“He’s like me. Competent. Amoral. Tough. But he’s very smooth. A sweet talker. I get the feeling that he enjoys life in ways I don’t.”

  “What ways?”

  Chandler considered it. “I’m an eat-to-live kind of person. Heath is live-to-eat.”

  “Phin is like that. I get the feeling he likes things more than I do. Lives richer and deeper. Finds meaning in the small stuff.”

  Chandler noticed that Jack’s voice had a slight echo.

  The cannabinoids kicking in. Much faster than they did earlier.

  “And he’s good to be married to?” Chandler asked. “Even with his history?”

  “Phin once robbed a crack house—a Chicago crack house—to get free crack. But he turned out to be a great father. And partner. You know how guys have this macho instinct? It can also be a protective instinct. He’s… I dunno…” Jack smiled. “He makes me feel safe.”

  That’s a trait Heath most definitely does not have.

  “How do you feel not having a purpose?” Chandler asked. When Jack seemed confused, Chandler clarified, “Not having a job.”

  “Ouch.”

  “I didn’t mean it to be insulting. I know I can be too blunt.”

  “It’s okay. When I was younger, around your age, I thought my job was my purpose. That my legacy was the work I did.”

  “Now you’re going to say that it’s your family,” Chandler predicted.

  Jack shook her head. “My purpose is to be useful. Sometimes that’s within my family. Sometimes I do other things. Volunteering to teach square dancing at my mother’s retirement home isn’t as sexy as getting killers off the streets. But it can be just as fulfilling.”

  Chandler waited a beat, then said, “You’re fucking with me.”

  Jack laughed. “Yeah. But the sentiment is true. We don’t have to do any single thing with our lives. We just have to do some thing.”

  Maybe it’s the drugs, but that resonates with me.

  And reminds me of something I wanted to talk about.

  “You’ve been shot?” Chandler asked.

  Jack nodded.

  “I’ve been shot, too. So many times I forgot them all. Even with body armor, it leaves a mark, right? But here’s something funny. I can’t remember all the bullets, but I remember once I was sealing an envelope, and I got a paper cut. Little one on my pinky.” Chandler help up her pinky finger and wiggled it to emphasize the point. “Tiniest little cut on my knuckle, barley bled at all. But it wouldn’t heal. Every time I bent my finger, the cut reopened. Hurt like crazy.”

  Chandler stared at her pinky. There wasn’t a scar. At least, not a physical one.

  “We can get through the hard stuff,” she said, lowering her voice. “We can get to the point where we don’t even remember it. But the nagging reminders of the hard stuff is the real struggle.”

  Jack stared at Chandler for a moment, then said, “That makes absolutely no sense.”

  Chandler began to laugh, a slow and low laugh that sounded like someone else’s voice.

  “I’m not saying it clearly. It’s… you heal from a big wound, then it’s over. But a little wound, a paper cut, it doesn’t heal, and it’s a constant reminder. You can’t get over it. The pain doesn’t get better. It’s just daily misery, no change, and you just want to cut your finger off to stop feeling it. Does that make more sense?”

  “You’ve got a paper cut on your soul.”

  That was the most deeply profound thing Chandler had ever heard, and she ruminated on it for at least an hour, maybe two hours, wondering what sort of bandage you needed to put on your soul. And she thought of so many types of bandages, in all different shapes and colors, hundreds, thousands, and infinite number, stretching on forever, but nothing would fit right, nothing would allow the healing to actually begin.

  “You want to just veg out alone for a while?” Jack asked.

  The voice startled Chandler so badly she jerked in her chair. “You’re still here?”

  “It’s been about thirty seconds since the paper cut comment.”

  That blew Chandler’s mind.

  “Yeah. Let me veg out alone.” It was easier to repeat the sentence than form her own thought.

  “I can keep an eye on you from the other room.”

  “Bath,” Chandler said.

  “You want to take a bath?”

  “You should take a bath.”

