Author: Todd Connelley

October – December, 1974

1.

            Alexandra Boone decided to chop off her hair on the bus back to Marfa. She was sitting in her usual seat, second row from the back, when another girl plopped down beside her like they were best friends or something. The girl had on blue eyeliner and wore a long-sleeved denim shirt with her hair pulled in a single-knot braid. West Texas chic. Alexandra hated everything and everyone down here, and this made her weirdly brave.

            “I can’t believe Marfa isn’t big enough for a high school,” said Alexandra, like she’d known the girl forever. The nearest high school was in Alpine, twenty-six miles west of Marfa, a fact her father either 1) didn’t know, or 2) absolutely knew but never bothered to mention.  

            “You get used to the bus,” said the girl in an accent so thick it sounded fake.

            “Wish I’d known before my father moved us down.”

            “From where?”

            “Austin.”

            “Can’t say I’ve been.”

            “It’s a gas.”

            “Is your daddy a rancher? That why you moved down?”

            Life would make more sense if that were true. “He’s an artist,” she said and braced.

            “A picture painter?”

            Alexandra laughed way too loudly. The bus driver—a short Mexican woman who drove over the speed limit but got pissed if someone changed seats—glanced in the rearview. “He’s a sculptor, actually. He builds statutes.”

            “Of what?”

            “Nothing so far.”

            “So he moved ya’ll to Marfa to make nothing?”

            “You know what, never mind.”

            Alexandra pressed her nose against the bus window glass. Craggy mountains blurred by in a burnt-sienna smear. So alien-looking. Mountains were supposed to be snow-topped and charming, but down here they were sunbaked and bald and surrounded by the Chihuahuan Desert. According to her father, it was the second biggest desert in the world (after the Sahara) and stretched from West Texas through Mexico all the way to the Pacific Ocean. There was a zero percent chance she was ever going camping.

Her breath fogged the glass as Marfa appeared over the horizon. For such a tiny town, it had a super dramatic-looking courthouse. Like a cathedral from Europe or something, though she’d technically never been, but still, she’d seen enough pictures. The dome poked up over the horizon for a second, then quickly dipped beneath. This happened every day and made her weirdly lonely until they turned down Highland Avenue, the town’s main drag, Such a joke. It was basically a barber shop, an ancient hotel where the cast of Giant stayed a million years ago, a post office, and a movie theater showing Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore, which she’d already seen, and honestly, not that great. She watched the beige one-story buildings float past and tried not to scream. How did this happen? How did she end up in this God-forsaken town? Oh yeah, that’s right: she didn’t have a choice. One day her father was teaching art history at the University of Texas, and the next, her selfish, slutty mother was explaining how she was in love with her obviously loaded dentist. Game, set, match. Her father obviously lost his mind and decided to flee Austin for Marfa, believing there was something mystical about the light. So here she was. No friends, nothing to do, just desert and sky and endless boredom. 

The bus rattled to a stop under the courthouse. The driver opened the door and wished her a great weekend as she stepped into the late-afternoon light. Alexandra didn’t even know it was Friday. That’s how upside down everything was.

She watched the bus chug smoke down Highland. It was late October and weirdly not that cold. She turned around and gazed up at the pink stucco courthouse. The dome was like a mini–St. Peter’s, only with windows instead of columns. But that wasn’t the weirdest part. The weirdest part was the statue way up top. A woman in a blindfold and carrying a giant balance and a sword. Her father said the statute was called Lady Justice and she was put there by an old-timey judge who caught his wife in bed with a ranch hand. The judge wanted a daily reminder that actions have consequences. Texas!     

Alexandra was thinking about walking to the Palace Theater to see if they planned on showing a different movie anytime this century when she heard a rumble. A beat-up pickup was heading right for her. She leaped out of the way and tumbled across the lawn under the courthouse. After checking to make sure all bones were intact, she brushed herself off and was ready to cuss this asshole. Then he got out of the truck.

            “You all right, miss?” said a voice that belonged to the face of a boy she couldn’t believe was real. Lanky and broad-shouldered with a deep tan that practically glowed through his white-t-shirt. Also, a cowboy hat for real.

            “You almost killed me,” she said, trying to avoid his eyes. Paul Newman-blue.

            “Real sorry,” he said in a butter-melt drawl. “I was trying to get to the feed store before they closed.”

            “And you decided to run me over instead?”

            “I do apologize, miss.”

            “Miss?”

            “You got a name?”

            “Alex,” she said without thinking. Not the formal Alexandra her mother preferred, but Alex. The boy’s brows arched like scared caterpillars. “Never met a girl with a boy’s name before.”

            “Now you have. What do they call you?”

“David.”

            “Learn to drive, David.”

            “Fair enough.”

            She shifted her weight and remembered she was wearing bell bottoms and a flowery poet shirt—a look that didn’t quite match her new name. She kept avoiding his eyes, and it was obvious he was doing the same. She glanced down and, yeah, mud-caked cowboy boots. A sigh escaped her body without warning. 

            “You sure you’re all right?” he said.

She tried not to smile. Then he tried not to smile. Instead of doing anything about it, she left him standing under the courthouse in that mystic Marfa light.

            Alex—the name sounded better in her head—hurried down the crunchy gravel road that led to their “house” and tried not to think about David. The wind picked up as the orangey light faded from the big Texas sky. The crunchy road curved past Marfa’s only restaurant, Mando’s, closed at this hour. They had gone once and it was greasy, smelly, and gross. She walked faster but couldn’t outrun her humiliation. Had she really left him standing under the courthouse? What kind of coward runs away from a real connection like that? How many of those do you get in a lifetime? She rounded a corner and found her father on a stepladder next to the adobe wall that surrounded their “house” like a moat.

“Can you give me a hand?” he said. He was wearing a denim work shirt, jeans, and boots, pretty much his standard Marfa uniform. His silver hair was slicked back from working. There was a bucket of mortar and a stack of bricks on the ground next to the stepladder. “Need to finish another row before dark.”

            “I have homework.”

            “Nothing you can’t knock out in twenty minutes.”

            “Why are we building a wall?”

            “Don’t want folks to see what I’m up to.”

            “You’re an artist, not a spy.”

            He smiled briefly. “I’m gonna let you apologize for that crack by helping me,” he said, handing her the trowel.

            Checkmate.

She buttered an adobe brick and handed it up to her father, who knocked it into place with precision and force. They worked without saying much as the remaining light faded. The temperature dropped a few degrees. She needed a sweater, but wasn’t about to call chicken first.

            “So, how was school?”

            “Fine.”

            “Fine’s not an answer.”

            “What do you want me to say?”

            “Something real would be nice.”

            Something real? How about that she blamed her mother for all of it? Or that she was thinking about catching the Amtrak to Austin and never coming back? Or that she met a boy she couldn’t stop thinking about? There was too much “real” in her life. All of it all tangled up in a color she couldn’t quite articulate.  

She went for it. “Was it the money?”

“Was what the money?”

“Is that why she left you?”

Her father slicked back his silver hair. “Your mother and I had been drifting apart.”

“What does that mean?”

“People change. Want different things.”

“Like a mansion in Westlake?”

            Her father looked up. The night sky was a black curtain with tiny holes of light. She’d never seen this many stars in Austin, or anywhere for that matter. It was honestly terrifying.

            “It’s not so bad here,” he said.

            “I’m going to my room.”

            She left him on the stepladder and opened the gate that led to their house, which used to be an airplane hangar. Her father bought it sight unseen, then paid some Mexicans to rid it of rusted parts, scour the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, and convert the back office into a kitchen and two bedrooms. He called it “The Block” because it took up an entire block. She crossed the barren yard and paused for a second. A half-moon rose over the hangar and the ghostly light made it seem even bigger. And it was already big enough to house a freaking commercial airliner. The roof curved down perfectly into those giant windows, and she could make out the reflection of the half-moon. The symmetry was weirdly beautiful, but yeah, she hated the place. It wasn’t a proper home for a teenage girl or really anybody who wasn’t a heartbroken artist. She opened the creaky old door and walked into the void. Mice clattered across the cement floor. Moonlight streamed through the windows and gave everything a horror movie vibe. She crossed the space quickly, ignoring the creepy pedestal her father had set up in the geographical middle of the hangar. That’s where he planned on displaying his first statue.

Once he got started.

            There was a door on the far side of the hangar that opened to the kitchen, a kind of hidden condo tucked within the enormity of the space. She hurried through the darkened kitchen until she was safe in her bedroom, then flopped onto her bed. There was a series of photographs and paintings on her walls, each framed and precisely hung. Her father’s rule: no taped posters or crummy-looking calendars. He wanted everything clean, perfectly spaced, framed. Minimalism, he called it. When she said, “Fine, I’ll leave the walls blank like a prison because what’s the difference?” he called his New York artist friends and a box showed up at the Marfa post office. Inside was a framed photograph of Mick Jagger looking like a demon. There was also a painting of Marilyn Monroe by Andy Warhol, who apparently loved her father’s semi-famous essay where he said, “Art could be mass-produced.” Whatever. They were all such nerds.

            The Warhol Marilyn occupied the space above her bed. She stared at those pouty lips and her sadly stunning eyes. Before she was Marilyn, she was Norma Jean.

This gave her an idea.

She hustled back to the kitchen and pillaged the junk drawer until she found a pair of trimming scissors. Dull, but doable. Her father always kept a bottle of Smirnoff in the freezer, and sure enough, there it was, crammed behind a stack of butcher paper steaks and a bag of ice. Cold, crisp vodka trickled down her throat.

She took the Smirnoff to her bathroom, bolted the door, and stared at her reflection. Natural blonde hair, past her shoulders. Her superpower. It made guys wild and girls worse, but for totally different reasons. Another pull of vodka. Then a handful of hair.

Wow.

Not that difficult.

She kept cutting until she kinda-sorta looked like Mia Farrow. Had the boy with Paul Newman eyes ever seen Rosemary’s Baby?

Doubt it.

2.

            Nobody said a word about her hair on Monday.

            Alex thought maybe the girl with blue eyeliner might say something on the bus ride to Alpine, but she sat near the front. Her new seatmate was a chubby kid named Clayton who greeted her with a knock-knock joke she refused to answer. At school, she pretended to look through her locker while kids scurried between classes. Mr. Lemons, the perpetually scowling vice principal, got her confused with a boy named Martin who everyone said beat up a janitor the previous year. Not shocking, since her short hair inspired her to dress like a stoner—holey jeans, one of her father’s Stones t-shirts, and Birks. Part of her goal was to confuse everyone. The other part made her stomach hurt to even think about. 

            American History was after lunch, and instead of going, she simply walked out the door by the gym nobody checked. Just that easy. Alpine was twice the size of Marfa, which wasn’t saying a whole heck of a lot, but at least they had a McDonald’s. It was across the street from dear ol’ Alpine High and she crossed without looking. She ordered a Big Mac with fries because fuck it and they tasted exactly like a Big Mac and fries back in Austin. So she ordered a shake. She scarfed everything down and walked to the Amtrak station one street over. It wasn’t much more than a tiny gray building with benches. She walked right up to the ticket counter and asked about the next train to Austin. The pimply station agent squinted over his glasses and said tomorrow morning. Twelve dollars cash. He barely noticed her hair.

Instead of going back to class, she spent the rest of the afternoon reading Kerouac on a bench in a dingy little park by the library. When it was time for the bus, she walked back to school and hopped on like no big deal. Nobody gave a single fuck. Maybe that was the secret to happiness. She found a seat in the back, sketched out a drawing of a unicorn, then once more watched the desert roll by. They passed a herd of cattle and she felt guilty about all the steak she’d been eating. Maybe she’d become a vegetarian, though that felt impossible.  

