Dark Rivers of the Heart

one thrust of rock to the other, was a cover of desert-camouflage canvas.
        Another sharp pain lanced across his scalp.
        "Be still," she said.
        He realized that his pillow rested on her crossed legs and that his head lay in her lap.
        "What're you doing?" He was spooked by the weakness of his own voice.
        She said, "Sewing up this laceration."
        "You can't do that."
        "It keeps breaking open and bleeding."
        "I'm not a quilt."
        "What's that supposed to mean?"
        "You're not a doctor."
        "Aren't I?"
        "Are you?"
        "No. Be still."
        "It hurts."
        "Of course."
        "It'll get infected," he worried.
        "I shaved the area first, then sterilized it."
        "You shaved my head?"
        "Just one little spot, around the gash."
        "Do you have any idea what you're doing?"
        "You mean in terms of barbering or doctoring?"
        "Either one."
        "I've got a little basic knowledge."
        "Ouch, damn it!"
        "If you're going to be such a baby, I'll use a spritz of local anesthetic."
        "You have that? Why didn't you use it?"
        "You were already unconscious."
        He closed his eyes, walked through a black-and-white place made of bones, under an arch of skulls, and then opened his eyes again and said,
        "Well, I'm not now."
        "You're not what?"
        "Unconscious," he said.
        "You just were again. A few minutes passed between our last exchange and this one. And while you were out that time, I almost finished.
        Another stitch and I'm through."
        "Why'd we stop?"
        "You weren't traveling well."
        "Sure, I was."
        "You needed some treatment. Now you need rest. Besides, the cloud cover is breaking up fast."
        "Got to go. Early bird gets the tomato."
        "Tomato? That's interesting."
        He frowned. "I said tomato? Why are you trying to confuse me?"
        "Because it's so easy. There-the last suture."
        Spencer closed his grainy eyes. In the somber black-and-white world, jackals with human faces were prowling the vine-tangled rubble of a once great cathedral. He could hear children crying in rooms hidden beneath the ruins.
        When he opened his eyes, he found that he was lying flat. His head was now elevated only a couple of inches on the pillow.
        Valerie was sitting on the ground beside him, watching over him.
        Her dark hair fell sorry along one side of her face, and she was pretty in the lamplight.
        "You're pretty in the lamplight," he said.
        "Next you'll be asking if I'm an Aquarius or a Capricorn."
        "Nah, I don't give a shit."
        She laughed.
        "I like your laugh," he said.
        She smiled, turned her head, and ruminated on the dark desert.
        He said, "What do you like about me?"
        "I like your dog."
        "He's a great dog. What else?"

    Looking at him again, she said, "You've got nice eyes."
        "I doc"
        "Honest eyes."
        "Are they? Used to have nice hair too. All shaved off now. I was butchered."
        "Barbered. Just one small spot."
        "Barbered and then butchered. What are you doing out here in the desert?"
        She stared at him a while, then looked away without answering.
        He wouldn't let her off that easily. "What are you doing out here? I'll just keep asking until the repetition drives you insane.
        What are you doing out here?"
        "Saving your ass."
        "Tricky. I mean, what were you doing here in the first place?"
        "Looking for you."
        "Why?" he wondered.
        "Because you've been looking for me."
        "But how'd you find me, for God's sake?"
        "Ouija board."
        "I don't think I can believe anything you say."
        "You're right. It was Tarot cards."
        "Whore we running from?"
        She shrugged. The desert engaged her attention again. At last she said, "History, I guess."
        "There you go, trying to confuse me again."
        "Specifically, the cockroach."
        "We're running from a cockroach?"
        "That's what I call him, 'cause it infuriates him."
        His gaze rolled from Valerie to the tarp that hung ten feet above them.
        "Why the roop."
        "Blends with the terrain. It's a heat-dispersing fabric too, so we won't show up strong on any