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The moon came up whistle-thin. A tooth, a claw, the leanest blade. And a low wind skulked among the twisted knots of sage and greasewood
She moved like a ribbon, Gillian thought. A spill of ribbon.
A knot of moths cut and spun. Above the muted, tinny music coming from inside the bar, a coyote howled.
Gillian had never seen anything quite like it, the way the land beneath seemed to lift them toward the perfect black bowl of night. Such a spill of sugar, salt.
Wendell got the same feeling he’d had hiking through the mountains with Rowdy—a relief falling down through him like rain, a sudden gratitude at being so unguarded, so exposed.
Here is a hint boy. When things are easy they are most often wrong. Most often dishonest and cowardly.
Grasshoppers flung themselves through the dry grass. The seconds cracked and ticked. The bleached sear of them always on her back, in her scorched lungs.
The bartender—one of those bony, hard-living women who looked sixty-five but was likely thirty-eight, all squint and sunburn and cigarette—fumbled