The bus pulled into the square like always, and when her feet hit the pavement, she went the opposite way and hid in the doorway of the courthouse. She wasn’t about to get run over again, and besides, it wasn’t like she hoped the boy with Paul Newman eyes would come back or anything. It wasn’t like she was dying to feel what they felt all over again. She had no idea how long she had waited in the shadow of the courthouse. She never even heard the rumble of his truck. But when she peeked around the corner, there he was, in the same hat, white t-shirt, jeans, boots combo. Her first instinct was to run. Instead, she walked up to him like they’d known each other forever, which in a way they had.

            “You cut your hair,” he said.

            Her heart quivered. Stay cool. Do NOT ask what he thinks. “Do you like it?”

            “I love it.”

            DEAD.

            “Thanks.”

            “What are you doing tomorrow?” he said, two-stepping her direction. His boots scraped the cement in a way she’d remember all her life, which honestly felt like it could end any second.

            “Tomorrow’s Tuesday.”

            “So?”

            “So, don’t you have school?” she said, wondering why she just now thought to ask.

“Couldn’t tell ya the last time I seen the inside of a classroom.”

            “What grade are you even in?”

            “Eleventh. I think.”

            “How old are you?”

            “Twenty,” he said, then tipped the brim of his cowboy hat to block the sun. The boys she knew back in Austin spent lots of money and time trying to nail the whole cowboy look, and here he was, sticking the landing.  

            She shuffled her feet. “So what did you have in mind?”

            He blushed.

3.

On Tuesday morning, she had a minor freak-out.

She’d never played hooky before and had no clue what to wear. And it wasn’t like David Talbot offered any hints about where they were going. Okay then, autumn was basically summer in West Texas, so she’d probably go with jean shorts and a top. But what top? She couldn’t risk a Stones t-shirt because what if he also had never heard of The Stones? Her heart couldn’t take that. She stood in front of her closet and ran her hand across the hand-me-down tops, skirts, and pantsuits from her mother. All so formal. She needed something functional but cute that said, “I know we’re skipping school, but let’s not make a big thing out of it.” She opted for an unfussy black t-shirt that kinda-sorta went with jean shorts. She rejected cowboy boots altogether and went with the Prada block-heel boots her mother got her for Christmas a few years back. Prada was the shit, honestly. Something about those shoes made her feel ten years older and rich. Like most fashion, it was impossible to explain.

She went to the kitchen and set water to boil. Her father insisted on Brazilian coffee beans, which they didn’t have in Marfa. So until his shipment arrived, they had to make do with good ol’ Folgers. And honestly, it didn’t taste that horrible. But what did she know about coffee, really? Other than it made her poop immediately, which was good, because having to poop on a date was a nightmare beyond words.

She plopped down in one of the chairs around the table in the kitchen. The table was oak and covered in knife marks because, according to her father, a table should be a natural extension of a meal. Whatever, dude. On the other side of the table was a window that revealed an outside patio that he’d converted to a workspace. A single industrial light dangled from a nail in the overhang. There was a cement mixer, some tools, a sawhorse, and a bunch of long, straight cement molds. And something new: a gray piece of concrete about six feet long and maybe a couple of feet wide. She wasn’t the best at measuring stuff in her head.

Her father ambled in like a wizard, hair askew, eyes rimmed with sleep. He’d obviously stayed up all night working on whatever that was.

He poured a cup and sniffed. “Vile,” he said, then drank it anyway.

“When does your coffee get here or whatever?” she said, then turned to lessen the chance of him noticing her distinct lack of a bra.

“Probably two weeks. It’s hard to get trucks to deliver all the way out here.”

“Maybe you should’ve thought of that before we, you know, moved.”

“Part of the process.”

“Of what, becoming hermits?”

“You’re funny.”

“What’s that on the patio?”

“Progress.”

“So it’s a sculpture or whatever?”

“It’s the foundation, yes.”

Alex eyed it again through the window. It just seemed like a piece of cement. “But, like, of what?”

“A square.”

“You’re making a sculpture of a square?”

He switched to the elephant in the room. “What’s with your hair? Or lack thereof?”

“Got bored.”

“Looks nice.”

“Yeah, nice is not exactly what I was going for.”

“What were you going for?”

“Can we not talk about this please?”

He drained his coffee, set the mug on the wooden table, then strolled to their cozy kitchen. It was so tiny compared to their old house in Austin. Basically, a gas stove next to the fridge, and yeah, that was it. Some red spice jars on the counter. Beside them, a toaster that barely worked. An open-face clock over the fridge. Living with less left more time for work. That was her father’s philosophy, which was just so perfect for a teenage girl. He opened the fridge and got out some eggs.

“Want any?”

“Sure.”

He cracked one after another in their only mixing bowl, then whipped them up. His recipe for scrambled eggs was a shit ton of butter and a little salt, and honestly, they were unmatched. Though she’d never ever ever admit that. He dropped a wad of butter into the pan.

“So what are you doing this Saturday?” he said, pouring liquid gold into sizzling butter. Her mouth began to water, but her brain was too distracted by the sheer weirdness of this question.

“Nothing like always. Why?”

“There’s a gallery runner coming from New York.”

“I’m sorry, a what?”

“A guy who travels around the country scouting art.”

“Is that even a thing?”

“Why would I make something like that up?” He plated the eggs, then walked over and placed the steaming plate right in front of her.

They were still too hot to eat. “And this gallery runner person is coming to Marfa all the way from New York?”

“He’s an old college friend.”

Her dad went to Syracuse approximately one million years ago and rarely talked about his college experience. Probably because he was a skinny nerd who read books and sketched trees in the park for fun or whatever. “So, like your best friend then?”

Her father glanced sideways like he was expecting someone. “Not exactly. Just a guy I’ve known a long time who happens to be in the art world.”

“Convenient.”

“That’s how the world works.”

“So he’s coming so ya’ll can drink vodka and yuk it up about the good ol’ days?”

“Something like that.”

She salted the eggs, then took a bite. So good, so buttery. While chewing, she looked out the patio window at his sad little piece of concrete. “Are you gonna show him your square or whatever?”

“That’s the plan, yeah.”

“And you think he’ll like it?”

“Fingers crossed.”

“What if he doesn’t?”

It was her father’s turn to sigh, something he rarely did. “Just be home, okay. I need you to help me put on a good show.”

“Should I learn to juggle?”

“Just serve cocktails and whatnot.”

“Whatnot?”

“Just say yes, Alexandra.”

“It’s Alex.”

“What?”

“I’m going by Alex now.”

“Since when?”

“Yesterday.”

He smirked all condescendingly. “Okay, Alex. Just say yes.”

“Fine. Okay. Yes.”

She waited behind the courthouse and watched the Marfa kids board the bus.

There was a sameness to them that made her sad. Dressed the same. Talked the same. Thought the same. Had no clue you could walk to 7-Eleven at midnight in Austin and get anything you wanted, including beer if you knew where to get a fake. Heck, they probably didn’t even know what 7-Eleven was. She wanted to scream at them to run away and not stop until they came to a city with more than one gas station at least. But it was too hot to get worked up. Not yet nine in the morning and already she was sweating her ass off. The seasons were skitzo down here. October should be cold and gray, but it was like nine thousand degrees out. 

The bus chugged to life and rumbled up Highland Avenue toward Alpine. She watched it recede, then turn left way down by the Shell station. What was she doing? Meeting a boy she hardly knew—scratch that, didn’t know at all. Like, he could be a raping maniac for all she knew. She felt Lady Justice up there judging her. Which she absolutely deserved. She needed to get a major grip and just go home and pretend she was sick or something. Her father wouldn’t care. She was seriously considering it when his pickup floated down Highland and parked in the same spot.

She tried to casually stroll over, but found herself kind of half-jogging instead. So awkward. Like zero control of her limbs. He climbed out of the truck in the same t-shirt, jeans, and boots combo. Their eyes met, and yep, still Paul Newman blue.

“You came,” he said.

“Did you think I wouldn’t?”

“Reckon you don’t know me all that well.”

“I know enough.”

This was the boldest thing she’d ever said to a boy, and her blush confirmed it. He just smiled, opened the passenger door of his truck, and she slid right in. The truck smelled of Old Spice—her father’s fave—and cigarettes. What was it with boys and Old Spice? The seat was sticky, and she adjusted her ass, hoping he’d notice. He placed his cowboy hat on the dash, threw the truck in reverse, and it made a coughing sound as they sped backward.

“Where we going?” she said, watching the courthouse recede from view. 

“You’ll see,” he said, then spun the truck forward like he’d done it a thousand times. She was dizzy for so many reasons.

“You’re not gonna take me to the middle of desert, right?”

“Not yet.”

She tried not to smile. Fail.   

They drove down Highway 90 in silence, but the good kind, where everything felt right. He pulled a pack of Marlboro Reds out of his front pocket and offered her one. She refused in a way that didn’t pass judgment, not that her opinion on smoking would stop a boy like him. He pushed the truck’s cigarette lighter, and when it popped out, she totally changed her mind. The cigarette tasted like ass. She fought her way through a coughing fit.

“You don’t have to smoke on my account,” he said.

“I love Marlboros.”

“That’s a lie.”

“How do you know?”

He raised his eyebrows. This boy had her number. She tossed her cigarette out the window. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure bet.”

“Why do your folks let you miss school? I mean, there are laws against that sort of thing.”

He tightened his grip on the wheel. “Ranching comes first. That’s how it is.”

“Yeah, but what if you don’t wanna ranch. What if you wanna actually, ya know, learn?”

“You learn a lot on a ranch.”

            “I meant like math and science and history and stuff.”

            “Ain’t much good in the real world.”

            He had a point.

            A long silence. The Chihuahuan Desert whizzed past all around them. “So what, are your folks like cowboys or something?”

            “Something like that.”

            “What does that mean?”

            He looked at her quickly with a little pain in his eyes. Then back to the road. “Daddy drinks a bit,” he finally said.

            “What about your mother?”

            “She’s gone.”

            “Like gone, gone?”

            “Might as well be. She just up and left one day. No warning, nothing.”

            “That’s rough.”

            He shrugged.

            “My mother left my father for a dentist.”

            “You shitting me?”

            “Yeah, he was like our family friend or whatever. I go to school with his son. Or did. It’s all so fucked up.”

            “Is that why you’re down here?”

            “Pretty much, yeah. My father wants to be a famous artist or whatever, so here we are.”

            “What kind of artist?”

            “I don’t know, like sculptures or something.”

            “Yeah, but why Marfa?”

            “Something about the light. I don’t know. It’s all so ridiculous.”

            “Where’s your mama at?”

            “Back in Austin. Living in a mansion in Westlake Hills.”

            “Why didn’t you stay with her?”

            Alex tried to smiled through it. “It wasn’t up to me.”

            He whistled in a super sad way.

            She tried not to burst into tears. This was completely unexpected. Sometimes it just hit— the overwhelming weight of her life.

            “Well, listen,” he said, smiling. “Ain’t so bad here. You get used to it after a while. Start to see it for what it is.”

“And what is it?”

“The most beautiful place on earth. And I aim to show you.” 

Warm feeling in her legs.

A sheer wall of red rock loomed ahead. Cottonwood trees clumped the base in tight little groups. She switched on the truck’s radio and caught the final chorus of “Seasons of the Sun,” the worst song in the entire world. She moved the dial up and down and finally found a country station. Dolly Parton sang about “Jolene” and David Talbot knew every word. The road curved around the red rock, and just like that, they were coasting into another town. Who knew there was a whole other town so close? West Texas was full of surprises.

The road leveled off. When she squinted, she could make out a water tower that said Balmorhea in rusted letters. A word she definitely couldn’t pronounce.

            “There it is,” he said, pointing at a brick wall with smallish turrets on either end.

            “You drove me all this way to see a wall?

            He chuckled. “Behind that wall is the biggest swimming hole in Texas.”

