Page 40 of January Bell

An image of one of my favorite animated movies flits through my mind before it’s just as quickly gone.

“Not just any hourglass,” Ken’s voice echoes, magically amplified—or, well, scientifically amplified. “It’s a brand-new invention the likes of which the worlds have never seen.”

I grit my teeth and squeeze my eyes shut.

“This hourglass will run for exactly one hour.”

“Oh yes, no one in the worlds has ever seen an hourglass that runs for exactly one hour,” I say icily.

Ken doesn’t bother acknowledging me in any other way than a slight twitch of his stupid hologram eye.

“Yes, that’s right. In our—” he says again, gesturing broadly and dramatically like a demented Vanna White at the huge hourglass, to an invisible audience.

I squint, looking past him to see if I can make out what the heck he’s even looking at.

“Ever wonder if we’re even being streamed on TV?” I whisper to Zan.

Zan doesn’t move. He’s staring at the floor of our new glass box of emotion with sincere revulsion.

“In the middle of the hourglass,” Ken continues, oblivious to whatever’s freaking Zan out, “there is an impossible puzzle to solve. A jigsaw cube made of the same glass as the structure our contestants are standing in. They must complete the puzzle in under an hour or be devoured by sandworms.”

Something wriggles under my foot.

I screech, jumping back into Zan’s chest. He catches me as I climb against him, watching with horror as an army of small, fat, grub-like creatures wriggle across the floor.

“Why weren’t there shoes in that dome?” I whine. “This is so disgusting.”

“And your time begins now,” Ken booms.

Sand begins to trickle from the top of the hourglass onto our heads.

“Where are the puzzle pieces?” I ask, looking around frantically.

Zan points. “We’re standing on them.”

A retching noise comes out of my throat, he’s right. Scattered around the fat bodies of the little worms are itty-bitty clear glass puzzle pieces.

“Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me,” I say under my breath.

“He’s certainly creative,” Zan says.

“Is he creative, or is he simply the amalgamation of other minds’ creativity?” I mutter.

If Ken hears me, he doesn’t act like it, standing outside the hourglass, narrating our progress, his voice no audible through the structure of the glass itself.

I squint at him. “What the heck did happen to the space station?”

I really wish I hadn’t accidentally dropped our comms tablet when I was hanging upside down. “I wish we could check in on my friends.” A pang of loneliness and regret goes through me.

“I really hope they’re faring better than I am,” I say.

“You’re not faring so bad,” Zan says, patting me on the back. “But we really do need to get this puzzle together. Are you good at puzzles?”

“No,” I say, nearly on the verge of tears.

He looks at me, terrified, as one tear tracks out of my eye. The sand begins to fall quicker, and I brush it aside before it can congeal into muddy grit on my face.

One of the worms near me screeches, and I wince. “Oh, they have to have horrible little voices too. They couldn’t just be nasty little worms.”