They’re monsters, the combines and threshers inching along the highway—I’m almost to Saskatoon when they surround me. I drop my speed from 110 to 15 km/hr, and my GPS recalibrates to say I’m an hour and fifteen minutes from downtown.

I look for the end of the vehicles but there’s only smoke and metal. My pulse picks up. Remember to breathe. I make this mistake every year, driving into the city when the ag-show is ending. I want to smash my head against the glass, but that won’t get me to my hotel faster.

I check in ninety minutes later. My phone buzzes, and it’s my partner, wanting to know if I’ve arrived safely. Another beep—the conference app informing me registration’s open. A fellow presenter texts to say she’s inspired by me and can’t wait for my keynote.

When I order pizza, it arrives so greasy it leaves an oil sea on my bed. My phone keeps buzzing, so I have to post something. I write I’m “thrilled” to be here and it should be the truth—my face is on the conference poster, and people are paying good money to hear me speak.

By every measure, I’m a success. I have the perfect home, the perfect partner. He works for an oil company. We’ve paid down our mortgage and invested in equities. He makes a good salary, but I make more, empowering people and selling my story.

I help people find their authentic selves. They say my talks are life-changing. Last year I was on a national news magazine cover, and last month, I made Edmonton’s “Forty Under Forty.” Our guest room became my award room. Now the laundry room’s full, too.

My phone and the conference app are unrelenting. I run a bubble bath and let it drain. Stand facing the bathroom mirror—so this is the face of inspiration. Lately, it doesn’t feel like anything. I touch the cut over my eyebrow where I hit my head. The makeup’s already smearing.

#

I’m dying for coffee the next morning, but when I go to the breakfast room, it’s packed with fellow speakers. Their faces are familiar from other conferences and award ceremonies. The coffee machine is behind them. If they see me, they’ll make me join them.

I tiptoe past. I should be social, I could network, we could compare home renovations. I could show them my two-inch thick quartz counters and custom-designed craft room. I pour my coffee and sneak back to the lobby. I’m almost to the elevator when a fellow speaker blocks my way.

“I liked your post from last night.”

I nod and press the button. When the elevator doors open, she steps in front of me.

“What’s your talk about?”

I lick my lips. “Finding your authentic self.”

Her face lights up at my answer. The doors close and she says she’ll walk to the conference with me.

I have to think fast. “I’ll be right back, I left something in my room.”

She frowns, but I’m already at the stairwell. Instead of going up to my room, I race down the stairs, two at a time. When I reach the parkade, I’m out of breath and my coffee has spilled all over me. I haven’t brushed my teeth, my hair’s messy—none of this is on brand. I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I start my engine and drive west anyway.

#

With the ag-show over, everything’s different. The exhibition grounds are empty. I pass banners and signs, but not a single vehicle or machine. The landscape gnaws at me. I live in Edmonton now, but I grew up around here. I still have family, aunts and cousins, scattered across this prairie.

I drive past it each year, trapped between combines. I’ve never stopped to visit relatives. I lost touch when I got busy. Sometimes, I feel guilty. We were close growing up, and my family was proud of me.

My phone vibrates on the passenger seat. It’s the woman from the elevator, messaging me through the conference app. Can’t believe she’s still waiting for me. I wipe my forehead. I’m sweating like a horse. I’ve been going to this conference every July for six years and every year it’s hotter. Today it’s 35 and there are wildfires north and west of here. The smoke’s worse than yesterday. I can barely see the road.

#

I stop the car, disoriented. There’s a sea of canola surrounding me. A boarded-up shop on one side of the road, and on the other, a dumpy, falling-apart motel with an empty parking lot and a half burnt-out sign that says, “Vacancy.”

I climb out of the car and brush off my jeans. The conference is business casual, so what am I doing dressed like this anyway? I shake my head. Thank god my talk isn’t today.

The proprietor scribbles my info on a sticky note. He says he lost the password for the reservations system months ago. He points to the fridge in the corner and says he’ll post my name and info if I give him trouble. I assume he’s joking but when I get closer, I see the name, address, and phone number of a former guest who overturned a lamp and another who flooded the bathroom. The proprietor shows me a room and hands me pliers for the taps. His dog, named for a Greek hero, pisses on my calf.

The television tries to electrocute me. The proprietor’s already told me to unplug everything before touching the microwave. The overhead light is burned out. I take a chair outside and stare at the empty road and field of yellow while mosquitoes buzz in clouds.

I don’t know what I’m doing here. I have a four-star hotel room in the city. I should be preparing. At least my phone is quiet. I check my messages and there’s one blessing, the motel’s out of cell phone range.

