I dreamed

The mineral isn’t in the ground. It’s in the air, a fine grey dust that settles on the tongue and tastes like copper wire. I open my mouth to speak and the words come out as solar cells, flat and cold, clicking against my teeth.

The pressure is rising, but not the weather. The weight of the house is pressing down, the walls compressing inward until the room is the size of a battery. I try to push against the door, but it’s made of glass, and behind it, the headline is just a shape, a black smudge that refuses to resolve into letters.

It’s too quiet. The hum of the machines is gone, replaced by the tick of the thermometer climbing. I check the humidity. Eighty-two percent. The air is so thick it has texture, like wet wool. I pull at it, trying to unravel a thread, but it snaps back, taut and elastic.

The little-known mineral is looking back.