  Jack laughed. “Why? Do I stink?”

  “I saw the tub. It’s beautiful. Go take a bath. Relax. I’m fine.”

  I’m not fine. But I don’t need a babysitter. Or a trip sitter. Or anyone sitting for me in any sort of way.

  “I promised I’d watch over you.”

  “I’m fine,” Chandler said again.

  “I think—”

  “Fine,” Chandler repeated. “Take a bath. Fuck. I’m not a child.” When Jack didn’t move, Chandler said, “Trust goes both ways. I’m good. The weed feels good. Go relax.”

  “What if someone—”

  Chandler didn’t think, she just acted, training and muscle memory making it second nature, snagging the sub-compact Beretta out of her waistband holster and slapping it on the table so fast that she drew when Jack said “some” and completed the motion before she finished “one.”

  “Holy shit,” Jack said.

  “I’m fine,” Chandler said. “Bath.”

  Someone said goodnight, Chandler wasn’t sure who said it, and she thought more about infinity and eternity and how a circle had no ending and maybe a soul was the same, and she realized that sleep would be good but someone had glued her to the chair.

  Chandler stared at her lap, saw there wasn’t any glue.

  Sticky. The gummies are sticky.

  Which was hysterical, because it was a play on words, because sugar was sticky and the drugs stuck her to the seat, and Chandler holstered her weapon and leaned over and rested her head on the big picture window and stared out into the darkness.

  Absolute darkness.

  Dark as my bleeding soul.

  Chandler pressed her nose to the cool glass and closed her eyes to let her pupils dilate to bring her night vision to bear faster, which was pretty clever for her since she was getting higher and higher by the second, and after maybe ten seconds or maybe ten hours she opened them again.

  The darkness outside wasn’t so dark. Up against the window she could see the backyard, the tangle of trees, even the path they took to go on the scavenger hunt.

  And movement. She saw movement.

  Big movement.

  Deer? Elk? Bear? Wolf?

  It leaned out from behind the closest tree, one hand on the trunk, and stared directly at her.

  She was alarmed enough to grunt softly, but couldn’t do much more than that.

  I know I’m stoned off my ass.

  But I’m sure a see a guy out there.

  And it wasn’t one of the guys from the Fall Down Inn.

  He looked old. Tall and old, hunched over, wearing raggy clothes.

  A wendigo?

  His clothes were tattered and covered in some kind of grey filth, like dust or ash or dried cement.

  That wendigo has an ash-grey complexion.

  Maybe it’s not a wendigo.

  Maybe it’s that concrete statue we found on the property.

  Did it come to life somehow? Like that Christmas story?

  Frosty the snowman?

  The concrete man?

  Her vision sharpened, and Chandler realized the stars and the moon were lending a bit of light, allowing her to see clearer.

  The concrete man had a long beard.

  Chandler didn’t remember the statue having a beard.

  She heard a pounding sound, and recognized it as her heartbeat.

  Faster than usual. Like I’ve been exercising.

  Have I been exercising?

  Chandler tried to lift her hands, but couldn’t.

  Sticky gummies. Sticking my butt to the chair. Sticking my arms to my sides. Sticking me to the floor.

  I’m hallucinating. This is a delusion. THC psychosis.

  I had too much weed, and now I’m Cheech & Chong paralyzed.

  I’m on a psychedelic trip.

  I’m on a magic carpet ride.

  This isn’t real.

  The concrete man is imaginary.

  He isn’t there.

  Then the man who wasn’t there walked out from behind the tree and stood there, continuing to stare.

  Chandler couldn’t see his eyes.

  Are they blue-green glass eyes? From the antique telephone pole insulators?

  There is a shelf of those in the house.

  There were also glass insulators on display at the bar.

  Lake Flathead was a logging town. They made telephone poles.

  The concrete man took a step closer, less than ten meters away from Chandler.

  He does not have glass eyes.

  This is a real man.

  I’m hallucinating a real man.

