“He’s not going to slow down if he’s got nothing to shake those birds off onto.” Ed rubbed his leg like he was trying to start a fire. “You got kids, Mr. Brooke? Family?”

Mr. Brooke shook his head.

Ed put a hole in it.

***

“He ain’t even buried, really.” Ed kicked dirt over the shallow hole, trying to cover up the soiled seat of Mr. Brooke’s tweed trousers.

“I don’t think the birds care much, Ed.” I threw dirt over Mr. Brooke, aiming for Ed’s boots. “Shouldn’t have shot him. You’re taking this too far.”

“And you don’t never take things far enough. No one’s coming looking for this one. He’s a lone wolf—coyote. Roadkill. No one will miss him.”

“The birds might have come anyway—might have been good to see if they did or not. Might have been useful information.”

“You said you thought they wouldn’t.”

“Do I look like a goddamn expert on man-eating birds?”

“Yeah, you kinda goddamn do!” Ed kicked a clod of frozen dirt with his bum leg, sending it scattering across the road. “And I don’t reckon he’d thank us if them birds ate him alive.”

“Hurry. Get in the truck and haul that wreck away.”

“How come you’re the one gets to stay?”

“You can’t catch a moving car on one leg, Ed.”

“I’m not going to catch him. I’m going to shoot him.”

“You’ve done enough of that for one day, now get up to the Curve.”

“You’re welcome, Cap,” Ed said. He ripped the shovel from my hands and tossed it in the truck again.

He sped off toward the bluff, the battered Prius rattling behind, trailing road dust and airbag powder.

I climbed into a pile of sage in the ditch, opposite the shallow grave. The ground froze my ass, but the sun heated my head under my hat. Sweat ran down my neck and froze in my collar.

A patch of sky grew dark—the rising cloud of dust kicked up behind the tires of the Winnebago, flashing with black crows. The engine grew louder. I pulled my stiff legs under me.

I heard tires grind on the dirt road. The racket of birds made my ears ring so I almost couldn’t hear the Winnebago slow. But I saw the birds drop, heard them scream, clawing at the ground. When they tore into Mr. Brooke, I smelled his blood and the contents of his bowels.

I sprang from the sagebrush onto the road, swatting at dark feathers, coughing on dust. The single glowing eye of the Winnebago’s only taillight guided me through the dirt cloud. Wind blew like a cyclone.

I ran, reached, and grasped the handle of the narrow back door and pulled myself onto its flimsy doorstep.