:but recently the water has turned purple.
Speaker:It’s not a brilliant
Speaker:purple—in fact, it’s hardly noticeable
Speaker:—but water from the river is used to irrigate the pastures where your state’s cows graze.
Speaker:Something about their biology
Speaker:—the four stomachs or the chewing of cud, you’re not sure
Speaker:—concentrates the color,
Speaker:turning their milk
Speaker:lavender. This is how people notice at first.
Speaker:“Is it Purple Rain or Just a
Speaker:Sign o’ the Times?”
Speaker:your state’s newspaper boldly asks,
Speaker:but the article is locked behind a paywall.
Speaker:You wonder if anyone younger than you will get the Prince reference.
Speaker:You make a note on your phone to learn more about cow internal anatomy.
Speaker:Maybe the color could be a selling point for your city,
Speaker:you think, a quirky story to help forget the protests and the smashed windows and the smoke
Speaker:that turns the sky gray and the sun orange.
Speaker:Maybe if you tweet about it,
Speaker:you’ll finally go viral.
Speaker:But not now, later.
Speaker:Another note for your phone:
Speaker:Visit our city, the color of dreams.
Speaker:The mayor says the water,
Speaker:and the milk, are still safe to drink, but you don’t trust the mayor.
Speaker:You drive out to the Locks,
Speaker:and the sun watches you like the eye of a malevolent god.
Speaker:Herman will know what’s really going on with the river
Speaker:because he’s a sturgeon and because he’s the Gatekeeper of the Locks.
Speaker:You and Herman met in second grade.
Speaker:You grew up in the same small town, but you left for the city,
Speaker:and he stayed. He’s obscenely tall and
Speaker:could dunk even as a freshman.
Speaker:He was barred from your school’s basketball team for this reason; it just wouldn’t be fair.
Speaker:If they’d let him play, maybe he could have gotten out of this town on a scholarship.
Speaker:You wonder if he’s happy here,
Speaker:if he has regrets,
Speaker:or if he holds any grudges,
Speaker:but you know you should keep these musings to yourself.
Speaker:You park next to his little red truck.
Speaker:He could afford something nicer, but maybe he likes the way it looks.
Speaker:The house is small
Speaker:and rustic, not quite a log cabin but
Speaker:close enough to make you jealous.
Speaker:Even though it’s late in the season,
Speaker:his pink azaleas are in full bloom.
Speaker:When he opens the door,
Speaker:you notice he’s developed a bit of a belly.
Speaker:You say, “Hello Gatekeeper,”
Speaker:and he grins, “Hello Anadromous.”
Speaker:You’re not a fish,
Speaker:but “Hello Senior Public Relations Manager,” would sound depressing,
Speaker:and “anadromous” is true:
Speaker:You hunted downriver for things silvery and bright,
Speaker:and now you’ve traced the current home.
Speaker:He hugs you, wrapping his arms around your shoulders so that you feel like a child,
Speaker:and offers you a cold beer.
Speaker:Your long period of loneliness sloughs away
Speaker:like rotten flesh.
Speaker:The thirsty azaleas absorb it with their roots.
Speaker:You say, yes. Herman has a deck that overlooks the water.
Speaker:It’s not too hot today, and the smoke is high and thin.
Speaker:Together you recline and sip and
Speaker:look out over the withering, yellow maple trees to the river.
Speaker:You catch up on the goings-on of your town: who’s gotten divorced,
Speaker:whose kids are prodigies and whose are fuckups,
Speaker:all the usual scandals that mean nothing to anyone anywhere else.
Speaker:When you’re halfway through your beer,
Speaker:you ask about the water.
Speaker:He sighs. You wait.
Speaker:You knew that as soon as you said it, the reason for your visit would be obvious, but you couldn’t help it.
Speaker:“It’s the dam,” he finally says.
Speaker:He doesn’t look at you as he says this but instead out at the curved concrete wall that holds back the river
Speaker:and generates about a quarter of your city’s electricity.
Speaker:You imagine chemicals leaching into the water from its internal structures,
Speaker:the turbines made with spent uranium,
Speaker:or maybe there’s something in the concrete.
Speaker:“There’s a new algae growing in the lake behind the dam,”
Speaker:he explains. “Is it harmful?”
Speaker:You try not to let your disappointment show.
Speaker:“I don’t know.” “Where did it come from?”