  Can he see me? He must see me. He’s staring right at me. The kitchen lights are on. I’m a silhouette to him.

  Why is he standing there? That’s not normal behavior.

  Maybe he’s stoned like I am.

  Maybe he’s the one who is hallucinating me.

  The concrete man came closer.

  It’s an old guy. Really old. Big and old with crazy long hair and a crazy twisted beard. A stooped posture.

  He’s watching me. Like a cat watches a mouse.

  The pounding—Chandler’s heartbeat—got faster and louder.

  I’m scared.

  Why am I scared of an old man?

  And old man who is outside and moving closer?

  Why is he moving closer?

  Chandler knew this couldn’t be real, so she closed her eyes and decided to count to ten in her head.

  One…

  Two…

  Three…

  He won’t be there when I open my eyes.

  Her heart went pound pound pound pound.

  Her breath went in out in out.

  Four…

  Five…

  Has it only been five seconds? It seems like longer.

  Maybe I should open my eyes now.

  The concrete man will be gone.

  It’s all in my head.

  Pound pound pound pound went her heart.

  In out in out went her breath.

  Five…

  Six…

  My heartbeat is so loud. So fast.

  My breathing is so loud. So fast.

  Why am I scared?

  Because I took so much pot I can’t move?

  Or because the concrete man is a threat?

  Because the concrete man is a threat.

  Because the concrete man is real.

  Because this is all real.

  Pound pound pound pound in out in out.

  Five…

  Did I count to five already?

  I lost count.

  I must be at ten seconds by now.

  I should open my eyes.

  I’ll open them… now.

  Chandler did not open her eyes. Her eyelids were squeezed tight.

  The giant heart lub-dubbing in her head made it hard to think.

  Her deafening breathing made it hard to think.

  Her muddy thoughts made it hard to think.

  Open your eyes. Now.

  Her eyes remained closed.

  Chandler understood fear. She’d been afraid too many times to count. True fear, where death crouched nearby, ready to pounce. Fear was a useful survival tool. It was a warning signal to your body, preparing you for fight or flight.

  I can’t fight. I can’t flee.

  I’m stuck to the chair.

  I need to open my eyes.

  I’ll open them… now!

  Chandler’s eyes remained closed.

  This is all in my head. It isn’t real.

  Maybe I’m not real. Maybe nothing is real.

  Open your eyes.

  Pound in pound out pound in pound out.

  Open your eyes, Chandler.

  POUND POUND.

  Open them and prove this isn’t real.

  IN OUT.

  Open them.

  Open them… NOW!

  Chandler opened her eyes—

  —and the concrete man, his face inches from the window, stared at her with his mouth open in a wiggly pink O while a long line of drool escaped from a cave of grey gums and rotten teeth.

  Chandler tried to scream, but she couldn’t breathe. The in and out of her lungs seized, and the pound pound of her heart went crazy.

  The concrete man showed no fear. His eyes were black, glossy, curious. His ratty grey beard was pocked with stones and twigs and clumps of dried, and wet, cement.

  Chandler tried to close her eyes, so she didn’t have to stare at the horror…

  But she couldn’t. Her eyes were stuck open.

  My whole body is stuck.

  Chandler couldn’t hear her own thoughts because her heartbeat was a continuous thunderclap, so she moved her thoughts to another part of her brain, away from her ears, which she knew made no sense but none of this made sense and she needed to get away from—

  Death. I am staring into the eyes of death.

  And death is staring at me.

  And death wants me.

  I have to do something.

  Yell for help.

  Move away.

  Draw my weapon.

  Something.

  I’m not really paralyzed.

  It’s just weed. It’s not curare. It’s not succinylcholine.

  It’s just freaking marijuana.

  I’m stronger than a party drug.

  I’m stronger.

  I’m strong.

  The concrete man inched closer to the windowpane, resting his forehead against it, against Chandler’s forehead, staring into her bleeding soul.