            “I’m sorry, the what?”

            “You’ll see.”

            He turned right and they passed underneath a sign that said Balmorhea State Park. He parked the truck, then disappeared inside a white brick building. She craned her neck and could make out a flash of blue over the building. A man in jean shorts carrying a towel waddled past. Two chubby little girls followed, both in bikinis. The mother was nowhere to be seen.

            David returned to the truck, handed her a ticket, and they parked a few feet past the white building. There were a few other cars, but it wasn’t all that crowded. They hopped out of the truck and walked through a cinderblock structure and there it was.

            The biggest swimming hole in Texas.

            She was expecting a literal hole in the ground filled with muddy water. But this was something else entirely. The water was Pacific-blue and definitely not chlorinated, but the rest looked exactly like a swimming pool, complete with high and low diving boards and a poolside longue area. And it was massive. Two rectangular pools connected by a giant circle of water. Surrounding it all were lounge chairs, a volleyball court, and a walk-up lunch stand that appeared to be closed.

            “This is crazy.”

            “The CCC built it in the thirties,” he said, unsnapping his shirt. “It was a make work project.”

            “The who?”

            “Civilian Conservation Corps. A voluntary work relief program from the government.”

            “Okay, socialist.”

            “Helped a lotta folks around here.”   

            She walked toward the pool. “Is the water like pool water or what?”

            “They damned up San Solomon Springs then built a little spillway. All that water comes from deep beneath the desert. Somethin’ like 22 million gallons a day. Ain’t that something.”

            They stood on the edge of the circle. The water was darker near the middle. NO DIVING had been painted on the steps leading in. A little boy in swim fins kicked past, his snorkel sticking out like a magician’s baton.

            “Are there fish?” she said.

            “Pupfish mainly. But they ain’t gonna hurt ya.”

            He took off his shirt and she made zero attempt to look away. His chest was flat, wide, and darker than she imagined.

            Time to go for it.

She pulled her halter up over head. Warm October wind warmed her skin. She adjusted the strap on the black bikini her mother said would never go out of style. He could feel her looking at her and didn’t mind. She wiggled out of her jeans shorts, and just like that, practically naked! She walked to the edge of the biggest swimming hole in Texas and jumped right in, hoping everything would stay in her bikini.

            The water was warmer than she thought. She tried not to think about the pupfish.

            “How deep?” she said, treading.

            He stood on the edge with a massive grin. “About twenty feet where you are.”

            She dove deep, making sure her ass was last part of her body to break the surface. She opened her eyes. The water shimmered clear. A school of fish darted beneath her, followed by a grown man in what appeared to be scuba gear. She shot back to the surface.

            “Holy crap,” she said, a bit out of breath. “There’s a scuba guy down there.”

            “He won’t bite,” he said, then executed a near-perfect swan dive. No splash.

            She glided through the water like a crocodile and waited for him to resurface. When he did, she wrapped her legs around his waist and kissed him without asking. After a few seconds of some serious making out, he pushed away and looked around.

The chubby girls in bikinis splashed around the steps, their father nowhere in sight of course. Near the deep end, a group of Texas Tech students sat on the side and cheered on their friend who was apparently terrified to jump off the high dive. A tanned, older couple (both in incredible shape) set up in the little lounge area.

            They spent the afternoon alternating between swimming and sunning. When the Tech students finally cleared out, David dared her to jump off the high dive. Of course she accepted, and her reward was the money shot. From that perch, she could see the entire blue expanse of the biggest watering hole in Texas with the Davis Mountains in the distance. Maybe her father was onto something. She dove without thinking and held herself underwater until it felt like air. She opened her eyes just in time to see David’s body shoot through the water like a tan missile going straight down. Later on, as the sun slowly dropped behind the mountains and brought the temperature with it, they floated on their backs. A few wispy clouds floated by. Then, way up high, a flock of birds drifted past in the shape of the letter V. David said they were Canadian geese flying south for the winter. When the lead goose got tired, he’d drift to the back and let another take his place.

            It was a perfect day. The last in a very long time.

5.

They got back to Marfa after dusk.

            As they drove down Highland, the light changed the courthouse from pink to flickering gold like the sun had exploded. Alex remembered how her father wanted help on Saturday. How had he convinced his art runner friend to travel all the way from New York to look at his sculpture, which was barely anything? And was he gonna fly to Midland, then rent a car and drive? Did Midland even have an airport? So many questions. It was making her hungry.

            “I’m starving,” she said.

            “Mando’s is probably still open,” said David and drove past the courthouse. Lady Justice, against the golden-black sky, looked down with concern.  

            “Is that the restaurant by where I live?”

            “Yeah. You been yet?”

            “Once. It was okay.”

            David coasted to a stop at the town’s only light. To their left, a Shell station that more resembled a saloon from a John Wayne movie. A crumbly old cowboy filled up his truck.

            “Mando’s used to have the best cheese enchiladas in town,” said David. The light turned green and they lurched forward.

            “What happened?”

            “Tell you when we get inside.”

            He pulled into a gravel lot next to a red one-story building with a blinking sign that said Mando’s. There were a few trucks (shocker) in the parking lot. David parked around back, then walked to the passenger side and opened the door. Again, who does that? She tried to play it cool, but couldn’t resist giving him a peck on the cheek. He placed his hand on her back and led her toward Mando’s. She couldn’t hold out much longer. And honestly, what was the point?

            As he clanged open the door, Alex noticed a missing persons poster. A little girl named Yiva who was eleven years old with long, straight black hair and haunting eyes. Been missing a little over a year. So sad. She felt for her parents. They went inside and that grease-laden Mexican food smell made her stomach go crazy. Mando’s was a single room with red vinyl booths and a small bar decorated in chintzy-looking Christmas lights. Oh right, the holidays were like coming right up. A group of cowboys in jeans, boots, and Stetsons drank Lone Star and dipped chips in salsa. David led her to an empty booth near the back. The vinyl was full of holes. She pretended not to care.

            “Are you gonna buy me a beer?” she said. The drinking age in Texas was nineteen.

            “If you want,” he said, then slid her a menu.

            “Are you having one?”

            “Don’t drink.”

            “Seriously?”

            “Not a drop.”

            “Because of your father?”

            He nodded.

            The waitress appeared. She was older—maybe twenty, though her frizzy black hair made it impossible to know for sure. She wasn’t wearing makeup, and the light had absolutely gone out of her eyes. A shame, because her eyes were seafoam-green. It was seriously hard to look away, they were that striking. The waitress asked if they wanted something to drink besides water. David ordered a Schlitz. The waitress nodded and then left.

            “She didn’t even ask for your ID.”

            “She don’t care.”

            “Why?”

            “Did you see that missing poster when we walked in?”

            “The little girl?”

            “That’s her big sister.”

            “Who? The waitress?”

            “Yep.”

            “Oh my God, what happened?”

            David looked around, then leaned in. “One night they were out looking for the Marfa lights.”

            “I’m sorry, the what?”

            “You ain’t heard of the Marfa lights?”

            “I’m from Austin, remember.”

            “They’re these mysterious lights out in the desert. Nobody knows what they are. Or where they come from.”

            “That sounds totally made up.”

            “I wouldn’t lie to you.”

            Oh, that felt good. But she had questions. “So what? Like, the lights abducted her or something?”

            He shook his head. “All I know is they went looking for the Marfa lights and Yiva, that’s the little girl’s name; Yiva was never heard from again.”

            “Maybe she just got lost.”

            “Her sister made it back.”

            Alex felt something dislodge. “Maybe her sister—what’s her name?”

            “Consuela.”

“Maybe Consuela had something to do with it.”

            David shook his head.

            “How do you know?”

            “Ain’t like that.”

            Alex loved a good conspiracy theory. “Maybe it was aliens.”

            “Maybe.”

“Or Satan worshipers.”

            Consuela returned with a glass of water and a Schlitz, which she presented to David. He slid it across it the table and Alex took a long, cold drink. The waitress absolutely didn’t care.

            “You ready to order?” she said.

            “Cheese enchiladas for two,” said David.

            “Anything else?”

            “Nope.”

            The waitress nodded.

            Alex wanted to hug her. She wanted to tell her everything would be all right when obviously this wasn’t true. Someone called the waitress by name. Consuela. A little tremor of fear danced across her face and she left their table. Alex craned her neck. There was a man standing behind the bar. Greased-back hair and wearing a black t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Trying way too hard to come off like a badass. “Is that Mando?” she said.

            David looked over his shoulder, then back. “Reckon that’s her fella.”

            “What’s his name?”

            “Not sure.”

            “He looks like a jerk.”

Jerky Boyfriend poured some clear, white liquid into a shot glass. Consuela drank it down without thinking twice.

“He kinda took over the place after Mando died. That’s why it sorta sucks now.”

            Alex took another drink. Cold, metallic, delicious. “I’m gonna go talk to her.”

            “What for?”

            “Maybe she remembers something. A clue. Some little detail that everybody missed.” Columbo used to be her favorite show, but of course, her father no longer owned a television.

            “She’s been through a lot.”

            “Maybe I can help.”

            “Just leave it be.”

            Alex was determined and couldn’t figure out why. She walked over without thinking it through. Consuela stopped talking to Jerky Boyfriend and gave her the side-eye.

            “Can I help you?” she said, an edge to her voice that wasn’t there before.

            “Hi, I’m Alex.”

            “Do you need more chips, Alex?”

            Jerky Boyfriend leaned over the bar. Was he looking down her shirt? Oh Jesus. He was totally looking down her shirt.

            “I just wanted to say sorry about your little sister.”

            Consuela went rigid. “Why are you asking about my sister?”

            “I’m just curious is all.”

            Jerky Boyfriend piped up. “Who are you, Nancy fucking Drew?”

            “No, I just moved here.”

            “From where?”

            “Austin.”

            “Only queers and steers from Austin.”

            Alex felt herself flush red and returned to the booth. David looked at her like she was nuts, which she probably was. But she felt a kind of kinship with the broken-hearted. It was stupid and wrong, and she really needed to mind her business, but what could she do? Divorce left a mark. She was only beginning to realize how deep.  

            “When are the next Marfa lights?” she said.

            “Nobody knows.”

            “I want to go.”

            The smile ran away from his face. “Don’t go chasing the Marfa lights.”

            “David Talbot, are you afraid?”

            “I ain’t afraid a’ nothing.”

            “So when are you taking me?”

            “Friday night.”

            “It’s a date.”

6.

Okay then, what to wear when searching for the mysterious Marfa lights?

After standing in front of her closet for what felt like forever, Alex decided to go with a merino sweater over tan hiking shorts and sneakers. Since Prada didn’t make a sensible hiking shoe—not yet anyway— she was forced to go with her well-worn Chuck Taylors. And while this wasn’t exactly a “roughing it” look, she was confident it balanced comfort with sex appeal while projecting an air of confidence and determination. That she was thinking like September Vogue wasn’t lost on her.

            She went to the kitchen to look for gloves and a hat. Her father was at the stove frying bacon in his cast-iron skillet. He’d been working all night and his silver hair needed a thorough washing. Vampire hours were his thing.

            She smiled her best fake smile. “Um, can I borrow the wool cap I gave you for Christmas two years ago? The one you never wear.”

            “I’ve worn it.”

            “Is it still in your closet?”

            “Why?”

“I’m going hiking,” she said, realizing she hadn’t fully thought this through. She really needed to work on her lying skills. Adults were ninjas at it.    

“When?”

“Now.”

“Hiking with who?”

“A friend.”

“Does this friend have a name?”

The thing about her father, and who knows, maybe it was true of all artists, but the thing was—he had a finely calibrated bullshit meter. Like he always knew when she was lying. There was just no getting around it. So she had a choice. Either make up some story about a bunch of kids with fake-sounding names like Jim Bob and Patsy or take a run at the truth.

