We are the Skin-Walkers

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New Mexico.

“Ay, mis hijos! Pueblo fantasma!”

“No. It is not a ghost town. The population has been shrinking since the 1950s. The trains don’t seem to matter so much. Half of the gas stations have been closed with shelves stocked with products for a few years, and we can’t get any coolant, but it’s not a ghost town. People live here. About four hundred of them,

That dude pro’ly in the narco biz lingerin’ ’round the hotel door — I ain’t namin’ names! If it ain’t the one open hotel then it’s the other. Maybe it’s one of the ghost hotels. Maybe it’s the ghost saloon. Maybe he’s a bandido fantasma!”

“Ay, mis hijos! Narcobandido fantasma!”

Good. We needed some laughs. And the rain’s comin’. Desert rain. Gone cool us off a bit. On the way to Roswell. But still no damn coolant. “Is it the green or the red kind? Can you tell from lookin’ at the bottle?” And here comes the desert rain. “It don’t matter. The mechanic’s on the way.”

“Ay, mis lluvias! Arena fantasma!”

“Do you wanna walk?” No, siree. It is not a ghost town. Or if it is then we must be dead. Lightening. The crows are frightened, the jackrabbits and the pronghorns and the chupacabras and the skin-walkers flutter through the sage. “Do you wanna get out and walk?”

“It was just a joke.”

We are the skin-walkers today.

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