Speaker:“Who knows?” You follow his gaze toward the dam,
Speaker:but your focus remains in your peripheral vision,
Speaker:on his body language.
Speaker:You seek some hint that he’s being intentionally
Speaker:evasive. He rubs the long scar on his neck absentmindedly.
Speaker:When he was younger,
Speaker:he worked as a professional sturgeon for the Locks’ aquarium.
Speaker:He lived in a gray, mucky tank with a few other fish,
Speaker:cruising back and forth,
Speaker:posing for selfies with the occasional disappointed tourist lured off the highway by a faded road sign’s promise:
Speaker:MEET A LIVING DINOSAUR TODAY.
Speaker:The work was dull,
Speaker:but the free housing meant he was able to save a lot of money in a relatively short period of time
Speaker:and purchase a home before the real estate market skyrocketed.
Speaker:One afternoon at the aquarium,
Speaker:while Herman was napping,
Speaker:someone jumped into his tank with a large folding knife and attacked him.
Speaker:Having thick skin and a slow metabolism, he wasn’t gravely injured, but you can imagine how those slashes must have hurt.
Speaker:The attacker went to court, of course,
Speaker:but couldn’t explain why he’d attacked Herman.
Speaker:It was a mindless compulsion.
Speaker:Since Herman survived,
Speaker:the man walked away with a $200 fine.
Speaker:Sturgeon fishing is allowed,
Speaker:after all, but he didn’t have a fishing license, and Herman was far over the legal size limit.
Speaker:“Do you think I should get a water filter?”
Speaker:you prod. You’re not sure if you can get anything more out of him.
Speaker:“The dam will have to come out.”
Speaker:He stands abruptly and walks inside.
Speaker:Soon he returns with two glasses of whiskey,
Speaker:a large, square ice cube in each.
Speaker:“Why will the dam have to come out?”
Speaker:“Algae is hard to kill.
Speaker:Poison it all you want, it’ll come back.
Speaker:The dam changed the river.
Speaker:Made it a good place for algae.
Speaker:Only way to get rid of the algae is to change the river back.”
Speaker:“But then you’d lose your job.
Speaker:And ships wouldn’t be able to come up the river.”
Speaker:He tilts his glass toward you and
Speaker:makes an affirmative click
Speaker:with his tongue. This whole time, he’s yet to make eye contact.
Speaker:You wonder what you’d see there,
Speaker:in those little black eyes,
Speaker:if he ever looked at you directly.
Speaker:“Do you still like to swim in the lake? Does the algae bother you?”
Speaker:“It’s a peculiar feeling.
Speaker:It sort of numbs the gills.
Speaker:I kind of like it.” “That doesn’t sound healthy.”
Speaker:He chuckles at this and sips his whiskey.
Speaker:“Sorry, I just . . . You know I care about you.
Speaker:I worry sometimes.
Speaker:It must be lonely out here.”
Speaker:He doesn’t react. The day is heating up, and a warm breeze is starting to flow up the canyon
Speaker:and into the high desert. “Have
Speaker:you ever been swimming in the nude?”
Speaker:he asks. “Skinny dipping? Never.”
Speaker:“It feels nice. You can float on your back,
Speaker:let the sun wander over everything.
Speaker:How often can you do that in the city?”
Speaker:“Not very often. Not at all.”
Speaker:He studies the canyon.
Speaker:A train is going by on the far side of the river, transporting goods inland.
Speaker:Its horn sounds closer than it really is,
Speaker:the sound moving easily over the water.
Speaker:“You never know when everything is going to change,”
Speaker:he says. “You shouldn’t take anything for granted.
Speaker:Not a single day.”
Speaker:He’s such an awkward flirt, you think.
Speaker:“Let me finish my whiskey first.”
Speaker:He smiles. So you finish your whiskey
Speaker:and follow him down the trail through the dry grass to the river.
Speaker:A blackberry bush is overgrowing the trail, and for a few minutes, you both pause and pluck the ripest, sweetest berries.
Speaker:You stain your fingers and tongues. You remember why you love it here.
Speaker:The flat, orange light makes it feel like it’s sunset, though it’s closer to midday.
Speaker:It’s not hard to imagine that this is a memory,
Speaker:that you’re both still young,
Speaker:and his belly and scars are gone, and the sky is still blue, and the river is blue too.
