One Wheel Out on the White

Oona runs the tourist stop at the edge of the salt flat. It has a tin shed and a postcard stand. It also has a painted line in the salt. The line is white on white, and only Oona sees it.

Every day is the same. At ten o'clock, Hal brings the first van. At two o'clock, he brings the second. In between, Oona sweeps the shed and counts the postcards.

She knows the visitors well. They step out of the van and say "wow". They say it all together, like a song. Then they take off their sunglasses and put them on again.

After that, they want the photos. Oona keeps a wooden box of toys behind the shed. There is a giant bottle. There is a plastic shoe and a small green truck. People hold them close to the camera. A friend stands far away. In the photo, the truck looks as big as a real one. The friend looks tiny beside it.

It is an old trick, and the white ground makes it perfect. There are no trees and no hills. There is nothing to show how far or how near anything is.

Oona loves the green truck most. She bought it on her first day, nine years ago. It has a wide yellow door and four black wheels. The paint is worn at the corners.

Today is an ordinary day. At ten o'clock, Hal parks the van by the shed. He opens the door. Twelve people climb out. They say "wow".

"Morning, Oona," says Hal. He is a large, slow man with a hat. He drinks from a flask. "Twelve today. Good people, I think."

"They all say wow," Oona says. "So yes."

Hal laughs. He walks off to sit in the shade. He reads his newspaper.

Oona opens the box. She sets out the bottle, the shoe and the truck. She stands near the line with her arms folded. She watches the tourists play.

A small boy in a yellow cap takes the green truck. He is about seven. He holds it up high. "Look, Mum, I have a monster truck!" he shouts.

"Be careful with it," Oona says.

"I will," says the boy. He turns the truck over in his hands. He pushes down hard on the roof.

There is a small snap. A wheel falls off the truck and lands on the ground. It does not stop. It starts to roll.

It rolls over the line. It rolls past the mother. It rolls past the van and the last wheel marks. The salt is smooth as glass. The wheel does not slow down at all.

"Oh no," says the boy. His face falls. "I broke it. I am sorry."

"It is not broken," says Oona. "It is only a wheel."

But her voice sounds strange to her. She stands still and watches the wheel get smaller. It is black on white, like a dot of ink.

Nine years, she thinks. Nothing ever leaves the line.

The visitors go quiet. Even Hal puts down his newspaper. He looks at the wheel, and then he looks at Oona.

"Go on," he says.

"What?"

"Go and get it. I will watch the group." He waves his hat toward the flat. "It will not stop by itself."

Oona opens her mouth to say no. She has a stand to run and postcards to sell. She never goes past the line, not even to look.

"Go," says Hal again, very gently.

So she goes.

The first steps feel odd. The salt crunches under her shoes. It is a dry little sound. She walks past the first wheel marks and past the last ones.

After ten minutes, she does not look back. After twenty, she does not want to. The sky is huge and pale. The ground is just as pale. There is no line between them. She walks in the middle of a white page.

The wheel keeps rolling for a long time. Then, at last, it leans, shakes and falls flat. Oona reaches it and kneels beside it. She picks it up. It is warm from the sun. A thin dust of salt covers it.

She holds it in her hand. It weighs nothing at all.

Then she stands up and turns around.

She almost laughs. The stop is tiny. The shed is the size of a matchbox. The van is a white bean. The people are small dark commas.

It looks exactly like a toy.

She stares at it for a while. Every day, she holds the toy truck up for the camera. She makes small things look big. Now she stands here. Her own life is the big thing, and it looks small.

Far away, a tiny person raises an arm. It is Hal, she knows. He holds his hat high. He waves it slowly from side to side.

Oona lifts her arm and waves back. Then she puts the wheel in her pocket. She stays where she is, in the white. She watches her small shed shine far away.