“It shouldn’t be. Because one of these mysteries doesn’t even exist. It’s mere pareidolia. It’s seeing faces in the rock structures of Mars. There’s only one mystery here, Carmen. And it’s mine.”

SUNDAY

Kierk wakes up alone. A dream leaves him . . . a series of strange metamorphoses, the morphing of his body and consciousness as he had been taken from stag to bat to sparrow to woman to laurel tree . . .

One hand goes out, pats the space next to him, before the night comes back to him in flashes, a great weight. Groaning, he rises. Sitting on the edge of the bed he considers how lucky it is that most of his things are still in boxes. He remembers Carmen leaving angry, her disappointment in him.

“Fuck.”