Dreams in the Rhyolite Station. "First winter croup kettle smell," she says. "Alone in my paper boat I lay very still so it won't tip over. I look up and not into the water. The sky is black with star-hole fires. I'm afraid. I may be crying. I see the silver teeth of the ocean. Feel its rocking spell. This dream lasts for several nights. Nothing else happens. The first thing I steal is the money. I'm not planning. I'm just walking away." He leans in... His irresistible mind... His cryptic conversation... "Do you remember the names of your pets or toys...?" he says. Surprised, she says, "Do you?" "Every one..." he says, "...every one."
The garden. Lush and urgent where they enter the dream. Summer-lit acts of the flowers. Little shrines. Epiphanies at their fingertips. All the minor gods singing. Wise with love and humor. No interrupted lifelines. No bullet holes in the saguaro.