The night is damn cold—a shock, after the heat of the day—but the air is all sweet sage, and I can finally smell something other than Dale. Or Dalien, as I’ve called him since his transformation. He’d appreciate that.

I drag Dalien from the van and pull him into a boulder-strewn patch of tall grass. I drape a sandbag over the board at his feet and tug his arms up—wrench at the heavy-gauge wire wrapped round the bone inside—till he’s posed, snake spine claws up and fanged jaw gaping. The sealant that coats him is still tacky—still a slick shine. It reflects the moonlight beautifully. Makes him look wet, like nothing in this rocky world. He’s perfect. He’d be so happy.

I kiss him one more time. Run my dry tongue over the stitches in his lips.

Rocks and weeds catch at my heels as I stumble through the dark. I have to get a good distance. The shot can’t be perfect. It can never be perfect, or it will give the game away.

I turn and take a few shots. He looks good, but they aren’t quite right. More distance, more climbing over rocks—hoping I won’t fall, praying I won’t meet any live snakes. I finally find the perfect spot. A nice flat rock, still a bit warm from the sun. Just where I’d sit to watch for aliens, if I was looking for a monster.

I settle in, and point my camera back at Dalien. But I can’t find him. All the dark and tall grass—I zoom in and sweep the landscape, searching the side of the bluff. Nothing. Goddamn.

The temperature is creeping up, though it’s hours from dawn. A bit of wind, too, like a storm is coming. Must have gone too far.

I crawl back over the rocks to the grassy spot—I’m sure it’s the same spot—and there’s no sign of Dale.

I’m starting to sweat. The smell of the van is leaking out of my pores. If someone found him and reports it . . .

I scan the field. The cows around the bluff are making a racket, stomping and bellowing. The air smells like ozone and charcoal. There’s a crack overhead. Lightning.

But then a crescent of lights flashes over the bluff, and there’s Dalien—suspended, caught in the glow.

My shutter finger flutters as the glowing ring of lights reaches an intensity like Dale’s old blowtorch and my eyes are squeezed shut and my finger just clicks and clicks the button till another crack sounds and the sky goes dark. Darker than it’s ever been. And every time I blink, I see that crescent of lights like it’s burned into me.