Speaker:You strip out of your clothes, and you hunch, self-conscious at first, but soon you’re both in the water and feeling utterly free.
Speaker:It’s warm, like a swimming pool.
Speaker:You look down at your body
Speaker:and find it purplish.
Speaker:The algae tingles on your skin.
Speaker:Maybe it’s the whiskey.
Speaker:He’s floating on his back
Speaker:with his eyes closed.
Speaker:You do the same. You find his hand with yours.
Speaker:His rough grip is an old, familiar comfort.
Speaker:“Do you think the world is ending?”
Speaker:you ask. “Does this feel like an ending?”
Speaker:“It feels like a memory,”
Speaker:you confess. His hand tenses.
Speaker:Come back to our town, you want him to say.
Speaker:Live with me. Let’s be like we were.
Speaker:Let’s be what we could have been.
Speaker:And maybe it really is what he’s thinking.
Speaker:But it’s not what he says.
Speaker:“All I know is this lake,”
Speaker:he says. “My whole life, it’s all I’ve known.
Speaker:Even if it’s purple.”
Speaker:There’s nothing you can say to this.
Speaker:You squeeze his hand, and he squeezes back.
Speaker:“When the dam goes, I’ll wash away,”
Speaker:he says. When? you think.
Speaker:“Maybe it’s for the best.”
Speaker:You hesitate, searching for the words.
Speaker:“Don’t you ever wonder . . .
Speaker:Didn’t you ever want to leave?”
Speaker:“Of course I did,” he says, hoarse.
Speaker:He lets go; you drift apart.
Speaker:“Then why?” He turns away from you,
Speaker:just slightly, but it’s clear enough.
Speaker:He’s closed off now.
Speaker:You try to change the subject, sort of.
Speaker:“I wonder if it’s hurting the baby cows.
Speaker:If it’s concentrated like that.”
Speaker:“I wish it was,” he mumbles.
Speaker:He turns back to you, and you finally
Speaker:see the emotion in his eyes.
Speaker:Rage. Not at you but at something
Speaker:far bigger, something too big to name. He speaks clearly now,
Speaker:“I wish it were deadly.”
Speaker:The water washes over his gills.
Speaker:You feel small in his gaze.
Speaker:You turn his words over on the drive home.
Speaker:Your car exhales carbon dioxide, just like you.
Speaker:You understand what he means. It’s not that he wants to die.
Speaker:It’s that if this were a real crisis, maybe it would be enough for you to change course.
Speaker:If things were worse, maybe you would have stayed, gotten drunk
Speaker:and picked blackberries by the river
Speaker:and held each other while the world ended.
Speaker:Your phone buzzes with a notification from your boss.
Speaker:You check your notes.
Speaker:You begin to compose an email using voice-to-text,
Speaker:ideas for a new ad campaign so more cars will come and bring more people to spend more money
Speaker:in this beautiful city,
Speaker:your city, the city that is the color of dreams.
Speaker:That night, you dream the scene again.
Speaker:You follow him down to the lake.
Speaker:Your hand explores more than just his hand.
Speaker:You end up on the beach.
Speaker:The sand is soft, so much softer than in real life.
Speaker:You wake early, too early to call,
Speaker:so you send him a groggy text.
Speaker:Something about the dream, something you know you’ll regret sending, but you can’t stop yourself.
Speaker:You try to forget what you felt when you were asleep,
Speaker:the easy happiness of knowing you’d finally chosen to do what’s right.
Speaker:You haven’t sent the email to your boss.
Speaker:At the last minute, you didn’t have the heart; it all felt so trite and pointless.
Speaker:Now, your phone buzzes again.
Speaker:He’s getting annoyed.
Speaker:You’re behind schedule, as usual.
Speaker:Never mind that it’s Sunday.
Speaker:You clutch your phone tightly,
Speaker:fight the urge to hurl it across the room.
Speaker:Something is changing.
Speaker:Or something has changed. You’re not sure yet.
Speaker:You never should have gone to see Herman;
Speaker:it’s thrown you off balance.
Speaker:You’re straight up and down,
Speaker:but everything else looks tilted.
Speaker:You do your breathing exercises, and they help,
Speaker:a little. You reflexively check your phone and quickly undo the calm.
Speaker:There’s a creature in your stomach chewing;
Speaker:that’s what it feels like. You need to act.
Speaker:The creature nudges you, go,
Speaker:go, go. Where? Why? How?