“David.”

Her father forked out a slice and placed it on a paper-towel-covered plate. “Is he from around here?”

“Where else would he be from?”

“Well, you’re from Austin.” The clock above the fridge said 4:47. David wanted to meet at the courthouse around five. She shuffled her feet.

“Yeah, but I’m so the exception.”

“In so many ways.”

She smiled for real this time.

“What grade is he in?

“He’s a junior, I think.”

“You think?”

“Oh my God, stop asking me so many questions.”

Her father looked her right in the eye. “Is he the reason you skipped school last week?”

Fuuuuuuuuuck.

“Sit down,” he said, then carried the plate of bacon to the kitchen table. There were some biscuits on the table along with butter and strawberry jam. She sat down. Late-afternoon light streamed through the windows just beyond the wooden table. She snuck a peek over his shoulder. The base of the statue had doubled overnight. Halfway to a square. His work ethic was either impressive or obsessively weird. Was there a difference? He cleared his throat. “Your principal called.”

“What an asshole.”

“Alexandra, come on.”

“Alex.”

“Did this boy make you skip?”

“God no.”

“Are you sure?”

“Don’t you trust me?”

“Of course, but listen, you can’t skip school anymore.”

“I thought you were all about breaking the rules.”

“Not when it comes to my daughter.”

“So you’re a hypocrite.”

He slathered a dab of butter on a biscuit, took a bite, and chewed so slowly she heard the minute hand on the clock above the fridge. Finally, he spoke. “Be home by curfew please.”

“Wait. What curfew?”

“Ten thirty.”

“This is literally the first time I’ve heard about a curfew.” She should’ve been angry, but since she was fully planning on ignoring said curfew, she kept it cool.

“Things change.”

“Apparently so.”

“Where are you going hiking exactly?”

“I mean, the desert. Where else?”

“Be careful.”

“Always.”

She snuggled with David Talbot under quilts in the bed of his truck somewhere so far off Highway 67 they couldn’t hear cars. Only wind and the occasional coyote, a creepy mournful cry that made her more sad than scared. Her wool sweater wasn’t thick enough for the desert and she inched ever closer. Body heat! She looked up at the night sky. There was a new moon, which meant no moon, and literally a billion stars blinked back, though one blinked brighter than the rest. She thought it might be a planet, but wasn’t exactly sure. Were planets brighter? Did they twinkle? She didn’t want to come across as dumb, but then again, she didn’t have to pretend around David.

            “Is that Venus?”

“You got it.”

“Lucky guess.”

“Nah, you know what you’re doing. Now show me the North Star.”

David knew everything there was to know about the constellations. He said they were like television for ancient civilizations, which made total sense. She searched the blinking stars for Cassiopeia, easy to spot because those five stars were so bright. The constellation was named after a vain queen, and if you titled your head, the stars made a W, the shape of her throne. She wasn’t buying it, but hey, that’s astrology for you (or astronomy, whatever). But the cool thing was, when you followed a line from the valley of the W, it pointed right at Polaris. The North Star. And yep, there it was.  

“It’s right where it’s supposed to be,” she said.

“Like us.”

Corny, but whatever. She snuggled closer, but couldn’t stop thinking about Yiva. “Do you think she just wandered off and got lost?” 

“Who?”

“Yiva. The missing girl from the poster.”

She felt him shrug. “Hard to say.”

            “When do the lights come?”

            “Ain’t no telling. Sometimes they don’t come at all.”

            “Yeah, but how much longer should we wait?” Her father needed help with the art runner tomorrow. The guilt. So annoying. She couldn’t stay out past midnight. That was pushing the curfew to the max.

            “You got somewhere to be?”

            “My father needs my help tomorrow.”

            “Clearing brush?”

            “Mixing drinks.”

            “Don’t he know how to pour?”

            “I wish. He’s got an old friend coming all the way from New York to look at his work.”

            “Long haul.”

            “I don’t get it at all.”

            “Maybe his painting’s that good.”

            “He’s a sculptor.”

            “What kind of material?”

            “Like concrete. I don’t know. There’s a big mixer in the backyard.”

            “Serious business.”

            “I mean, he moved us all the way out here for his art of ‘whatever.’” She did that air quote thing on whatever.

            “Can I ask you something?”

She couldn’t see his face in the dark. Any time a boy asked this question, a bigger, much more serious question was sure to follow. “Go on.”

            “Why didn’t you just stay with your mama in Austin?”

            In the divorce, her mother told the judge she didn’t want full custody. She claimed Alex was simply better off with her father. That she wasn’t “emotionally prepared to provide support at this time.” A direct quote burned into her soul. Truth was, her mother just wanted a rich new life. Fine. Whatever. Free country and all. But that didn’t mean Alex was okay with any of it. Or would ever, ever, ever, ever, ever forgive her mother. Like fucking ever. There was no way to cleanly articulate any of this. So instead, she just said…

            “It’s complicated.”

            “Fair enough.”

He turned on the flashlight and aimed it toward the universe. Dust particles flickered in the beam. A moth flew through. At least, she thought it was a moth. “Light goes on forever. All the way to the stars.”

“Really?”

“Yep.”

“Trippy.”

“Oh shit,” he said, sitting up and looking far into the darkness of the Chihuahuan Desert.

“What is it?”

He pointed over her head. “There they are.”

She looked where he was pointing, but everything was black. Maybe you had to be from Marfa to see the Marfa lights.

Then…

Two orbs seemed to roll on air. Way out near the mountains. One white, one kind of a blue-green. She tried to keep her cool. People from Austin kept their cool. But. Those. Weren’t. Normal. Lights.

“Let’s just leave,” she said.

“No way.”

“Seriously, let’s get the hell out of here.”

“What about Yiva? Maybe she’s with those lights.”

“You know what, I don’t care about her anymore.”

“You don’t mean that.”

She thought it over. He was right. Dammit. He was one of those guys who was always right. “Okay, fine.”

He hopped out of the truck, then helped her down.

She counted backward from ten while her eyes began to adjust. The Marfa lights loomed a little bit larger. They were getting closer. They were definitely getting closer. David rummaged around in the truck until he found his canteen. Then he knelt down and lifted the cuff of his jeans. Something made of leather was strapped to his ankle.

“What is that?” 

He unsnapped the top and removed a huge, scary-looking knife.

“Do we really need that?”

“Stay close,” he said, then took off running. 

She followed him down washouts and over rocks. Tough sledding in the dark. The desert floor had lots of rocks and drop-offs. Somehow, they made it to a barbed-wire fence without rolling an ankle or worse.

“We gotta crawl through,” he said.

“How do you crawl through barbed wire?”

David stepped on the lower wire, then gripped the top one and lifted it. This created a hole big enough for her to step through. One of the barbs snagged her sweater. She was stuck like a fish on a hook. He reached down and freed her. She made it to the other side. “Whose land is this?” she said.

“I don’t know,” he said and stepped through the hole while holding it open. A neat trick.

“So we’re trespassing.”

“Yes we are.”

“Can we get in trouble?”

“That’s why I brought the knife.”

“Cool.”

“Come on…”

Even in the dark she could tell this land was different. Flatter, not as many scrubby trees, a vast plain at the base of the mountains. She tried to keep up, but David was a gazelle. He’d never been this close to the Marfa lights and clearly nothing was going to stop him. She remembered she’d forgotten to bring her father’s camera. Nobody would believe them anyway. No matter what they found. When she caught up to David, he was crouched behind a big rock. She knelt beside him and put her head on his back. Old Spice and sweat. She looked where he was looking. The Marfa lights were right on them. Maybe fifty yards away. The white and blue-green orbs spaced with precision. Too weird. Then she heard tires on gravel. That familiar crunching sound.

“Wait, hold on. Is that a truck?” she said.

David stared as the lights glowed bigger. “I think so.”

“What the hell is happening?”

“Duck down.”

The truck drove past their big rock and stopped. And that’s when she realized the Marfa lights were two spotlights—one white, one blue-green—shining from a tower-looking rig on the bed of this fucked up-looking truck. Whoever was driving killed the engine. The fake Marfa lights made it hard to see anything. Then they went dark. The truck engine ticked down. A song played from inside the cab, sounded like “Paint it Black.”

The driver’s side door opened. A man with a flashlight stepped out. His boots scraped the desert floor. He walked with a limp. “Come out from behind that rock,” he said.

They didn’t speak.

Or breathe.

Flashlight beam was over their heads. David squeezed her hand. For a second, she thought everything would be okay. Then the man spoke again. “I know you’re back there. I could smell you from a mile away.”

Smell us?

David squeezed her hand. “It’s gonna be okay.”

“Should we run?”

“I’ll talk to him.”

David stood tall. The flashlight found him. “We was just searching for the lights,” he said.

“Looks like you found ‘em,” said the man. He wore a Dallas Cowboys jersey, dirty jeans, no shoes. He had a full beard. His eyebrows slithered like earthworms.

“We don’t mean no harm.”

“Tell your girl back there to stand up,” said Earthworm Man.

“I’m by myself,” said David, and she loved him so much.

“Bullshit.”

“I’m telling the truth, old man.”

Earthworm Man stepped forward and elbowed David in the face. Just boom. David dropped to his knees, didn’t cry out.

Alex stood. “Leave him alone.”

“There you are,” said Earthworm Man.

            “Please just let us go. We won’t tell anyone.”          

            Earthworm Man waved his flashlight over her face and body. “How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

            “That’ll work.”

            “Please don’t hurt me.”

            “Ain’t gonna lay a finger on you.”

            “How do I know?”

            Earthworm Man laughed. He had a hideous laugh. “You’d be dead already.”

The passenger door of the truck opened. “Paint it Black” got louder. The first thing Alex saw was a pair of dirty ballet slippers. Then a flimsy cotton dress. Then a girl with her hair held back in a paisley headband. The girl skipped over and stood beside Earthworm Man, who looked down at her and said, “You want her?”

The girl shrugged.

“Getcha a closer look then.”

The girl walked right up to Alex. She had the same eyes as the girl in the missing persons poster. It was Yiva. It was definitely Yiva. Something primal passed between them. Something that felt like the end of the world.

“Are you Yiva?”

She nodded.

Earthworm Man stepped closer. “Okay, that’s enough,” he said, and he was about to say more when a rock collided with his skull.

Alex turned.

David stood tall with another rock in hand. Clever boy. He was just pretending to be hurt.

Earthworm Man groaned, clutched his head, and bent over.

Alex grabbed Yiva’s hand. “We have to run.”

Yiva didn’t move.

Alex got frantic. “I’m trying to save you.”

            “You’re the one who needs saving, silly.”

            Yiva let go of Alex’s hand and walked over to the Earthworm Man, who was bleeding badly from the forehead. She knelt beside him, then picked up the rock and started bashing his head like a complete fucking psycho. “I wanna be the alpha,” she said between blows. “Die and make me the alpha.”

            The alpha?

What. The. Actual. Fuck?

            Earthworm Man screamed and sweet Mother of God, what a scream. Like, how could vocal cords even make that sound? And then, okay, what was happening, because Earthworm Man’s shoulder blades split through his Dallas Cowboys jersey. He rocked forward on all fours, and that’s when she noticed his hands. Only they weren’t hands, they were claws or paws or whatever you call hairy knuckles and yellow nails. The jersey spilt and fell off his shoulders. And seriously, was that hair? Like all over his body, which was most definitely not the body of a human anymore. Ribbed, muscular, and pulsing with a kind of manic, canine energy. Like a werewolf. Only, there’s no such thing.

Werewolves aren’t real.

She couldn’t move.

