A small candlelike flame flickers on in the palm of Peter’s hand. It’s a battery-operated candle, the kind used inside jack-o’-lanterns or in votive candle holders in restaurants that don’t want to use actual candles. It sheds a flickering orangish light on white bedsheets that cover the walls of the barn.

Peter strides forward, pulling the sheets one by one off the walls. And I gasp.

Under the sheets is art.

He returns to stand next to me, in front of the first painting. It’s of a boat with billowing sails, tipped sideways in a storm. The crew fills the deck, yanking on the rigging, huddling against the wind. The waves crest in brilliant white, and there’s a patch of sun and blue sky above the white waves, hemmed on all sides by black clouds. I know this painting. I breathe the name softly, reverently, “Rembrandt, Storm on the Sea of Galilee.”

I walk to the next painting, an Impressionist piece. A man in a top hat. He looks out at the viewer. He holds a pencil as if he’s midstroke. There’s a glass next to him, half-full of bronze liquid. The flickering fake candlelight catches on every brush stroke. “Manet. Chez Tortoni.” I recognize the next, as well. “Vermeer.” And next, four Degas. Several of these works were stolen from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. Others were lost in WWII. I recognize a Picasso, stolen in 1982 from a private collection.

Peter hands me the faux candle. “Stay as long as you like,” he says softly. “We’ll be outside when you’re ready.”

I look at him, and I see in his eyes: he understands. His look is tender, and for an instant, I feel so very full that I want to run into his arms and cry. I look away, not knowing where that thought came from. My gaze lands on one of the Degas paintings. So very unexpected, so very amazing. And he knows. Peter understands how amazing it is.

I lower myself to the sand floor in the center of the barn, and I let the masterpieces soak into me. I barely hear when Peter and Claire leave. I sink into the colors and the light and the brushstrokes and the lost beauty that’s no longer lost to me.

Things I found:

lots of pens

rubber bands

paper clips

scissors

a stolen Monet

several hundred single white socks

condoms

a stuffed puffer fish

overdue library books

a pair of opera glasses

stale movie popcorn

a complete bat skeleton in a case

companionship

unexpected laughter

fear

a coin from ancient Rome

I blame the lost masterpieces for the stuffed puffer fish. After I saw the Rembrandt and the Degas, I may or may not have made a stray comment about how I didn’t think it was possible to find anything more unexpected in the garbage heap that was Lost.

Peter took that as a challenge.

So did Claire.

Over the next several days, he came back with a carousel music box, a locket with a dried rose petal inside, and a half-used notebook filled with mirror writing and sketches of helicopters that I refuse to believe was da Vinci’s. She brought vintage Barbie doll heads, diamond dog collars, and fuzzy dice with lipstick stains, as well as a World Wrestling champion belt from 1991. This, I’m convinced, blows them all out of the water.

I make a mental note to remember to say that, since I like the pun.

Gingerly, I unwrap the T-shirts around my prize, and I lay the fish in the center of the dining room table. The fish’s eyes are wide and its mouth puckered, as if it had died surprised. Its torso is swollen like a balloon. It’s clearly old. Its spines are as brittle as the prickles on a desiccated cactus, but I think there’s something beautiful in its fragility. It shouldn’t have survived the trip here in the tornado of dust, but it did, wrapped in layers of shirts. I only found it because I was looking for shirts to paint in. Not art. There’s no time for that. But I can add a few illusions to the shades to make it look like no one lives here. And then maybe I can repaint the interior: a nice yellow for my bedroom and a pink for Claire’s, if I can find enough.

I tuck desert blossoms around the puffer fish so it lies on a bed of petals, and I add a few flowers to the spines, as well. I hum as I work. It’s one of Peter’s tunes. He constantly hums or sings, usually songs that I don’t recognize. Lost music. Stepping back, I admire the fish. He looks like he floated here out of a fantastical picture book. I should name him...but maybe Claire will want to do that.

Since Peter and Claire aren’t home yet to admire my find, I head to the living room and pluck a book off the shelf. Peter collects books like a squirrel hoards nuts, and I’ve been adding to his collection with books that I’ve found, mostly library books. Settling into the couch between a dozen mismatched throw pillows, I glance out the bay window, still partially blocked by the stop sign—

Dust.

It’s all I see.

Brown-red, blotting out the desert and the sky. It’s as if a pastel were smeared across the world, blurring everything together. Spilling the book onto the floor, I run to the window.

I see blue sky immediately overhead and red desert in front of me—it isn’t all dust. I can breathe again. I thought...I thought it was all gone, and I was alone, stranded in this house, an island in a sea of dust. But no, there’s sky and there’s earth and there are mesquite trees and there’s a tire, a hat, and several cell phones strewn between them. I even see a bird flit across the blue. It veers toward the dust and then sharply away, angling over the desert, as if it, too, knows to avoid the unnatural dust storm that squats instead of swirls.

Still, I can’t relax. I can’t return to my book. I can’t do anything but stare out the window, trying to calculate the distance between the house and the void.

Half a mile, I think.

It’s never been this close. I’m sure of it. Mostly sure. I pace in front of the window, trying to see it from different angles. Usually, it’s a smear on the horizon like haze over pavement on a hot day. It’s never filled a portion of the sky before.

Behind me, I hear the click-click-clack of our homemade lock on the front door, followed by bounding footsteps in the hall and then Claire’s voice from the dining room. “Wow! Porcupine fish!” She coos over the fish with exactly the enthusiasm I wanted, but I don’t move from the window.

Peter’s feet are soft on the carpet behind me. “Well played.” His voice is musical, amused. Five minutes ago, I would have loved to hear those words.

I point out the window. “It’s closer.”

He’s silent. At last, he says, “Yes.”

“Much closer?”

“Much closer.”

I stare at the dust. It seems motionless.

He perches beside me on the window seat. Out of the corner of my eye, I see his face, serious, even sad. His eyes are deep black pools as if he’s in shadow instead of the bright daylight.

Hugging my arms, I picture the dust cloud creeping closer and closer, spreading and swallowing everything in its path. “Why is this happening?”

“‘If you believe,’ he shouted to them, ‘clap your hands; don’t let Tink die.’ Many clapped. Some didn’t. A few beasts hissed.” Peter traces circles in the dust on the window. I wonder if it’s desert dust or debris from the void or if there’s a difference.

I shake my head. “I don’t—”

“‘What we call our despair is often only the painful eagerness of unfed hope.’ The beasts are hissing with the pain of their unfed hope. But they should clap instead.” He sounds as if he’s earnestly imparting wisdom, but he’s not making sense. I don’t think he’s teasing me. There’s no humor in his eyes. I wonder if he slips into the cryptic speak when he’s afraid. It’s an unnerving thought, and I hope I’m wrong. Peter enters and exits the void all the time searching for lost people. He couldn’t be afraid of it.