Speaker:The dam. Not the
Speaker:actual dam, but the Wikipedia article about the dam.
Speaker:You learn about the Hogs,
Speaker:huge salmon that once swam far up your river. Like most salmon, they spent five years at sea,
Speaker:fattening up for the long journey back to their spawning grounds.
Speaker:After the dam was built,
Speaker:for five years, those salmon returned.
Speaker:Each year, they encountered an enormous concrete wall. They threw themselves against it.
Speaker:Their bodies glistened in the sun.
Speaker:Finally, in year six,
Speaker:there were no more Hogs.
Speaker:“Conflict,” a subheading reads.
Speaker:You learn about the people who fought for the salmon.
Speaker:The people who fought for their village, which was submerged in the rising waters.
Speaker:They had lived there for thousands of years, but on one day in 1957, the flood came from the east and drank it all up.
Speaker:You learn about the falls, which were perhaps the best fishing grounds in all of North America
Speaker:—“the Wall Street of the West,” the article says—because so many people from so many places converged here to fish, trade, and mingle.
Speaker:You imagine a kind of New York City growing up all around you,
Speaker:all those different lives and stories and voices.
Speaker:You can almost hear the clamor.
Speaker:There were several attempts to blow up the dam, but they all failed.
Speaker:So far, you think.
Speaker:Not because you want to blow up the dam. You would never do such a thing. You wouldn’t know where to begin.
Speaker:But it’s suddenly clear to you that it
Speaker:shouldn’t exist. You want to text Herman,
Speaker:to find out if he already knew all of this,
Speaker:but you’re confronted with the message you sent at 4 A.M.
Speaker:and get cold feet.
Speaker:It wasn’t just the salmon;
Speaker:sturgeon are anadromous too.
Speaker:What has he been cut off from that he never told you about?
Speaker:Why did you never know to ask?
Speaker:If anyone would want to blow up the dam, it would be him.
Speaker:And if anyone would know how,
Speaker:also him. He knows the internal structure of the dam better than anyone. He has the access. He could do it.
Speaker:You remember what he said,
Speaker:You never know when everything is going to change.
Speaker:When the dam goes
Speaker:. . . Was he already plotting something?
Speaker:Was he trying to tell you?
Speaker:To hell with texting; you’re going back.
Speaker:The creature in your stomach cheers you on, faster, faster. You feel your pockets: phone, wallet, keys. You fill up a water bottle
Speaker:and grab a granola bar, just in case.
Speaker:Then you’re off, flying back
Speaker:up the highway—east,
Speaker:to the Locks. You pull up in front of Herman’s house,
Speaker:but his truck isn’t there.
Speaker:You knock anyway.
Speaker:Nothing. You climb over the railing and follow the deck around back, peer in the sliding glass doors.
Speaker:It’s dark inside; he’s not home. There’s
Speaker:only one other place to look.
Speaker:You cruise up to the Locks’ aquarium slowly, pretending to drive like a tourist.
Speaker:It’s not crowded.
Speaker:Not many people want to see sturgeon these days,
Speaker:and not many people go outside at all during smoke season.
Speaker:You walk through the old outdoor exhibits,
Speaker:past weathered sculptures of giant fish.
Speaker:The cedar trees have all died of fungus and haven’t been taken down yet, but the salal bushes are growing ever taller.
Speaker:They reach out to you as you walk the paved paths,
Speaker:almost desperate for you to eat their purple, bell-shaped berries.
Speaker:They’re not your favorite, but you oblige.
Speaker:The sturgeon tanks are full of unfamiliar faces, all teenagers working summer jobs.
Speaker:None of them know Herman or your history.
Speaker:They stare blankly out at the world.
Speaker:You see one in the back, crouching half out of the water.
Speaker:On their phone and hoping not to be caught, no doubt.
Speaker:You check the visitor center.
Speaker:Finally, some fish you know.
Speaker:The Twins, a couple of Herman’s old coworkers, are rearranging plush stuffed sturgeons on a shelf.
Speaker:Looks like they run the place now.
Speaker:“Oh, hello,” they say in unison.
Speaker:It’s not just the patterns of scutes on their faces that are identical;
Speaker:their actions are too.
Speaker:You’ve never been able to tell them apart.
Speaker:“Are you here to try to stop Herman?”
Speaker:“Stop him from doing what?”
