Marilyn smile, all my teeth showing. “Oh, I’m not sleeping here. I’m just running late for an art show. Need some space to work on my sculpture, then I’m back on the road.” Pull my shoulders back, tilt my head. My curls—all limp from sweat and dry heat—tumble over my shoulder.

The attendant just shrugs and hands me the key. Good enough.

Once the door is pulled down, the only light comes from a naked bulb with a rusty chain swinging from its base. It’s going to be hard to see my stitches. Dale usually took care of this part.

The old tarp—only barely blue anymore—sticks to itself as I try and spread it over the concrete. I weigh it down at the corners with hammer, saw, wrench, and sewing basket.

I unload my bag of snakes. The deer comes out in pieces, but that’s just as well. Saves me the trouble. My chiffon is destroyed, though. And before long, so is my manicure.

But the snakes are all skinned—the best bits laid out. The deer is deboned, and its long limbs are stripped and ready.

Ready for Dale. Dear Dale.

I can feel the sponginess of him through the motel sheet. The heat’s done him in. But he’ll be perfect. He’ll be a star.

I cut away a lot of what’s gone bad. How strange that what goes bad gets sweet . . . and I toss it into the muck bucket.

I sew the snakeskins over the stringy layer left behind—elongate his limbs with deer bone. Cloven feet. Snake spines for long fingers and an armadillo shell skull. All covered in rustling rattlesnake diamonds. I fill his mouth with snake fangs. No trace, now, of that sweet sideways smile he always had, even when kissing.

Shaping the brow and the space around the eyes—Dale always said that’s where the art is. I get it, though. Use a bit of muck from the bucket to fill it out. It’s all about the expression, really brings it all to life. Sells pictures.

I stand back, look him over. Can’t suppress a shiver. That’ll do. Dale wouldn’t say it, but I will: It’s better than the Giant Devil Bat of Baltimore we made entirely from squirrels.

***

I’ve got to drive with the lights off—stupid, in a place like this—but there’s nothing for miles but ranchers looking for lights. Valez can’t know I’m back early; can’t know that the photo I’ll sell him will be sitting in my van the whole time I’m looking for his aliens.

I find the perfect spot, just off the far side of the bluff. The terrain will match, and he’ll never see my camera flash.