But David could. He charged at whatever that creature was and they rolled on the desert floor. Alex found the flashlight and trained the light in that direction. The creature was more wolf than man. Its snout face opened, and yeah, those were fangs. Big yellow drippy fangs. David tried to wiggle free, but the werewolf—and what else could it be?—bit into the soft, fleshy part of his side. David screamed, and honestly, he was probably already dead. Alex took off running and was almost to the barbed wire fence when she remembered Yiva.      

Shit.

She turned back, but the werewolf blocked her path. Red eyes blazing. Ears pinned back. Kind of smiling. This was it. She was about to die. She waited for her life to flash, but something else did.  

A wink of silver.

A knife.

David’s huge, scary-looking knife.

The werewolf collapsed in front her. The knife was sticking out of its head. One paw clawed the desert floor. The smell was unbelievable. She caught a glimpse of David standing behind the crumpled body of the werewolf, covered in blood. She staggered, slipped, then hit the ground hard. If this was the end, what a weird way to go.

Nobody would ever believe her.

7.

The sun woke her.

            Felt like a heat lamp at full blast. Alex pushed up on her elbows and opened her eyes. The desert stared back without blinking. What the hell happened? She ran a hand over the back of her head and felt a knot. Her fingers came back streaked in red. Not good. And my God, she was thirsty, her mouth teeming with fuzzy spiders. She got to her feet, but way too fast. It was like stepping off a merry-go-round before it slowed. She looked down to catch her breath. A trail of fire-red ants marched in precision past her dusty Chuck Taylors. They were the biggest ants she’d ever seen. She watched them follow each other in a line toward, oh Jesus fucking Christ. The bloated body of a naked man sprawled across the desert. Big white belly, skinny redneck arms. A knife sticking out of his skull. Earthworm Man. She was starting to remember. Then she saw the truck with the fake Marfa lights and it all came roaring back. Someone coughed.

            David.

            Please be alive.

            He was curled on his side a few yards from Earthworm Man, one arm tucked under his body, the other bent unnaturally over his head. Blood in a purple half-moon under his shoulder. His breath came in choppy intervals. When she called his name, he opened his eyes. So she kept calling it.

            “Water,” he said.

            She found a canteen over by the truck and placed the opening to his mouth. Water dribbled his chin. She tilted his head back until he drank deeply. His Adam’s apple bobbed with each gulp, like a knotty alien under the skin. There was black stubble above his lip that she hadn’t felt when they were making out. His lovely lashes were coated in sand. When he couldn’t take another drink, she took a few sips of her own. The dizzy feeling had been replaced by a sense of dread so profound, her brain could barely keep up. She’s never been this far out on a limb before. 

            “How bad are you hurt?” she said.

            “Don’t know,” he said, his voice chalky and distant.

She lifted his shirt. No cuts on his perfect stomach. She rolled up his left sleeve, and yep, there it was. A ragged gash under his shoulder. Blood oozed through sand and grit. She dribbled water over it. He winced and bit his upper lip.  

“Can you stand?”

He gingerly pushed to his knees. The gash puckered in the sun. A black bird circled overhead. There was no wind.

            “I need you to bow your head,” she said.

            “Huh?”

            “Just do it.”

She took her sweater off. There was nothing sexual about the gesture even though she’d gone with the black bra, which suddenly seemed so obvious. She looped the neck of her sweater around his bowed head, pressed his good arm against his chest, then pulled the sweater around the elbow of his bad arm. Just like that, a sling.

“Who taught you that?” he said.

“Girl Scouts.”

He tried to laugh, but pain wouldn’t let him. The heat was escalating. By noon, it would be pushing eighty.

“We need to get moving,” she said.

David noticed Earthworm Man. A swarm of flies above his head. One landed on the knife handle and rubbed its legs together hungrily. “What happened to him?”

“You don’t remember?”

He shook his head. There were dark circles under his eyes. A finger of drool at the corner of his beautiful mouth. “I remember the Marfa lights were fake.”

“Bait.”

“What?”

“They were bait.”

“For who?”

Maybe they’d imagined the whole thing, because even talking about it was ridiculous. She’d read about mass hallucinations, like the Salem Witch Trials, where an entire village convinced themselves witches were real so they could throw women in jail for sleeping around. Maybe Earthworm Man was trying to kidnap them and nothing more. Just a good old-fashioned abduction. She watched David trying to piece together the night before. His eyebrows came together and apart while his mouth slowly opened. The smartest thing she could do was change the subject. They needed to get out of the desert and fast.

“How far is your truck?”

He pointed toward a horizon of red dirt and blue sky. “Bout a mile that-a-way.”

“Let’s go before it gets any hotter,” she said, then took off. She didn’t make it far when she realized he was still standing there. She turned around. The sun was behind him, so it was like looking at a shadow. She covered her eyes. “Are you coming?”

“I remember Yiva.”

“Yeah, so?”

“She’s still out here.”

Die and make me the alpha.

“Forget her.”

David could barely put one boot in front of the other. She kept an arm around his waist, but he kept pitching forward. He weighed so much more. The blood from his gash stained her black sweater sling and probably ruined it forever, but whatever. Finally, his truck appeared out of a mirage on the death horizon. Her thirst was unbearable and she realized with a creeping horror that she’d stopped sweating. Bit of a red flag.

            “There’s water in the toolbox,” he said, leaning against his truck.

            She hopped inside the truck’s bed, opened the toolbox, and found a jug of water. She drank and it tasted like molten plastic. She climbed down out of the truck and held the jug to his mouth until he grunted.

            “Can you drive a three-on-the-tree?” he said, trying to wipe water from his chin, but her sweater sling held tight. His skin was rougher than she remembered.

            “I don’t know what that means.”

            He opened the driver’s side door and hopped inside. “The truck is manual. You have to shift on the steering column. Three gears. Low, medium, high.”

            She took the driver’s seat. Jutting from the steering wheel was a handle with a worn nub. The truck smelled like heat feels. “Guess I don’t have a choice.”

            “You can do it.”

            She fired up the engine and tried to shift, but the gear wouldn’t budge. David kept drifting in and out of consciousness. She nudged the gear shift with the palm of her hand. The truck lurched forward, belching black smoke. They rumbled across the desert until they made it to Highway 67. She checked the gas gauge, a little less than a quarter of a tank.

“Did you tell anyone?”

            He opened his eyes. “What?”

            “Did you tell anyone we were out searching for the Marfa lights?”

            “Nope.”

She remembered Mando’s. Maybe someone overheard them talking. Consuela, or worse, Jerky Boyfriend. They couldn’t take any chances. There was a freaking body in the desert. And they were responsible. She slowed the truck and pulled to the shoulder.

“Why are you stopping?” he said.

“Just stay here, okay?”

“What’s going on?”

She hopped up in the bed and dug around the toolbox until she found a hammer. She checked both ways to make sure no cars were coming, then walked to the front of the truck. Grimy, bug-splattered, engine rumbling. She smashed the shit out of the headlights. Then the right front bumper. The shockwaves rolled her arm. David cranked down the window. “What the hell are you doing?”

“There’s a body in the desert,” she said, then gave the bumper a final smash. “We need to make it seem like we never made it to the desert. Like we got in a wreck or something.”

“Holy shit.”

“I know,” she said, then tossed the hammer in the bed. The clang echoed across the asphalt.

They drove in silence for a little while. There were so many holes in the lie. Did they hit another car? The curb? Where had they spent the night? As the Presidio County courthouse poked up over the horizon, Alex coasted to a stop at the light by the Shell station. The parking lot was full of Mexicans waiting for ranch jobs. The cattle market was only a few weeks away.

“What time is it?” she said.

David wiped the blood from the dial on his watch. “Almost one.”

The art runner from New York. Fuck. She was supposed to help her father. “Am I taking you to your house or what?”

He shook his head. “I blew off working to be with you. Daddy would rather I rot.”

“You can’t stay at my house.”

“Then drop me off here.”

“What will you do?”

“Figure something out.”

He opened the passenger door as the light turned green.

“Shut the door,” she said.

He obeyed.

She drove straight to The Block.

            There was a black sedan on the street by the adobe wall. She pulled around to the side and parked in a patch of land out of sight. David smelled like spoiled milk. Her nostrils buzzed and her brain struggled to formulate a plan. Not that she’d ever been a planner, but still, this seemed like a great time to start.

            “You never told me you lived in the hangar,” he said, easing himself to the ground.

            “I thought you’d make fun of me.”

            “Are you kidding? I love this old place.”

            “It’s creepy.”

            “Not to me.”

            She opened the side gate. “Just try and be quiet.”

            “Hurts to walk.”

            “Dig deep.”

            She led him across the yard and slowed at her father’s open workspace. The cement mixer was slathered in drying gray cement, like a giant candle. Shovels, trowels, wadded-up sacks of concrete. The base of the statue had grown overnight. The square was beginning to look like an actual square. She had to admit, it looked pretty fucking cool.

            “Did your daddy make that?”

            “Yeah.”

            “It’s good,” he said, then hissed.  

            “You okay?”

            “I don’t know.”

She tried to work out their chances of not getting caught. If the art runner was inside—which, let’s go with yes—then the two of them would be drinking and talking and whatever art runners did when contemplating art. She and David could sneak through the hangar and bolt to her bedroom. She was about to put her plan into action when the patio door flew open and her father stormed out.

“Where the hell have you been?” he said, barely suppressing a yell.

“He needs help.”

Her father looked at David, who wiggled the fingers of his good hand through her sweater sling.  

            “What happened?”

            “We hit a rock with his truck and crashed.”

            “A rock?”

            “Like a boulder, I guess. I don’t know, it was dark. We hit our heads and passed out.”

            He grabbed her shoulders. “Jesus, are you okay?”

            “I’m fine.”

            “Let me check your eyes.”

            She looked skyward. A deep pulsing blue and not one single cloud. “I said I’m fine.”

“Blink twice.”

            She pulled away “We have to find a doctor.”

            “Where are his parents?”

            “They don’t care.”

            The art runner walked up behind her father. He wore a white, button-down Oxford with sleeves rolled and cuffed, lightly crinkled khakis with Sperry topsiders (dark brown). He slipped on a pair of Ray-Bans and then said, in a vaguely English accent, “What’s all this then?”

            Her father faced him. “A goddamn mess is what this is.”

            “Is he all right?” said the art runner, indicating David, who’d slumped against the base of the statue.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” said her father, gently steering and helping him up.  

            “Dad, please. He could die.”

            Her father sighed. “Right, okay, fuck,” he said, turning back to the art runner. “I’m off to find a doctor.”

            “Can’t you just ring an ambulance?”

            “No ambulance service this far out.”

            “A town doctor then?”

            Her father placed his hand on the art runner’s shoulder. “Dylan, just stay here until I get back. We need to talk more about that dealer you know in Brooklyn.”

            “Where exactly would I go?”

            Her father pulled him in for a quick hug, then turned back to Alex. “There’s a doctor in Alpine. I’ll see if I can get him to come out here.”

            “What should I do?”

            “Get him inside. Get him comfortable. Make sure he’s not bleeding out.”

            “Thanks, Dad.” He left without a) acknowledging she’d called him “Dad,” and b) giving her a hug.

            Alex stared at the art runner, who smiled brightly. He had a supremely moisturized face and whisper-thin eyebrows. She doubted he’d been this far south in his entire life. “Shall we get him inside then?” he said.

            “Okay.”

            “Call me Dylan, luv.”

            “I’m Alex.”

            “Pleasure.”

            They managed to get David seated at the kitchen table by the window. He rested his head on the surface.

Alex went straight to the freezer for the bottle of Smirnoff. Why not at this point? Life couldn’t get much weirder. Cold belly-burn made her crave more. This was easily the most fucked up forty-eight hours of her life.

“How about some water?” said Dylan, interrupting her second swig.

“Oh, right.”

            She opened the cabinet over the sink and got down a mason jar, filled it, then handed it to Dylan, who waved it under David’s nose. The smell stirred him. She didn’t realize water had a smell. David drank it down, then asked for more. She poured another glass.

