“This drought emergency is over. But the next drought could be around the corner. Conservation must remain a way of life.” —California Governor Jerry Brown

When 2015 was half gone, and the sun climbed high above the 405 and stayed, an In-N-Out wrapper blew down the highway like a tumbleweed, and a land turtle lumbered onto the road and began to cross.

A Prius approached. Its driver saw the turtle and jerked the wheel hard, swerving into the carpool lane, the car’s wheels screeching. The turtle ducked into its shell and waited, but once the Prius had driven on, his head emerged, and he continued to creep slowly down the road.

And now a Tesla approached, and as it came near the turtle it swerved to hit it. Its front wheel struck the shell, and the turtle flipped onto its back and was still as the Tesla sped off.

A woman screamed—something guttural, a noise she hadn’t made since Lindsey suggested that maybe they just pack up and try Brooklyn—and dashed into the road. She grabbed her turtle and screamed again, “Banksy!,” for that was his name. His name was Banksy, and he was a rescue, not that the man driving the Tesla would care to ask, or know the difference between a rescue turtle and one from a mall.

The woman sighed with relief and stroked Banksy with a tenderness she would not afford her own stepdaughter, unnatural as that was. She stroked him and smiled, smoothing down the bumper sticker he wore on his shell, which read, “Coexist.”

The sports-utility vehicle shuddered to a rest at the filling station, and men, women, and children streamed out of its doors. Generations emerged from that Escalade, with dusty limbs and weary eyes and stories that the men in the cities wouldn’t believe even if they heard, stories the family knew were better kept to themselves.

The father spoke first to the filling-station attendant. “Now, I’m a proud man,” he said. “And I ain’t never begged for nothin’ and I don’t intend to now. I raise urban chickens. I ain’t never called upon an industry connection that I reckon I didn’t really need. And I’ve been doin’ some research about keepin’ my own bees.”

The filling-station attendant nodded. The bees were dying. Or were there too many bees? Something was happening with the bees—that was for certain. That was something a man knew deep in his bones.

“But my family an’ I have been drivin’ for near two months straight,” the man continued. “And I . . . well, I’m a proud man, but I’d be willin’ to work your fields for a few weeks if I could trouble you for a glass of cold-pressed beet-agave-chia-kale-hemp-banana juice. If it ain’t too much trouble . . .” he trailed off.

The attendant nodded, scanning the man’s body, noting the pale skin, the shaking hands. “You doin’ a cleanse?” he started to ask, but stopped. There was no need. He knew.

A trash can was on fire. It was for art, the man said, with a confidence that almost made it so. But the air was so dry that the fire spread and spread, and the firemen couldn’t put it out. This could also be art, thought the man. Could be, this is even more art than the original art.

Meanwhile, the fire grew, as the firefighters were only able to use their hoses on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, they watched the flames grow, and they waited, their thumbs idly swiping screens, leaving telltale trails of dust and ash.

“I saw Chris Pratt the other day,” one remarked idly. The others nodded. “Once you been here awhile, you get used to it. Best not to say anything at all,” another said, not mentioning how he had trailed a tall red-headed man for blocks before realizing it wasn’t Conan. Some things a man keeps to himself.

The lobby at the Blue Serenity Laser Spa and Surgery was empty save for one woman, strange for this time of day. Todd, the receptionist, nodded as she walked in. “Jacquie,” he greeted her, with an enthusiasm that, though it wasn’t forced, betrayed some other emotion. Weariness, maybe. “You here for the usual?”

Jacquie thumbed through her wallet, touching each card with something like reverence, or maybe fear, or more than likely both. To God and to preachers, the two are one and the same, though of course Jacquie was more spiritual than religious, and even less so after the loss of her yard. Finally, she placed a card on the counter.

“No, just a touch-up today,” she said, a little louder than intended. “Ten units should be fine,” she continued, though of course they both knew she needed at least twenty-five, but things being what they were.

Half an hour later, it was done. It would have to be enough, she told herself, ignoring the shame and fear that rose in her throat, threatening to choke her. It would be enough. She marched past Todd, ignoring his “Namaste,” and out the door. Her face displayed nothing. It couldn’t, on account of the Botox. It was a small mercy.

Tom knelt in the dust in front of his almond tree, stroking its wilted limb with reverence. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. A sob caught in his throat. “I couldn’t—” He couldn't finish his sentence, couldn’t say that he had a son at home, and that the son needed the water more than even the tree, and that men will do anything for their sons—even eat fewer almonds, if it came to that. This year it had come to that.

The sun dropped low in the sky, and still Tom knelt in front of the tree, weeping, not noticing how his tears dropped into the dirt, and rolled toward the tree’s roots. He didn’t notice anything—not the sunset, not the sudden gust of wind, and not how, on the smallest branch, a new leaf had suddenly sprouted.