"They keep going, around Dook’oosłííd and through the forest before descending into the Painted Desert."

My gun is the winning hand. I open my backpack wide and reveal it, as prized as his harmonica. This only a game, I think.

Before her eyes, the skin closed up, sealed together by a thin white line, as though her milk had transformed to glue.

Yes, I still feel some urge to dispose of it—of her—to quell hundreds of little lives beneath the flimsy whack of my yellow Croc.

The medium arranged the appointment the way one might arrange a car rental, only with greater professionalism.