still confused, and starts rambling bits of words. His face looks as human as a face can look. No mask, no fake, no solidness. All of it is hitting him: the fact that I did not pick up people, and now they have likely burned, and so have mountains and deer and homes, and all of this is hitting him, and he keeps saying, âBut wait, but wait,â as if that will help stop the truth.
I keep watching him, unable to take my eyes off of him. I watch him suffer, and all I can think is, Oh god, not him too, heâs just a human. He has to fight hard to not split apart, too . Behind him, in the square of light, the rain suddenly stops, and the silence that follows sounds as hollow as dried-up bones.
Chapter Eight
The sting of stars. The storm has swept the sky. The stars are spattered by a broad brushstroke, a thick Milky Way that spirals out into little flecks. One lone burr streakdazzles across the sky. The moon is full and also glows a bit red. The soft swishing fabric of the sleeping bag is a louder version of the wind. From the back of the pickup, on my camping pad, in my sleeping bag, I sit up enough to pour another glass of whiskey. Raise it to the sky and make a toast:
                    To the wildfire, to the mountains,
                    to the deer and the moose and the elk and the bears,
                    to the fleeing humans who will never be quite the same
                    and the ones who died.
                    To the soulwrenchers that cascade into a body,
                    to the thump thump thump of her heart.
                    To Tess, who needs to hurry and be ready to go.
                    To Tess, the spark of a soul, who is outraged to find out that
                    she can feel.
                    To the unknown woman in the desert,
                    a woman and her child who had particular brands of desires
                    and dreams.
Breathe yourself back in, Tess. So much depends upon a moment. Amber, Amber, Amber, I want to tell you the rest of the story. I didnât finish my story.
Here is the rest, Amber: Five years ago, I was driving them all to Colorado, and the men were in the back of the horsetrailer, and Lupe and Alejandra were up front. On we went. Eventually I had to pee, so I pulled over. I could have stopped one moment earlier or later. But I did not. I stopped right then. There I was, squatting next to the truck, when I decided this was a good place for a drop, where I could leave the gallons of water and shoes and blankets, as I often did back then. I lugged this stuff a quarter mile out from the truck, because if any pollos came by, theyâd be near the road, but not be on the road, and they would find this giftâthis offering that I mark with a white cloth on a stickâof items that they might need.
I was walking along, looking for rattlesnakes, for cactus, for dangers, when I came across something else.
That was the last moment.
Last moment.
The last moment of the Tess I knew, the last moment of my old self.
There, at my feet, was a human skull. Long black hair and a red barrette. I peered closer. What the fuck? I thought. Wait, what?
I peered for a long time at the gold cap on one of her teeth. Fascia
I keep watching him, unable to take my eyes off of him. I watch him suffer, and all I can think is, Oh god, not him too, heâs just a human. He has to fight hard to not split apart, too . Behind him, in the square of light, the rain suddenly stops, and the silence that follows sounds as hollow as dried-up bones.
Chapter Eight
The sting of stars. The storm has swept the sky. The stars are spattered by a broad brushstroke, a thick Milky Way that spirals out into little flecks. One lone burr streakdazzles across the sky. The moon is full and also glows a bit red. The soft swishing fabric of the sleeping bag is a louder version of the wind. From the back of the pickup, on my camping pad, in my sleeping bag, I sit up enough to pour another glass of whiskey. Raise it to the sky and make a toast:
                    To the wildfire, to the mountains,
                    to the deer and the moose and the elk and the bears,
                    to the fleeing humans who will never be quite the same
                    and the ones who died.
                    To the soulwrenchers that cascade into a body,
                    to the thump thump thump of her heart.
                    To Tess, who needs to hurry and be ready to go.
                    To Tess, the spark of a soul, who is outraged to find out that
                    she can feel.
                    To the unknown woman in the desert,
                    a woman and her child who had particular brands of desires
                    and dreams.
Breathe yourself back in, Tess. So much depends upon a moment. Amber, Amber, Amber, I want to tell you the rest of the story. I didnât finish my story.
Here is the rest, Amber: Five years ago, I was driving them all to Colorado, and the men were in the back of the horsetrailer, and Lupe and Alejandra were up front. On we went. Eventually I had to pee, so I pulled over. I could have stopped one moment earlier or later. But I did not. I stopped right then. There I was, squatting next to the truck, when I decided this was a good place for a drop, where I could leave the gallons of water and shoes and blankets, as I often did back then. I lugged this stuff a quarter mile out from the truck, because if any pollos came by, theyâd be near the road, but not be on the road, and they would find this giftâthis offering that I mark with a white cloth on a stickâof items that they might need.
I was walking along, looking for rattlesnakes, for cactus, for dangers, when I came across something else.
That was the last moment.
Last moment.
The last moment of the Tess I knew, the last moment of my old self.
There, at my feet, was a human skull. Long black hair and a red barrette. I peered closer. What the fuck? I thought. Wait, what?
I peered for a long time at the gold cap on one of her teeth. Fascia
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