Izzy balled the piece of lace in her fist and then slipped it into her pocket. There was something else in the drawer, too. Something hard and cool. She recoiled for a second but then fished it out. A small stone statue of a woman, all breasts and cleft. Hands pulling herself open for all to see. Sheela na gigs, Izzy knew, were grotesques, also called hunky punks, carved figures squatting erotically on the facades of medieval churches to ward off death, or the dangers of lust. Izzy pocketed the figure.

She’d stolen things before when she was younger—nail polish or lipstick or candy. Sometimes she still poached little soaps and shampoo bottles, tea bags or honey from the 29 Palms Inn when she went to work with Cyrus—she knew Ted would look the other way. She would have stolen books from the library, but she needed to be able to go back there all the time and get more. Besides, books were sacred. But this stuff wasn’t sacred. This place felt somehow like an affront, like the stone woman’s body.

Izzy went into the bathroom again, ripped the tags off the stolen panties and put them on, throwing her old, black cotton underwear with the loosened elastic into the trash. Then she and Dog went back downstairs and outside.

◆◆◆

The upcoming November full moon was called Beaver because this was the month when Native American tribes and European settlers set traps for the animals whose pelts would provide furs for the winter. But this humpbacked gibbous looked more like the so-called Cold Moon of December. The lit-up hot tub shimmered, green and vitreous as an eye. A fire burned in a pit, filling the air with wood smoke tang, and somewhere someone played a hand drum. Izzy could hear the slap of palms and fingers on taut leather.

Ever stood there, in the shadows, holding two beers. “There you are,” he said, handing one bottle to her and then stroking Dog’s ear with his free hand. “I thought you two left.”

She thanked him and took a sip of the beer.

“That was intense,” he said. “I’m not sure what it was, exactly.”

“Do you know much about them?” she asked him. “This House of Hearts or whatever it’s called.”

“The ad said it’s for healing. That’s all I really know.”

Dog went and situated himself decidedly on top of Ever’s feet. “Therapy dog,” Izzy said.

Ever smoothed his thumb along the bony ridge between Dog’s eyes. “No doubt. You don’t need much healing with him around.”

She nodded. “Not too much.”

“Where are you from?” he asked her.

“Slab City. But I live in Salton City now. You?”

“Joshua Tree, but I’m from LA.”

“I’ve always wanted to live there,” Izzy said.

Los Angeles.