“What’s the matter,” Carter would ask when he saw her sitting in the dark at two or three in the morning staring out at the dry wash. “What do you want. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what you want.” “I don’t want anything.” “Tell me.” “I just told you.” “Fuck it then. Fuck it and fuck you. I’m up to here with you. I’ve had it. I’ve had it with the circles under your eyes and the veins showing on your arms and the lines starting on your face and your fucking menopausal depression—” “Don’t say that word to me.” “Menopause. Old. You’re going to get old.” “You talk crazy any more and I’ll
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