#

I wake in the night to the sound of mice chirping. My skin itches. I was dreaming of crawling insects. I should have checked the sheets for bedbugs. When I fall back asleep, the nightmares are unrelenting—colleagues ambushing me at elevators, wildfires ranging, horses struggling to breathe. I want to put my head through everything.

When dawn breaks, I’m half-dreaming and there’s something in the canola field. I start awake—I can’t see it, but I feel it outside my room. It takes a step and my bed shakes. My ears pop from the pressure. I sit up, fully alert. I can’t hear a thing, but I smell something—hay and burnt oil. My skin pricks with goosebumps. I close my eyes and sense it, twitching, then sniffing the air. Whatever it is, it’s hungry.

I don’t know if a minute or an hour passes. Sunlight streams through the cigarette holes in the curtains, and I muster the courage to peek outside. There’s no monster, but the yellow crops outside my room are trampled and flat. Something was there.

I use the pliers for the shower. There’s no hot water and the tub won’t drain. When I leave my room, my hair’s dripping wet. I get in my car and start for the conference. The smoke disorients me. I drive for an hour before realizing I’m going in the wrong direction. At least my talk isn’t for another day.

The wildfires are getting closer. My lungs ache but it’s the itch on my knees that’s driving me crazy. I’m used to mosquito bites, but this is different. I can’t place what’s afflicting me. I’m so busy scratching, I slide into the ditch. Brake hard and my head hits the wheel. Look up, dazed, and the sky’s an explosion of fire clouds.

#

This isn’t the road to Saskatoon. I get out of my car, puzzled. I’m in another dusty town in a sea of canola. There are closed up shops and deserted houses, a falling-apart gas station with an old-fashioned pump. Not a single person.

I’m scratching bites when I see it. Don’t know how I missed it right in front of me, a community hall towering over everything with a technicolour sign saying, “Horseland.”

There’s a smaller sign on the door, and I step closer to read it. “The world wonder dance-hall with the horse-hair floor.” Something stirs at the edge of my memory—I can’t shake the feeling I’ve been here.

It’s not impossible. I remember weddings and bingo games in dancehalls in nearby towns, stampedes with chariots and chuckwagon races. Once a horse in a chuckwagon race had a heart attack and died right in front of me. I was a child, but I can see the rising dust and the fear in the horse’s eyes like it was yesterday.

I try the door, but it’s locked. My phone distracts me—it’s that woman from the elevator, wanting to walk to the conference with me. I swear under my breath then catch myself. That’s not like me. I do an affirmation I teach in my talks called, “Believe,” and message I’ll be there in twenty.

I get into my car and start the engine. Don’t know what I’m thinking. I can speed but I won’t make it, the hotel’s over an hour away. I see a sign for Saskatoon and turn toward it. But the smoke’s too thick to see clearly, and when I should be entering the city, the road ends and there’s nothing in front of me but Horseland again.

#

I wake in the morning with the bedside lamp upside down. Can already see my name and info on that fridge in all caps. I don’t know what’s happening. I should be on my game. It’s day three of the conference—today’s my speech.

I grab the pliers and start the shower. There are red spots on my knees in threes, and more appearing on my elbows. I scratch them and wonder, What’s happening to me? I’m stuck in yesterday’s jeans and I don’t have cover-up for the cut on my face. If I leave now, I’ll have time to stop and change at my hotel and put on makeup.

When I step outside, the ground shakes. I barely catch myself before falling down. My ears pop and something presses against my lungs. I turn around, expecting the proprietor or his dog, but there’s only canola. I do a breathing exercise and try to centre myself—pre-conference nerves, probably.

I start down the highway, and something flickers behind me, a combine, or something more sinister. I squint into the rearview and out of the canola comes a shadow. My breath catches. It’s massive. My skin pricks, senses scream. The thing rushes out, galloping. My car veers into the ditch, my brakes shriek, and I stop inches from a barbed-wire fence. I gasp, desperate for breath, and when I look back at the motel, there’s only yellow fields again.

#

I’m on my hands and knees in my motel room. Red welts are all over my body. My fingernails are bloody and I can’t catch my breath. I’ve broken into a sweat from my scratching. I crawl to the sink and splash water on my face. A red weal appears on my cheek and when I itch it, my nail catches and the mirror’s sprayed with pus.

I shouldn’t be here. I tried to leave.

I’m not alone—the monster’s here with me. I can feel it, lurking in the canola, biding its time. When I close my eyes, I can see it, lifting its upper lip and sensing with that flehmen grimace. The scent it’s looking for is mine.

I scratch my knees. The itch is intolerable. The skin’s crusted, raw and hot. The weals must be from bedbugs, but I can’t believe they’re so deep. I’ve already scratched off the top tissue layers. When I hitch my leg up over the sink, hoping for a better angle, I misjudge my flexibility. I lose my balance, taking the standing sink down with me. My leg crashes against the tub and my arm smacks the wall tile. The sink makes an unholy crunch and the vibration rocks me. The dog named for a hero barks outside my room in warning.

