“It’s a mesa. That spire. That’s the mesa.” “What mesa?” “In my ma’s story,” Wayne said, “it all ended at the mesa. The lone peak in the center of a flat landscape.” Wayne eyed his friend to see if he complained they weren’t in that story. Because in this, Wax would be wrong. They were in it—or at least living alongside it. Because Wayne had decided it was so, and that was the way of things. “A mesa, eh?” Wax said, letting one leg slip out over the edge to dangle. “Yeah, I can see that.”