            “We should get him to a bed,” said Dylan.

            They helped David down the hall to her bedroom, his legs trailing behind like a drunk. Her bedroom was exactly as she left it, and how could that be? Everything should be different because she’d fallen through a portal to a place where werewolves were real. Only, that couldn’t be true. She promised herself to never, ever, ever say that out loud. Not to David, not to anyone. The more she told the same lie, the more it would sound like the truth. She just had to make sure David told the same story.

            Alex guided David to her fully made bed while Dylan remained in the doorframe, not wanting to enter a young girl’s bedroom and all. David fell backward on the bed and stared up at Marylin, who blissfully beamed her million-dollar smile.

            “David, you need to sit back up,” she said.

            “I need to sleep.”

            She gently nudged his disgustingly soiled jeans. “These have got to go.”

            He groaned his way back into a sitting position. Greasy bangs fell over his face. Her sweater sling had twisted up a bit. She helped him take it off, then threw her sweater in the corner.

“Raise up a boot,” she said.

            He obeyed. She yanked off one, then another. The smell was barely tolerable.

            “Now your jeans.”

            He tried wiggling out of them, but it was no use. Without thinking, she pulled them down around his hips. Black briefs! Suddenly, she was aware of Dylan standing in the doorway watching. Total perv. Then she realized he wasn’t watching them.

“Is that what I think it is?” he said, pointing at Marilyn.

Her father always said Andy Warhol was the most important artist in the world. Alex never really believed him until this moment. “I guess,” she said.

            “Do you mind if I have a closer look?”

            “Now?”

            “Sorry, luv, it’s just…”

            Adults were so rude, but she owed him. “Okay, fine. But then you have to go.”

            “Of course.”

            Dylan put one hand on the mattress and leaned into the painting. Box springs creaked. “That’s his signature. This is an original Warhol.”  

            “Great, now leave.”

            “Where did these come from?”

            “My father gave them to me.”

            Dylan whistled. Then he noticed the photograph of Mick Jagger on the opposite wall. “I sold him a Lichtenstein once.”

            “Who, Mick Jagger?”

            “Bit of an ass, really.”

            She wanted to know more, but David was sitting there basically nude. “Seriously, can you please go?”

            “Right. Let me know if you need anything else.”

            “Thanks.”

            “I’ll just be right outside, luv.”

            “Bye.”

            Dylan closed the door.

David collapsed onto the bed and ruined her sheets. Alex went to the bathroom and got hydrogen peroxide, cotton balls, and one of those big circle Band-Aids. Antiseptic smell, the promise of pain. She pressed a peroxide ball against oozing flesh. David sucked air through his nostrils, then looked at the wound for the first time.

            “This looks like an animal bite.”

            She covered the wound with a circular Band-Aid and secured it with tape. “Just go to sleep,” she said.

He sank into the pillow and was out in two seconds. She lay next to him and tried to think through a plan, but nothing made sense. Her father was too smart to believe her stupid story of hitting a rock with the truck and passing out and, oh Jesus Christ, what a ridiculous lie. Maybe his relief that she wasn’t dead would override any nagging questions. But she couldn’t be sure of that or any other fucking thing in her life. Starting with the boy who’d passed out in her bed. Was he becoming a werewolf? And if not, if she’d imagined the whole thing, then who bit him? Or was it even a bite? She desperately wanted to roll back time to when she had normal girl problems, like hating her mother for forcing her to live in Marfa; when the only thing that made her feel better was a boy named David.

8.

Alex fumbled about for the clock radio and knocked over a glass, which shattered against the floor. Not great. None of this was great. The clock radio numbers glowed seven three zero and she assumed it was nighttime, but her internal clock was all messed up.

She reached over and touched David’s stomach. He was on his back above the covers, lightly snoring and oblivious to the shattering glass and everything else. She noticed a dank, moldy smell, sniffed her pits, and yeah. Her last shower was before they went out searching for the Marfa lights, practically another century considering all that had gone down. Right before she planted her feet on the ground, she remembered the glass and avoided a nasty shard by maybe a millimeter. Thank God for small miracles. She picked up the obvious pieces, quietly placed them in her cute little trash can, then took a shower. The hot water felt incredible, and she hoped like hell it would wash all her problems away. She toweled off, put on fresh, clean sweats (what a feeling) and padded down the hallway. David never stirred.

The kitchen was quiet except for the ticking clock above the fridge. The only light came from the single bulb over the workspace out the back window. She walked to the wooden table and peered outside. Her father’s square was strangely imposing under that light. It had a quiet power and she couldn’t stop staring. It was basically impossible to see your parents as anything other than parents, but maybe he was actually talented, like maybe his stupid square wasn’t so stupid after all. But whatever, it didn’t make up for the fact she was living in Marfa against her will even though, technically, that was her mother’s fault.

Fuck. Was she seriously thinking about calling? They’d only talked a couple of times, once the night before she started school and then again on a random Tuesday when Alex dialed her number out of sheer boredom. But she had nobody else to talk to, and honestly, she needed someone to tell her what to do. She walked to the phone on the kitchen wall and dialed.

The phone rang and kept on ringing. Thank God, because this was such a mistake. Her mother didn’t want anything to do with her. She was about to hang up when…

“Grossman residence,” said a boy, probably Preston, the quarterback son of Jerry the Dentist. They’d attended Westlake High in Austin and every girl wanted to sleep with him, which just, ugh, he was so stupid and gross. But wait, oh my God, was Preston her stepbrother now? Were they freaking related? How had she not followed that breadcrumb from hell?  

            She said his name.

“Yeah, who’s this?”

“Alex.”

A fat, awkward pause. Music in the background, sounded like John Denver.

“Alexandra?”

“Is my mother there?”

“Are you calling from Marfa?”

“Is she there, or isn’t she?”

A ruffling kind of sound, like he was scooting across the carpet. “What time is it?”

“Like almost nine.”

“They’re probably out. It’s Saturday night.”

“Can you please check? It’s important.”

“Is everything okay?”

Crap. She realized how completely weird it was for her to just randomly call. “I just need to ask her something.”

Are werewolves real?

He yelled her mother’s name like he’d done it a million times. There was nothing threatening about it. “Wait, I think they’re here.”

“Then put her on.”

“I’m walking there now.”

“Thanks.”

            “Okay, here she is. Bye.” A muffled exchange as he handed over the phone.

“Honey, what’s wrong?” said her mother.

            Alex really hadn’t thought this through, like, at all. “I just wanted to say hi.”

            “That’s not like you.”

            “What do you know about me?” Her bitterness was so hard-wired that there was nothing she could do.

            “So you just called to pick a fight?”

            “You know what, forget it,” she said. What a stupid, horrible idea.

            “Okay, well, how’s school?” said her mother, suddenly bright. She had this weird ability to keep forging ahead like everything was hunky-dory.

            “Fine.”

            “Are you learning anything?”

            “Not from school.”

            “Well, there’s more to life than school, that’s for ding dang sure.” Instead of cursing, her mother used these ridiculous substitutes that were so much worse.

            “Don’t say that. It’s so stupid.”

            “What did I say?”

            “Just don’t.”

            “Well, I’d apologize, but I don’t know what for.”

            Uh, really? Okay. Start by apologizing for picking money and a big, fat house over her own flesh and blood. Alex wanted to scream this so badly, she practically bit through her bottom lip. But she couldn’t do it, she wouldn’t do it. She closed her eyes and felt her heart slow.

            “Alexandra, are you still there?”

“I’m going by Alex now.”

            Her mother had this short, high-pitched laugh. “Oh, I looooooove it.”

            “I’m hanging up now.”

            “Honey, wait…”

            “Goodbye.”

Alex hung up. The ticking of the clock above the fridge brought her back around. It was almost nine thirty. Surely her father would be home soon, hopefully with a doctor, though how was that even possible? She walked through the door that led from the kitchen to the hangar. Enormous windows on all sides erased the barrier between inside and out. There was a crescent moon out over the mountains, and that little bit of light glowed up the space enough for her to see the pedestal. She was wearing socks and kind of skated over on the cement, then sat cross-legged. The pedestal was certainly big enough to hold her father’s square, but that seemed so completely unnecessary. Why not just drop the square on the cement floor on its own? It would look so much cleaner that way, and besides, the pedestal just kind of took away all the power. It was a relief to think about something else for a little while, and she was just beginning to believe the fantasy that a) everything was normal, and b) her father would be giddy that she’d taken an interest in his art, even if it was a criticism, when headlights swept through the hangar. She heard wheels grind gravel, the metallic slam of a door, and voices. 

They came through the door on the opposite side of the hangar, the one that opened to the yard. First through was a tall, angular man she’d never seen before who wore a bolo, presumably the doctor, followed by her father. The man with the bolo made it three feet, then just stopped. The hangar was overwhelming for anyone who’d never experienced it. “My goodness,” he said. “You weren’t joking.”

“One day I’m gonna fill this whole space with statues,” said her father, waving an arm like a conductor.

“Quite the hobby.”

“It’s no hobby.”

“Of course.”

            They walked deeper into the hangar, ghosts in the moonlight. Alex cleared her throat. She was still sitting cross-legged in front of the pedestal.

            “Oh, Alexandra, didn’t see you there,” said her father, forgetting once again. “Doc, this is my daughter.”

            The doctor nodded. “Please to meet you.”

            She felt like he expected her to curtsy.

            “I’m going to make us a drink. Vodka and soda okay?”

            The doctor perked up. “That will be fine.”

            “Alexandra, show him the way.”

            “It’s Alex.”

            “Right, sorry.”

            She led the doctor to her bedroom. He didn’t say a whole lot, and she got the feeling he was staring at her butt the whole time.

            The curtains were open and billowing. David was up and reading one of her Beverly Cleary novels, which looked to be Socks. He wasn’t wearing a shirt and seemed weirdly beefier, like he’d been working out or something. Blood seeped from the gauze on his shoulder. He set the book on the nightstand and faked a smile.

            “This is the doctor,” she said.

            “Hello, son.”

            David nodded.

“We’re gonna get you all checked out. How does that sound?”

“Sounds good.”

            The doctor sat on the bed and placed a stethoscope against David’s glorious chest. He listened for a second, then asked him to cough. Satisfied, he placed a thermometer under David’s tongue, and they sat there waiting. Nobody said a word and it was so awkward. The night breeze blew the curtains around, and she hoped a bat would fly through. Anything to break the tension. After what felt like a century, the doctor checked the thermometer. “Ninety-nine point one,” he said. “A little high, but nothing to be concerned about.”

            The doctor returned the stethoscope and thermometer to the bag. “Let’s get a look at that cut,” he said, rolling up his sleeves.

David turned and presented his shoulder. The doctor made a kind of humming sound, then gently unwrapped the gauze, which was slathered in red. The doctor stuck a penlight in his mouth and inspected the gash. Satisfied, he returned the penlight to his bag. “So, what happened here?”

Before David could answer, her father barged into the room, a drink in each hand. “Where’s Dylan?” he said, setting the doctor’s drink on the Beverly Clearly book. The doctor stopped his inspection and took a long sip.

“I guess he left,” said Alex. She’d barely thought of the art runner.

“I told him not to leave.”

“Guess he didn’t listen.”

“Why didn’t you stop him?”

“Um, kind of had my hands full here. And besides, I’m a teenager.”

Her father looked like he was about to cry. “That was my one chance. He was talking about representing me for an upcoming show. And then he just up and leaves. No note, nothing. I can’t believe it. I honestly can’t believe it.”

His disappointment was embarrassing. It was one of those moments that stick with you forever.

“He’s your old friend. I’m sure he’ll be in touch.”

            “It’s just, I don’t know,” he said, backing out of the room.