The floor’s sopping wet, but that’s nothing—the tile floor is shattered and the faucet’s gushing. Water sprays into my face and I search for the pliers. My heart’s beating too fast. My fingers fumble. I finally grip them and turn the taps. There’s a sick sound, metal snapping, and the gusher becomes a geyser.

I’m on the floor. The water’s up to my thighs and getting higher. I’ve forgotten the monster, and I don’t have an affirmation for this situation. My only hope is to slow the flow. I find the shut-off valve and the whole piece comes off with my pliers. Don’t know why I’m trying. This is futile. What am I doing here, anyway? The water juts out faster.

I run out of the motel room, and water rushes after me.

By the time I start the car, a lake is forming in the parking lot. The dog-hero lifts his leg to pee in it. My tires squeal when I drive away. I’ll be on that fridge for eternity.

#

When I enter a zone of cellphone coverage, my phone goes crazy. I rush into the conference centre and security stops me because I’m badge-less and haven’t registered. They escort me to registration and it takes forever to find my name even though my face is on the conference poster.

I navigate the halls, searching for where my talk is. The building’s enormous. There are too many corridors and shadows that don’t make sense. The conference app is useless. When I find the room, it’s already packed. I have to push my way in while people frown and make faces at me. Don’t they know I’m the speaker?

When I touch my hair, it’s dripping. I’m still in jeans and they’re rolled up and sopping. My arms and ankles are bloodied with bed bug bites and smeared blood. I might not look like my headshot.

I start to the stage where the moderator’s already waiting. She frowns when she sees me but recovers quickly. My phone’s in a frenzy, buzzing and beeping. I take my chair and can feel the energy. This should be a walk in the park, but it feels like the pregnant pause before a feeding frenzy. The room goes quiet and so does my phone. The air presses into me and my ears pop.

The room shudders and I realize—I led it here. How could I be so stupid? Light fixtures sway while it trots through the maze of hallways, all those wrong shadows, scent-tracking.

The moderator introduces me and spotlights shine in my face. The crowd waits and I clear my throat. The door at the front starts to open. My pulse moves faster. The lights flicker and it steps inside. A surge of panic. I can’t hear but I feel the movement—something wet, a pulling back of the top lip, a sucking of air…

I run to the exit while the moderator shouts at me. The crowd surges toward the stage and the monster thunders behind them. I throw myself against the emergency exit door and set off an alarm. Heavy footsteps follow me. I burst out another door.

I’m in an alley and I’m winded. I need rest but there’s no time. I throw my conference badge in a dumpster. Consider tossing my phone, but instead put it on airplane mode. My heart’s galloping and I can feel that thing pursuing me. I break into a sprint. Duck into alleys and stores to confuse my scent. Circle back, panting, to my car. I rev the engine and fly out of the city, my blood doesn’t slow until I’m at Horseland again.

#

I park at the entrance. Ash falls from the sky and the smoke and dust make everything sepia. I can hear my veins pumping. I say an affirmation and it doesn’t do anything.

This time the latch gives when I push it. I hesitate but there’s no one around, no alarm. No sign that says, “No Trespassing.” I take a step but the horsehair muffles the sound. I blink in the dark, and when my eyes adjust, the memories rush back.

My aunts came here dancing on hot summer nights after the stampede. Sometimes they brought me. We danced to Willie Nelson and Kenny Rogers. They had bingo nights and once I won a turkey and my aunts won two hams. People glared at us when we left. We thought we’d be mugged in the parking lot.

They brought me here the day the horse died. I was crying so hard they didn’t want to leave me alone. They wanted to dance but all I could think about was that horse on its back. I saw how it looked at me when it was dying. I didn’t just hear, I felt its heart accelerate, staccato, then stop dead.

They covered it with a tarp. The announcer didn’t say anything, and the crowd’s attention turned to the next race. When we came back the next day, the horse and tarp were gone. We never discussed it. I buried the memory.

I excelled at school. Went to university. My family cut out and framed newspaper clippings about my achievements. I studied business and psychology. I learned to be my authentic self and told people they could become self-actualized like me. I visited home but my family embarrassed me. Then I couldn’t fit them into my calendar, even after I hired a scheduling assistant.

Standing here in the empty hall, I can almost see those bingo cards. I remember the turkey I won. It’s like with the horse, more vivid than anything now. More than my partner, more than my craft room or awards. More than the buzzwords that roll off my tongue in front of a crowd.

When me and my partner started making money, we bought a house and invested in equities. I’d shred our monthly earnings reports without opening them. It felt better. Now I read them, and the only thing going through my head is, if we have another good quarter, I can afford that second craft room. Is that the authentic me?