Speaker:They smile the same smile, their barbels curling slightly upward.
Speaker:“Removing the dam of course.”
Speaker:Their voices are high but not musical.
Speaker:Almost robotic. You’ve always found this unsettling, but Herman got along with them well.
Speaker:He always told you that you were too judgmental.
Speaker:You try to play it cool.
Speaker:“So, he’s going to do it then?”
Speaker:“Yes, it appears so.”
Speaker:“How do you know?” You’re unsure what they’re capable of.
Speaker:Seeing the future does not seem out of the question.
Speaker:They laugh. “He stopped by to tell us.
Speaker:He wanted to make sure everyone was out of the blast zone.”
Speaker:“But you’re still here?”
Speaker:“We have some time yet.
Speaker:It won’t be a very big explosion.”
Speaker:“I wasn’t trying to stop him.”
Speaker:You feel defensive now.
Speaker:You don’t want them to think that you’re on the wrong side of this.
Speaker:“Then why are you chasing him?
Speaker:Did you want to help?”
Speaker:“No, I just . . . ” You have no answer, at least, no answer that doesn’t sound stupid and desperate.
Speaker:“Will he be okay?” “He’ll be okay,”
Speaker:they smile. “He won’t be able to stay afterward, though.
Speaker:He’ll be in big trouble.
Speaker:He’ll have to go somewhere else.”
Speaker:“How much longer do you think I have?”
Speaker:“You shouldn’t go after him.”
Speaker:“How much longer?” They shrug.
Speaker:“A little while. That’s all we know.”
Speaker:“Thank you.” “You’re welcome.”
Speaker:They smile and go back to arranging the toy sturgeons.
Speaker:You jog out to your car, and the Twins’ question follows.
Speaker:Are you trying to stop him?
Speaker:You can’t stand the thought of him leaving.
Speaker:You thought he’d always be here, just a two-hour drive away.
Speaker:You recall a moment when you were both fourteen or fifteen. You were building a dam in the creek behind your house.
Speaker:It was something you’d done a lot when you were little kids, catching frogs, stacking rocks.
Speaker:You were too old for it now, but he was taking engineering classes,
Speaker:and he was excited to apply what he’d learned.
Speaker:You loved watching him think, letting him guide you to place the rocks in the right places.
Speaker:Your arms brushed, on accident at first.
Speaker:You were in the woods,
Speaker:hidden by maple leaves,
Speaker:gurgling water, and petrichor.
Speaker:It was safe. It was the first time you confessed your feelings for each other.
Speaker:You looked out at the little lake you’d both made and told him
Speaker:that it felt like there was a lake inside you.
Speaker:That for your whole life, things had been pouring in,
Speaker:but that nothing could get out,
Speaker:that you felt so heavy.
Speaker:He nodded. You kicked the dam down, rock by rock, together.
Speaker:The water flowed free again.
Speaker:You took for granted the love you found so easily as a teenager.
Speaker:You were sure you were destined for bigger and better things.
Speaker:You left him. You don’t expect him to forgive you.
Speaker:When you find his truck out on the dam, you park beside it.
Speaker:It’s easy to follow him in; he left the high-security door wide open.
Speaker:You find him hunched over a box full of complicated wiring.
Speaker:The turbines roar in the background. It’s humid,
Speaker:and in places, moss and lichen grow on the walls.
Speaker:Somehow, he hears your footsteps over the din and turns.
Speaker:He doesn’t look surprised to see you.
Speaker:“I sent you a text,”
Speaker:you say. “I know,” he says.
Speaker:You stand there, dumbly.
Speaker:“I still love you too.”
Speaker:You feel the tears start to well.
Speaker:He sighs and goes back to his wiring.
Speaker:You rush up, hug him around his back. He turns to face you, wraps you up. You feel safe again, just for a moment,
Speaker:until he pushes you away.
Speaker:“Go. When I set this off, you’ll only have a few minutes to get out of here.”
Speaker:You wipe your eyes.
Speaker:“Okay.” “Sturgeon live a long time,”
Speaker:he says. “Maybe I’ll see you again someday.”
Speaker:He grabs your hand,
Speaker:presses something cold and hard into your palm.
Speaker:Then he spins you and with a gentle shove, sets you in motion.
Speaker:You look down. The key to his house.
Speaker:“Take good care of it,”
Speaker:he says. “I will,” you say, but you don’t stop.