            The doctor acted like this was all perfectly normal. He took a second, longer drink and then turned to David. “Did something bite you?” he said.

Alex froze.

David didn’t answer.

The doctor flashed a tight smile. “Those look like teeth marks.”

Because they are.

Alex stepped up. “We were in a car wreck. He probably got cut by glass from the windshield. We were going pretty fast.”

“Glass cuts cleanly.”

“Okay, but, ya know, strange things happen.”

“Not in medicine,” said the doctor, who returned to the bag. This time, ugh, he revealed a needle so long it made her want to pass out. “This is for rabies,” he said.

            David started to shuffle around on the bed. But there was nowhere to go.

The doctor then dipped the needle into a vial of rubbing alcohol. The smell filled the room.  

Alex squeezed David’s hand.

9.

            Alex dropped out of school to take care of David.

            Convincing her father was super easy once she broke it all down. First, she told him about David’s family and how his father was always working a ranch and basically didn’t give two shits and how his mother had run off years ago. Which left two options. Her father could pull morning duty until Alex got home from school, when she’d take over from him. Or, and such a no-brainer, he could let her drop out of school and take care of David full-time. Took him like two seconds to decide. Later, when she met with the principal, he thought she was making the whole thing up. Which was fair, it wasn’t like she had a note, and it was such a ridiculous excuse: My cousin has leukemia and can’t afford a hospital. The principal—a smiley faced man with a fat neck, skinny eyebrows, whose office smelled like cat litter—smiled through her excuse, then asked his secretary to dial Alex’s home number. She obsessively ran her fingers over her short hair while they waited for her father to pick up. He was definitely out working on his sculpture, because they sat there like five minutes before he did. The principal’s skinny eyebrows flattened during the conversation, which was predictably brief. He gently set down the phone and then repeatedly apologized for doubting Alex’s sincerity during such an “unfortunate family crisis.” She forgave him with a smirk.

            Turned out playing nurse wasn’t all that fun, especially considering David wasn’t getting any better. Most days, he floated in and out of consciousness, and the gauze covering his shoulder wound—Alex refused to call it a bite—was constantly seeping blood. She had to change it every other day, and yeah, the smell alone. She loved David, she absolutely did, but this was all a bit much. It wasn’t like he was her boyfriend or anything. They’d barely started hanging out when all this happened, but was she supposed to leave him to rot? The boy had no family, no money, and nowhere to go. She was trying her best not to think about everything, but her father’s jet-fuel coffee had her brain humming. She took another sip and looked through the open window. Based on the slant of the sun on her father’s square statue back there, it was probably around three o’clock. It hadn’t evolved all that much since David moved in. The long, horizontal base with two vertical sides jutting into the air like a goalpost. She got that sick, upside down feeling in her stomach. This was her father’s dream. This was the reason he dragged her to Marfa. And instead of pursuing that dream, he was helping take care of her sick, possibly werewolf-infected boyfriend. Though, technically, he wasn’t her boyfriend.

            “When was the last time he ate?” said her father from the stove behind her, pouring Campbell’s tomato soup into their only saucepan; his standard lunch until he stopped by the grocery. They were low on everything.

            “Yesterday morning, I think. He has to eat, right?”

            “The body needs nourishment to heal.”

            “What if he’s not healing?”

            “The doctor said it was a…” Her father snapped his fingers. “What did he say?”

            “That David was cut by the glass from the truck.” This was the lie she told her father after the doctor had left The Block that night. Fooling adults was endlessly easy. Just tell them what they want to believe.

            “Maybe his stitches came loose. I’ll call the doctor tomorrow.”

            “No, don’t. It’s fine. He’ll be fine.” She turned back to her coffee. The steam tickled her nose. Her brain shifted to a lower gear.

            Her father removed the wooden spoon from the bubbling soup. “He can’t stay here forever, you know.”

            “Define forever.”

“Have you tried calling again?”  

The last time she called David’s home number, a woman answered and said his father was working a ranch in Marathon until spring. When Alex asked if she could leave a message, the woman laughed and hung up. So that had gone well. 

            “No luck,” she said.

            “What about cousins or something? People who grow up in small towns always have somewhere to go.”

            “He’s the exception, I guess.”

She took the empty mug to the kitchen, set it on the counter, then grabbed one of the wicker television trays from the cabinet under the sink. Of course, they didn’t own a television, but whatever, the trays came in super handy. Her father poured the soup into a ceramic bowl and placed it on the tray alongside a fresh sleeve of saltines. “This is not how I planned on spending my time down here,” he said, smoothing back silver hair he hadn’t trimmed in weeks. Her father was a shockingly handsome man, it was easy to forget.

            “I know. I’m sorry.”

            “Two more weeks.”

She carried the tray of soup to her bedroom and carefully opened the door with one hand. The smell was different than before, kind of a musty, fart-under-the-cover funk that wouldn’t fade no matter how many times she sprayed Lysol. Her white comforter was blood-stained and gritty. She set the tray on the nightstand and tried to ignore Marilyn, up there winking. David sat up in bed. He’d recently sprouted thick black whiskers on his chin.

“Your daddy’s right,” said David, rubbing his eyes. “I can’t stay here anymore.”

            “You heard us? The door was closed.”

            He shrugged.

            “Don’t worry. Just ignore him.”

            “He’s the man of the house.”

            She rolled her eyes and pointed at the soup. “You need to eat something.”

            “Still ain’t hungry.”

            “Your body needs food to heal.”

            He reached over and spooned out some steaming soup, blew on it, then slurped.. “Why can’t I remember what happened?”

Alex was a massive Twilight Zone fan, and the one episode she couldn’t shake was called “Mirror Image.” It was about this woman named Millicent (terrible name) who keeps running into a woman who looks exactly like her. This happens so many times that she faints at a bus depot, and when she wakes up, she’s absolutely convinced there’s a parallel universe full of Millicents who have somehow slipped into her universe to kill her. The episode was so convincing, Alex started doing double-takes when she noticed girls with long, blonde hair, which, admittedly, were all over Austin. But now, holy shit, maybe that episode was based on a true story, because clearly she’d entered a universe where werewolves were real. She desperately needed to talk this out with someone, but the only person in Marfa she could come up with wasn’t exactly a friend. She sat on the bed next to Alex; box springs groaned. “Listen, I’m not like a trauma expert or anything, but maybe you’re in shock.”

“Thank you for taking care of me.”

“Of course,” she said, realizing how formal that sounded. “I know you’d do the same for me.”

She stared at the blossoming blood stain on her white comforter. David cleared his throat. “You okay?”

            “Yeah, sorry.”

            She tried to smile, but Marylin was watching.  

10.

            Alex decided to go see Consuela, the waitress from Mando’s.

            She was the only person in Marfa who’d experienced the same unspeakable horror out in the Chihuahuan Desert, and Alex had so many questions. Problem was, she didn’t know Consuela all that well. How would she even start that conversation? Hi! So, listen, I was out searching for the Marfa lights with my not-boyfriend, and guess what? We found your little sister instead. She was with this creepy-looking Earthworm Man who transitioned into a werewolf right before our eyes. But you knew that already because the same thing happened to you, right? You’re the only one who knows werewolves are real, right? 

Yeah, right.

Alex would sound like a crazy person saying all that stuff, even though she was pretty sure it happened. Though lately she was beginning to believe the lie she told her father. That she’d wrecked the truck and David’s ever-seeping wound was caused by glass. The bloated, sun-blistered body of Earthworm Man flashed across her brain. Ugh. Was he still out there? Had coyotes dragged his body away? Questions without answers multiplied in her brain so fast, she felt herself curling fetal on the bedroom floor next to her bed. It was just before dark, which meant five in the afternoon (give or take), and she needed to get going before David woke up. He’d been sleeping vampire hours lately. At least his appetite had returned, though he only craved Angus steak, which meant her father had to drive to the Valdez Grocery in Alpine. The hardwoods groaned as she slowly stood. David was softly snoring with his mouth open and the down comforter bunched around his neck. Thick whiskers dotted his face like a mystery pox. She glanced up. Marylin in twilight glowed a deeper, garish-looking red. Something cheap for men to destroy. North wind ruffled the curtains. Alex shook off the chill and snuck down the darkened hallway.

The kitchen was quiet and dark except for the ticking clock above the fridge. A glint off a bottle of Schlitz on the counter; weird, because her father so hated clutter. She tossed it into the trash after tasting the dregs. Gross, grow up. A sudden grinding sound made her jump. She crept toward the wooden table and peered out the back window. Her father was nursing a Schlitz under the single bulb in a folding chair with his long legs outstretched. Next to him, the cement mixer rattled and hummed. He used the bottle to wipe grime from his forehead. Yeah, he’d be in the zone until midnight at least. All clear. She returned to the kitchen, opened the hangar door, and slid through the space without once glancing at the pedestal. How was this creepy place her home?

Mando’s was about half a mile down the road from The Block. As the gravel crunched beneath her feet, Alex re-ran the conversation that was about to happen. For starters, she should be more sensitive; like, if she opened with, I saw your sister, then yeah, of course Consuela would absolutely lose her shit. She might even call the cops, but that seemed like a longshot for someone who knew werewolves were real. Because she had to, right? That’s what Alex wanted to know more than anything. Maybe she could finally get some answers, like whether David was actually transitioning or just sick? Was the whole silver bullet thing a lie? Because Earthworm Man took a knife to the skull and freaking dropped dead. Also—and this was driving her crazy—were full moons the trigger? Alex had strained her memory trying to remember if there had been a full moon the night she and David got ambushed. She felt like no, it was ocean deep dark, but if that was the case, what had caused Earthworm Man to transition? Did he just will it to happen or what? Jesus fucking Christ, what an absolute nightmare. It was like everything she knew from books and movies about werewolves was… What was the term? Oh yeah, a myth. A book nerd way of saying complete bullshit. She tried to stop thinking all the thoughts until she saw the Mando’s sign blinking red against a blue-black sky. But wait, hold up…

There was a police cruiser in the parking lot. She couldn’t make out the lettering on the side, but it looked like Presidio, maybe? So, okay, not a great start here. But hey, maybe they were just grabbing some enchiladas before heading out for another night of arresting drunks or whatever. Okay, cool, no worries. It’s not like they knew she was coming. Like most things, this was all in her head. Fuck it. She walked up to the door. The missing poster was still there, and yeah, that was definitely Yiva staring back. Eyes never lie.

She was about to open the door when a grown-up got there first.

“Let me get that for ya,” a man said in a drawl. He wore a Western-cut blazer over a button-down shirt, fiercely ironed Wranglers, boots, and a big cowboy hat. Could’ve been thirty or sixty, it was impossible to tell. He clanged open the door with big knotty hands, then followed her inside. Same greasy smell. Alex didn’t see Consuela among the red vinyl booths, so she just kind of stood there, unsure whether to seat herself, wait around, or get the hell out. While she was trying to decide, a police officer walked up and greeted Cowboy Hat. The officer was young, a bit on the chubby side, and kind of had a ginger thing going on. He wore his uniform proudly; the copper-colored badge glistened, his sung utility belt held a variety of cop stuff including handcuffs and a flashlight. She was reminded of Scout Day back in Austin, when all the super nerds wore their uniform to school, like anyone cared. Ginger Cop leaned into Cowboy Hat and they started talking in a serious, we’ve-got-a-problem kind of way. Alex was about to haul ass out of there when Consuela appeared from behind the bar. She had a dazed look in her eyes, like she’d been through one of life’s great mysteries, which of course she had.

            Ginger Boy greeted Consuela. “Ma’am, my name is Deputy Sheriff Sam Sanders.”

            “Did you find Yiva?” said Consuela, smoothing her hair, now with henna highlights.

            “No, ma’am, we did not,” said Deputy Sheriff Sanders. He kind of smacked when he talked. Cowboy Hat stood behind him, observing like the red-tailed hawk often perched on the adobe wall at dusk.