  Then a liver-colored tongue stuck out through the rows of broken, yellow, missing teeth, a line of bubbly saliva snaking off its fat tip—

  —and he licked the glass.

  THC be damned, it freaked out Chandler so badly that her whole body piked, and she jerked off the chair and crumpled to the floor, partly under the table, falling onto her chest with her head staring into the hallway.

  Did Jack hear me? Is she coming?

  Chandler tried to swallow, her mouth unbearably dry. It felt like she had a dry bread crust stuck in her throat.

  Her breath was ragged. Her heart was ready to pop.

  Jack did not appear in the hallway.

  Chandler heard a sound. Faint, but clear.

  Running water. Jack was taking a bath.

  How could she be taking a bath now? She’s supposed to be protecting me!

  Is the concrete man still there?

  Is death still watching?

  I need to check the window.

  Chandler tried to lift her head.

  Her head didn’t obey.

  Chandler realized she couldn’t hear her heart anymore, and wondered if it had stopped.

  I can’t be dead.

  I think, therefore I live.

  I need to turn around.

  It’s just weed.

  I need to turn around.

  It’s just weed.

  I need to turn around!

  It’s just weed!

  I NEED TO TURN AROUND!

  Chandler rocked her head with her chin against the floor and in one jerky motion she faced the window and saw—

  Nothing.

  The concrete man was gone.

  Death wasn’t staring at her.

  In her mind, Chandler laughed.

  Nothing is there.

  I imagined the whole thing.

  Nothing is there.

  Nothing is there.

  Nothing…

  No thing…

  No…

  Her eyes closed, and unconsciousness took her.

  THE ARTIST

  The Woman In The Artist’s Kitchen Sits There. Staring Out The Window.

  The Artist Watches, From Behind A Tree.

  The Woman Does Not Move.

  She Is Still.

  As Still As Art.

  Could She Be Art?

  The Artist Moves Closer. Closer.

  Close Enough To Stare Into Her Eyes.

  No. This Is Not Art.

  Art Shows Fear. Art Runs. Art Begs For Help.

  Art Struggles And Fights And Yells And Screams.

  This Woman Just Stares.

  Maybe She Is An Artist Too.

  The Woman Falls Off The Chair, Onto The Floor.

  The Artist Has No Interest In Her.

  There Is Another In His House.

  There Is Art In There.

  The Artist Walks Through The Yard, Around The House. Stops At Another Window.

  The Bathroom.

  There Is Art. In The Bathtub.

  This Art Is Older Than The Woman In The Kitchen.

  This Art Is Beautiful.

  But The Artist Can Make It More Beautiful.

  Beautiful Forever.

  The Artist Walks To The Front Of The House.

  The Door Is Locked.

  The Artist Has A Key.

  It Is The Artist’s House.

  It Has Been The Artist’s House Since The Old Days. The Logging Days. Before The Town Died.

  The Artist Carefully Opens The Door.

  The Bathtub Is Still Running.

  The Art Is Getting All Nice And Hot And Wet.

  Slippery Slippery Slippery.

  The Artist Carefully Closes The Door And Walks Into The House.

  The Floor Is Creaky.

  The Artist Knows The Quiet Spots.

  The Artist Makes No Sound.

  The Artist Stops At The Candy Wall. Peels Off Some Paint Chips.

  So Sweet.

  It Makes The Artist Feel Good.

  It Makes The Artist Feel Like An Artist.

  It Makes The Artist.

  The Artist Eats More Paint—Not Too Much Because It Gives The Artist An Ache In The Head—Then The Artist Goes Into The Kitchen.

  The Woman Is Still On The Floor.

  The Artist Goes To Her.

  The Artist Kneels Down.

  The Artist Stares.

  The Artist Touches.

  Not Art.

  The Woman Opens Her Eyes.

  Her Lips Move.

  She Whispers.

  “De… de… death.”

  The Artist Disagrees.

  The Artist Is Not Death.

  The Artist Is Immortality.