Gone

the door a crack. Nothing. Nothing she could see, anyway, and Patrick was definitely no longer worried.
    She had no choice: she had to run to the outhouse. Patrick bounded along beside her.
    The outhouse was a simple vertical box, undecorated, unadorned, not overly smelly and quite clean. There was no light, of course, so she had to feel her way around, locate the seat and the toilet paper.
    At one point she started giggling. It was, after all, a little funny peeing in an outhouse while her dog stood guard.
    The walk back to the shack was a bit more leisurely. Lana took a moment to gaze up at the night sky. The moon was already descending toward the western horizon. The stars…well, the stars looked odd. But she wasn’t quite sure why she thought so.
    She resumed the walk back to the cabin and froze. Between her and the front door stood a coyote. But this was like none of the coyotes her grandfather had pointed out to her. None of those had been even as big as Patrick. But this shaggy yellow animal was the size of a wolf.
    Patrick had not seen or heard the animal approach and now he seemed almost too shocked to react. Patrick, who had leaped to battle a mountain lion, now seemed cowed and uncertain.
    Lana’s grandfather had lectured her on desert animals: the coyote that was to be respected but not feared; the lizards that would startle you with their sudden bursts of speed; the deer that were more like large rats than like Bambi; the wild burros so different from their domesticated brothers; and the rattlesnakes that were no threat so long as you wore boots and kept your eyes open.
    “Shoo,” Lana yelled, and waved her hands as her grandfather had taught her to do if she ever came too close to a coyote.
    The coyote didn’t move.
    Instead it made a sharp yipping sound that caused Lana to jump back. Out of the corner of her eye she saw dark shapes rushing toward her, three or four of them, swift shadows.
    Now Patrick reacted. He growled menacingly, bared his teeth and raised his hackles, but the coyote didn’t move and his companions were approaching fast.
    Lana had been told that coyotes were not dangerous to humans, but there was no way to believe that now. She dodged to the right, hoping to fake out the coyote, but the animal was far too quick to be fooled.
    “Patrick, get him,” she urged helplessly.
    But Patrick wasn’t going any further than growling and putting on a show and in seconds the other coyotes would arrive and then…well, who knew what then?
    Lana had no choice: She had to reach the cabin. She had to reach the cabin or die.
    She yelled at the top of her voice and ran straight at the coyote in her path.
    The animal recoiled in surprise.
    There was a flash of something small and dark and the coyote yelped in pain.
    Lana was past him in a heartbeat. Ten steps to the cabin door. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six…
    Patrick ran ahead of her, panicked, and shot inside.
    Lana was on his heels, spun, and slammed the door shut without even slowing down. She skidded to a stop, turned, ran back to the door, and threw herself against it.
    But the coyotes did not pursue. They had other problems. She heard wild yelping, canine cries of pain and rage.
    After a while the yelping slowed, slurred, and finally stopped. A new coyote voice set up a wild howling, howling at the moon.
    Then silence.
    In the morning, with the sun bright and all the night’s terrors banished, Lana found the coyote dead, a hundred feet from her door. Still attached to its muzzle was half a snake with a broad, diamond-shaped head. Its body had been chewed in half but not before the venom had flowed into the coyote’s bloodstream.
    She looked for a long time at the snake’s head. It was a snake without any doubt. And yet she was sure she had seen it fly.
    Lana put that out of her mind. And along with it she dismissed the whisper she had heard because flying snakes and whispering coyotes the size of Great Danes, well, none of that was possible. There was a word for people who believed impossible things: crazy.
    “I guess Grandpa wasn’t that big an expert on desert wildlife after all,” she said to Patrick.

NINETEEN
    132 HOURS , 46 MINUTES
    “YOU DON’T HAVE to like the dude, brah, but he’s doing good stuff.” Quinn was poised to knock on the door of their third house that morning. It was Sam and Quinn and a Coates kid, a girl named Brooke. They were “search team three.”
    It was day eight of the FAYZ. The fifth day since