#

The light shifts, startling me. I’ve wasted precious time here, ruminating. The air presses down on my chest. My ears pop and I don’t need to turn to know what’s behind me.

I smell something above the horsehair. I taste it too, burnt oil and hay. And more than that. Something’s not right with me. I open my mouth and pull back my top lip. A strange feeling—my flehmen organ is awakening.

I can taste its shape, smell its temperature. It gives form to what’s stalking me. Is it a horse? No, this monster is bigger. It starts toward me and the wooden rafters of the dance hall groan and start to buckle.

My phone falls from my hand, sunlight and dust blinding me. I search, desperate, for an affirmation but my mind is empty. An errant nail grazes my face and every welt and itch on my skin burns electric. When it steps a second time, the earth shudders. Even the horse-hair wonder floor can’t withstand its immensity. It lowers its face to me, skin shining. My eardrums pulse from the pressure.

#

I’m on the ground, stunned and breathless. My ears are screeching, and my arms and legs are pins and needles. There’s a crushing pain in my lungs. My pulse is red behind my vision. The beast leans over me and the sun reflects off it. My eyes smart, but I can’t look away. I blink and realize my mistake. That’s no monster—it’s a metal combine. Someone must have left it running.

The weight comes off my chest and I take a long breath. I try to stand but my legs are shaky. My phone buzzes somewhere in the rubble. I search for a shut-off switch but don’t see one. There’s no brand-name either, no “John Deere.” Though there’s something on the machine—red splotches.

I take a step toward the combine. Reach out and touch the metal, not caring that it’s burning hot and sparking. It’s covered in soot. I wipe it and the metal skin comes off, too. I brush off more, not caring about my singed fingers. I can’t tell if the blood on my hands is from the combine or my own scorched palms. The machine is sloughing off in layers. Each time I touch it, the red welts on my own arms burn. The combine smokes and I keep unpeeling. How deep do the layers go?

#

My phone beeps. I thought it was on airplane mode. I glance at the screen and it’s my partner, asking how I am. For once, the words fail me. There’s not enough room in the text box for the truth. Like what really happened when I “fell” into the bathroom mirror and cut my forehead. How everything I’ve learned about “finding myself” is from university textbooks and self-help influencers in California. How I tell people how to be, but I don’t even know myself. How when I threw my head through that mirror, I was trying to find something real beneath the artifice.

I start to type then erase the text. He wouldn’t understand. Then it occurs to me—he might, after all, he also works in an extractive industry…

I pull more layers off the combine. There’s a pile of sloughed-off metal at my feet. The combine sputters and the red blotches on its structure shine brighter. I take off another layer and there’s something smooth and white underneath. I can’t breathe, it’s so painful.

It doesn’t look like a combine now. I look into the metal and it dawns on me—it’s not just the exposed bone. It has a cut over its eyebrow, too. My chest seizes and I fall down on my back. The air bears down and dust rises around me.

That’s no combine. That’s me.

#

I’m back at the motel, and there’s an ocean in the parking lot. It’s not just water. I see something black—we’ve hit oil, maybe. I should call my partner. The dog-hero lifts its leg and pees to greet me. I get out of the car and smell smoke, the wildfires will be here soon.

My alarm company calls. God knows how the motel suddenly got cell coverage, but the important thing is that my house has burned down. Even the craft room has melted, along with the award rooms and quartz countertop. I wonder where they’ll send our monthly earnings reports now.

I start to text my partner but there’s a blank space when I look up his contact info. The conference app beeps, but I know better than to click on it. I don’t know how I ever believed in that world. I should be on the ground, having a heart attack. But I’m not that horse. I don’t feel anything. I should have known the truth would find me, eventually. I lean back on my car and watch the flames reach the canola crops. There’s a roar when they catch and I finally breathe.

#

Fire approaches the motel. I wade through the parking lot sea to my room, grab pliers and run a bath anyway. There’s no trace of the motel owner and I don’t like how the dog is looking at me. It takes forever for the tub to fill, and strange things float to the surface. So much from the past is coming up. I look at my reflection in the shattered mirror. The weals on my cheeks are oozing pus. No one will give me an award now.

The dog named for a hero pisses against the tub. It gives me courage. I lift my upper lip and grimace, then dip my toe in. I should have done this years ago. I lower myself in and the water stings my exposed bones.

My weals itch unbearably. I rip off a layer of skin and blood sprays the bathtub. This is going to be painful. I hope it’s not too late—if I go home, will my aunts even recognize me? Will they forgive me if I bring them a ham or a turkey? I peel off more tissue, then push my head into the water.

I must be in here somewhere.

© 2026 EC Dorgan