We walk over to the heap, and I start snapping pictures. The poor creature is desiccated—shriveled and twisted, its insides on the outside, but all dry. Paler than the inside of a cow ought to be. There’s a smell of char and ozone.

“Have you had autopsies done?” I can’t help but wonder what a vet would think of the pile of organ jerky.

“Course, yeah. Unknown cause of death, apart from being in pieces.”

“It looks—and smells—like it might have been struck by lightning. Have you had any electrical storms?”

The ranchero frowns.

I feel the heat again. “I’m sorry—it’s my job to investigate. Sometimes that means—” bat the eyelashes, lean a bit forward—“playing the devil.”

He nods, and looks down at the cow husk. “No storm. And no sign of lightning on the ground here.”

He’s not wrong about that. I snap a few more pictures and tuck my camera away.

“I’ll need to get these developed and do some research on the area. I’ll be back the day after tomorrow to start trying for that picture. You’ve definitely got something going on out here, and Out of this World Photography is prepared to document it for you. I’ve got a week before I’m due at my next assignment. I’m sure I can get something for you.” We shake again. That rough hand drives the rest of the spiel right out of my head.

“Can you find your way back to town?” he asks.

You drive forever on that one road, then turn right on that only other road and drive another forever . . . “Yeah—thanks.”

As I drive away, he’s standing over that cow, the dirt blowing up from my tires shrouding him in grit.

***

The two-hour drive back to town takes six on account of all the snakes. Too many to pass up—too handy—and I pluck them off the side of the road, peel them up where they’ve gone flat under tires. It should always be this easy.

I’m sweaty, covered in dirt, and starting to smell like the inside of the van by the time I pull in to the lot full of storage garages.

The attendant stares at my van parked in a double-space garage. He side-eyes me. “I’m not saying you’re allowed to—’cause I can’t say that—but if you’re planning on sleeping here, for the love of God, keep the engine off in the garage. For my sake.” He squeezes his eyes shut, and his shoulders shiver. The man’s seen things.