Dana - Lustery

A hand—familiar, with the same scar across the knuckle from a childhood bike crash—reaches back.

She does not hesitate. She holds out the orange. dana lustery

On the gray quartz countertop, next to the knife block, sits a single, perfect, bright orange navel orange. A hand—familiar, with the same scar across the

December 21st is the winter solstice—the longest night of the year. Dana’s entire philosophy argues for staying home. Go to the bus station at 2:17 AM? That is the definition of unexpected. Of chaos. Of the kind of grief she has spent three decades outrunning. On the gray quartz countertop, next to the

Dana Lustery is 47, a senior data harmonization consultant for a global logistics firm. She lives in a minimalist, high-floor condo in a city that experiences all four seasons with punctual regularity. Dana is not cold, but she is exacting . Her friends (she has three, whom she sees on a quarterly rotation) describe her as “reliably steady.” Her colleagues describe her as “efficient to the point of invisibility.” She describes herself as “content.”

“Dan. I know you hate mess. But I’m not dead. I’m not in Nebraska. I’m here, but ‘here’ isn’t a place you can GPS. I’ve been trying to reach you for 28 years. The oranges are the only things that travel well through the… well, I don’t have a word for it. The Rind. I call it the Rind. The space between the fruit and the peel. I found a door in a bus station bathroom in 1996. I’ve been walking ever since. These oranges are the only proof I can send that I’m still real. Please. I’m not asking you to believe. I’m asking you to remember the summer we tried to build a rocket out of a soda bottle and you cried because the flight path wasn’t straight. You were 9. You told me, ‘If you can’t aim it, don’t launch it.’ I’m launching this anyway. Meet me at the Greyhound station in Omaha. December 21st. 2:17 AM. Bring an orange.”

Dana, the woman who harmonizes global supply chains, cannot explain a piece of fruit.