“Okay.” He looks confused, stung, but he gathers his bag. She plants a hand in the middle of his back and pushes him toward the door. He asks, then: “What do I do?”

“Huh?”

“If they come back. The three of them. They’ll come back. I’m sure of it.”

“What’s your name?” she asks, changing gears. “I didn’t get your name.”

“Shane.”

“Shane is not a Mexican name.”

“That’s because I’m Venezuelan. Like I said.”

“Shane is not a Venezuelan name, either.”

He shrugs. “My mom’s Hawaiian. My dad’s Venezuelan.”

“What’s your last name?”

“Lafluco.”

“Okay. Fine. Listen, Shane Lafluco, here’s what you do. Go to Cabela’s. Online or take an hour drive south, they have a store there. Buy a big-ass can of bear mace. They come at you again, hose ’em down like a chargin’ grizzly. That’s what you do.”

“Wait—” he says, but she’s already pushing him out the door. She closes it, locks it. Click.

In the hallway upstairs, she sees the shotgun. Leaning against the door frame where she left it. It’s a lean little bugger. A single-shot .410 bore scattergun. Winchester Model 20. Break the barrel open, pop in the shell—that’s it. Pull back the hammer when you’re ready to go. A chicken gun. Or a squirrel gun. That’s what Guillermo—or Guy, Guy-as-in-guillotine—told her when she bought it.

It’s been sitting there in the hallway since that night. She runs a finger along the mouth of the barrel. Pulls it away thick with greasy dust.

She lifts her finger to her nose. Smells like smoke and powder and oil. She feels like throwing up, so that’s what she does. She goes to the bathroom and throws up, then takes a shower in her clothes because she doesn’t think to take them off before she gets in. She finds no joy in the anarchy of the act. She removes her sopping-wet clothes and sits on her bed and stares at the wall for hours until she is reminded that you don’t find sleep so much as sleep finds you.

Way she sleeps is like she’s been shot in the head. A deep, fast sleep as if she’s falling off an oceanic shelf and sinking into darkness. The dream that finds her there is squid-like, a kraken with many tentacles and mean suckers that drags her toward its biting beak. It’s always hard to pull away—the dream feels so real, so alive, not at all recognizable as a dream.

Every time it’s the same but different. Same feel. Same story. Different presentation. Like a morality tale with the same puppets but a different backdrop, or different voices, or different character names.