            “Then why are you here?”

            “We found a body in the desert.”

            Oh.

            Oh no.  

            No no no no no no no no.  

            Time to go. Alex turned, but couldn’t find the door. She bumped into a table where an old Mexican woman was eating by herself, knocked over her salsa, then kept walking backward until the door clanged and she was standing outside. It was dark and cold and she’d forgotten a coat like a freaking moron.

            The door clanged again.

            “Hey there, little lady,” said Cowboy Hat, who’d followed her outside for some reason.

So tall. And handsome in that never-been-out-of-Texas kind of way. “What’s your hurry?”

            “I need to get home,” she said.

            “You just got here.”

            “I forgot money.” Alex was getting really good at lying on her feet. 

            Cowboy Hat fished a wallet out of his inside blazer pocket and handed her a crisp five-dollar bill. “My treat.”

            She tried to smile, but felt zero joy. “No thanks.”

            He shrugged, returned the money, then nodded. “Texas Ranger Wes Harding,” he said, without offering a hand.

“I’m Alex.”

“Hey there, Alex. Quite the name.”

“Thanks?”

“Say, aren’t you Jack Boone’s kid?”

            She nodded.

            “Still can’t get over how he transformed that hangar.”

            More nodding.

            “What grade you in?”

            “Eleventh.”

            “Over at Alpine High?”

            “I mean, where else?”

He pointed a finger in a playful way. “Excellent point.”

“Can I go now?” If she acted like a typical smart-ass teen, maybe he’d let her go.

“Say, you know a fella named David Talbot?”

A car pulled into the parking lot. Lights swept her face. Pulse surge, stomach flip, vomit bubble. “No, sir.”

            “Not surprised. He quit school years ago.”

            “Why?”

            Ranger Harding shrugged. “His daddy’s a real son of a bitch.”

            “No, I mean why are you asking about him?”

            Ranger Harding grinned. Yellowish teeth glowed in the dark. Probably a smoker. “Seems his name is on the knife we found in that body out in the desert.”

Of course.

The knife.

David’s huge, scary-looking knife.

Alex pretended like she didn’t know what he was talking about. “Oh wow, any idea who killed him?”

            He raised an eyebrow. “Never said the body was David. Or even male for that matter.”

            Another lie presented itself, clean and perfect. She shrugged like it was the normal thing in the world. “Only boys are stupid enough to go walking around the desert.”

            He laughed big and hearty. “You got that right.”

            Nervous giggle, the worst.

            Ranger Harding rubbed his hands together. “This is likely an open-and-shut case.”

            “Why’s that?” she said, but she already knew.

“The knife was engraved with his name.”

“What a dummy.”

 “Not the sharpest knife in the drawer,” he said, grinning even bigger.

            “Listen, I really need to scoot. My father’s kind of waiting on me, so…”

            He handed her a business card. “You let me know if you hear anything.”

            “Yes, sir.”

She flew down that gravel road without looking up. Then something made her. A moon so full the clouds seemed terrified to come any closer.

Uh-oh.

11.

If David was going to transition, tonight was the night.

Full moon and all.

Those were the werewolf rules, but in real life, nothing was that black-and-white. She fast-walked down the gravel road, trying not to ignore the full moon. Impossible, it was the biggest moon she’d seen in her life. She remembered something her father said once about scale, how the moon appears larger when cresting the horizon because you’re comparing it to man-made objects. Whatever. This was by far the biggest full moon in the history of planet Earth, colored with a fingerpaint smear of white, orange, and red. Absolute beauty in the parallel universe she so desperately wanted to find. Gravel crunched and popped under her Chuck Taylors. She was five minutes (tops) from knowing the truth, which, okay, let’s assume yes, full moons were the trigger. Did she have a plan in place? Of course not. She was moment to moment, because that’s how teenagers lived. Shit, what about her father? Shouldn’t she warn him? Like just swing by the open workspace and say, Hey, Dad, so here’s the thing. I lied about the whole truck thing because the truth is soooooo bizzarro world, but hey, time to come clean because your life might be in danger. You might want to crack a fresh Schlitz before I keep going here. She heard a yelping sound, thought it was a dog until she recognized her own idiot laugh. There was a grass rut running down the middle of the gravel road and she focused her energy on how black and straight it ran compared to the chalky-looking stones on either side. Weirdly calming, and it took her mind off everything until the milky adobe wall shimmered out of the darkness, lit by a moon ready to kill.

Showtime.

She crept around to the side gate and slipped inside the yard. Her father was still under the single bulb of his open workspace. He wiped dust off his jeans, then picked up a bag of cement and dumped it into the mixer. The sound was exploding rocks followed by that grumble. She waited and watched, needing to pee so badly. After a few minutes, he snatched a Schlitz out of his lawn chair cupholder. He drained it and then went back inside, not once looking her direction. Holy shit, this moon. So bright she could see little lizards darting around the desert under her sneakers. Weren’t they cold-blooded or whatever? Was everything in the natural world upside down in Marfa? Her bedroom was on the side of The Block opposite the hangar, last window on the right. She hurried over on Indian feet. Curtains billowed above her. Still freezing, still without a coat.

Now or never. She grabbed the lip of the window and pulled herself up and over.

Totally stuck the landing. Her room smelled cleaner, almost lemony. The David lump in her bed rose and fell. She said his name, then kicked the bedpost, and he sat up. The moon was practically in the room with them. He was bare to the waist and glowing with a different kind of energy. Looked like he’d removed the gauze. She sat beside him on the bed, knowing this was a terrible idea. Box springs moaned.

“How do you feel?” she said.

            He grinned. God, what a beauty. Lip curl, Adam’s apple, hair hanging over his eyes, which sparkled. “Reckon I feel good,” he said, scooting closer.

            “What happened to the gauze?”

            “Bathroom. Stopped bleeding.” He twisted so she could see his torso. Smooth, bone-white skin under moonlight. The bite mark was still there, but suddenly scabby.

            “That was fast.”

            “Been eating a lot. Like you said, the body needs nourishment to heal.”

            “Yeah, I guess.”

            “That’s not all the body needs.”

            He threw open the comforter, and yeah, he was definitely still human. Honestly, it was easier to get under the covers than deal with any of this. She snuggled in, and things quickly started to progress until she remembered his huge, scary-looking knife.

She rolled off him. “We have to get out of here. We have to drive to Alpine, then catch the Amtrak to Austin or wherever.”

“What for?”

“They found your knife.”

“Didn’t know it was missing.”

“You really don’t remember, do you?”

He shook his head and patted the bed.

“No, David, listen. You have to trust me on this.”

“I trust you on everything.”

“Let me throw some stuff together, then we’ll… Shit, I don’t even know if the truck runs.” Just one problem after another. If this was grown-up life, no thanks.

“What’s the rush?”

She thought about telling him everything, but there was a lot of information to process, and honestly, she didn’t know him well enough to know if his brain could handle this weird new truth. Keeping him in the dark seemed like the smartest way forward. And since apparently he trusted her on everything—guys were so dumb—she could easily get her way. “Promise me we’ll go in the morning.”

He held up two fingers. “We ride at dawn.”

“So dorky.”

“But it worked.”

            She couldn’t stop smiling and neither could he, and pretty soon they were doing it. They didn’t talk about doing it, they were just, like, actually doing it. And though she knew a) this was probably a mistake, and b) some mistakes can change the entire trajectory of a life, she just went along because it felt freaking amazing, and honestly, she just wanted to do something stupid and reckless like a normal teenager in a normal universe. She could feel Marilyn up there judging, but pretty soon nothing mattered. Not the full moon, werewolves, or anything at all.

The next morning wasn’t morning.

Alex could tell by the slant of the light on her bed. Had to be close to noon or maybe later. She rolled over and watched David’s chest rise and fall. She nudged him. He didn’t move. She re-nudged. He blinked, smacked, and opened his Paul Newman eyes, weirdly darker in the morning sun.  

            “Remember your promise?”

            “Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m gonna pack. Then we’re outta here.”

“I can jimmy the truck. If it’s got gas, we’re good.”

Great, a plan. That’s all she wanted from David at the moment. She crawled out of bed, then pulled her suitcase from under the bed. A cherry-red Samsonite she’d plastered with a Rolling Stones tongue sticker. She threw the suitcase on the bed, popped open both latches, and started tossing in clothes.

            David picked up the cracker sleeve on the nightstand and emptied crumbs into his mouth. “Do you have money for a train ticket?” he said, smacking. His face was broader and slathered in chin whiskers.

            “My mother gave me a hundred bucks before I moved down. She said it was for a rainy day. Get dressed.”

            He planted his feet on the hardwood. His body was perfectly sculpted somehow, like he’d been pumping iron instead of being near-comatose for the past few weeks.

“You gonna say goodbye to your daddy?”

“Guess I should.”

            “You should what?” said her father, suddenly standing in the door frame. Shirt unbuttoned to the waist, silver hair a rat’s nest, eyes shot through.

            “Dad, this isn’t how it looks.”

            He smirked in a not-born-yesterday kind of way. “It looks like you two slept together.”

            “Okay, but…”

            “And that,” he said, pointing to her crammed suitcase, “looks like you’re going on a trip.”

            She went with it. “Right. Exactly. We were thinking Big Bend. It’s supposed to be super cool there. Like a big national park or whatever. I mean, how many times do you get to see one of those in your life, right?”

            Her father stared. “Alex, you’re not exactly an outdoor girl.”

            “That’s what I’m saying! I’m trying to change all that! I mean, we live here now, right? Let’s see everything there is to see,” she said, just torching any and all credibility.

            “Sweetheart, why don’t you tell me what’s really going on?”

David stepped into his jeans, got tangled, then down fell again. “Mr. Boone, I’m so sorry,” he said.

            “Shut up.”

            “Yes, sir.”

            The phone in the kitchen rang.

Alex almost jumped out of her skin. Nobody called them ever. “I’ll get it,” she said and made for the door.

            Her father grabbed her arm and yanked. “You’re not going anywhere until I figure out what’s going on.”

            “There’s nothing going on.”

            “Quit lying.”

            The phone kept ringing.

            “Let me go,” she said a little too loudly.  

            “Tell me the truth.”

            “DAD, STOP!” She was such a drama queen.

            “Alexandra Lynn Boone.”

            “DAD, STOP, YOU’RE HURTING ME.” He was so not hurting her.

A growling from beside the bed. She didn’t want to look. She didn’t want to know. The growling got louder until it rattled the walls. She felt her heart coming out of her chest. David had flipped to all fours and faced the open window. His head swiveled and picked up speed until it was spinning three-sixty in a fleshly blur. Shoulders jutted up and out of his back, and he looked like a humanoid cricket until thick, black hairs punched through his skin like unnatural needles. A guttural, dying sound gurgled out of his neck as it stretched to accommodate the sleek, shiny snout that used to be his nose.

Then he turned.

And launched.

Her father didn’t even have time to scream. One moment he was standing there, trying to understand his daughter, and the next, the creature that used to be David had crossed the room in a single, silent leap. A wet, splitting sound echoed through the house as the werewolf’s claws punched through her father’s chest like meat hooks. Ribs cracked. Blood sprayed across the doorframe in a fan. Her father’s body crumpled, still upright, eyes locked on Alex’s like he couldn’t believe what was happening.

The werewolf sank its jaws into the side of his neck, tearing downward. Something thick and vital slapped against the floor. He was still trying to say her name. Still smoothing his hair.

Alex remembered him that way—mouth a black hole, smoothing his hair like always.

She was filled with love and infinite regret because she knew down deep this was her fault.

“Daddy, I’m sorry…”

But he never got a chance to respond.

She ran and ran and didn’t stop for a very long time.

Coming soon.