Speaker:You drift out to your car,
Speaker:get inside, hardly hear the door shut.
Speaker:You motor back to the aquarium.
Speaker:The parking lot is empty now.
Speaker:A closed sign hangs in the window of the visitor center.
Speaker:You thought the Twins might stay to watch, but they’re gone.
Speaker:You get out of your car, walk to the overlook,
Speaker:and lean against the cedar railing.
Speaker:At this distance, the dam
Speaker:is a perfectly smooth, pale gray wall.
Speaker:You feel like a cloud,
Speaker:like the slightest gust of wind could blow you away.
Speaker:When it happens, the water goes up into the sky in a single beam.
Speaker:The Twins were wrong;
Speaker:it’s a big explosion.
Speaker:The wall crumbles in slow motion.
Speaker:You see the shock wave coming before it hits you, and you plug your ears.
Speaker:It knocks you backward.
Speaker:You catch yourself, skin your palms, and feel a raw,
Speaker:tingling pain you haven’t felt since childhood.
Speaker:The thunder dissipates.
Speaker:Then comes the rain.
Speaker:Purple rain. Light at first,
Speaker:then heavier and heavier.
Speaker:You lift yourself up and peer through the downpour.
Speaker:The old village is emerging.
Speaker:All around it, the water glimmers.
Speaker:Thick, silvery bodies rise and fall. They leap from the water and sparkle in the light.
Speaker:The Hogs. When the water is shallow enough, they jump up,
Speaker:raise their hands,
Speaker:and dance among the houses.
Speaker:The joyous crowd follows the edge of the lake as it recedes.
Speaker:A new channel is forming at the bottom of the lake bed, creating a waterfall where it reaches the broken remains of the dam.
Speaker:There, they jump back in,
Speaker:swim down the falls
Speaker:and back up again,
Speaker:laughing. You see how easy it is for them.
Speaker:This is what they were made for.
Speaker:There’s something else in the channel.
Speaker:An enormous, scaly back rising from the water.
Speaker:You know it’s him without needing to see anything more.
Speaker:His tail flexes one way,
Speaker:then the other. He glides toward the falls.
Speaker:You wonder if he’ll look up,
Speaker:say good-bye, acknowledge you at all, but the
Speaker:beating of his tail is steady.
Speaker:His purpose is clear.
Speaker:He doesn’t waver.
Speaker:When he reaches the falls, his dorsal fin flicks the air as he navigates the shallower water.
Speaker:His tail thrashes a few times, and you think, for a horrible moment, that he’s become stuck.
Speaker:But then he’s gliding forward again,
Speaker:out into deeper waters,
Speaker:where he disappears entirely.
Speaker:You raise your hand,
Speaker:tentatively, half-waving.
Speaker:Then your hand migrates to your chest,
Speaker:clutching at something painful but not unexpected.
Speaker:Eventually, the rain tapers off.
Speaker:A crowd has gathered on the hill where the new town is located, the one that was created for the people who were displaced all those years ago.
Speaker:They’re pointing,
Speaker:but you can’t make out their reactions from here.
Speaker:The sky is still gray with smoke,
Speaker:and the sun is still orange.
Speaker:In the distance, sirens howl.
Speaker:They’ll rebuild the dam, you understand, and who will question it?
Speaker:Many of us, surely,
Speaker:but large structures have a kind of inertia; they’re not so easily dismantled.
Speaker:If the water runs clear in the meantime, someday
Speaker:it will be purple again.
Speaker:People might even say that they missed it, that purple. It was pretty, wasn’t it?
Speaker:Maybe you’ll write about it,
Speaker:how the purple is back and how nice it is.
Speaker:And Herman will be gone.
Speaker:Everything will be the same,
Speaker:but Herman will be gone.
Speaker:But that’s far in the future.
Speaker:Now, in this moment,
Speaker:your hands are still stinging,
Speaker:and the salmon are still dancing.
Speaker:The old, drowned houses can breathe again.
Speaker:And you, you are different.
Speaker:In this moment, you believe
Speaker:that anything can change.
Speaker:This was “Herman” by Coda,
Speaker:read for you by READER, with CALLSIGN.
Speaker:You can find more stories on the web at thevoice.dog,
Speaker:or find the show wherever you get your podcasts.
Speaker:Thank you for listening to The Voice of Dog.