Summer 2013 • Vol. XXXV No. 3 Fiction |

The Only Thing Missing Was the Howling of Wolves

How could my sister, crazy as they come, still coerce me into doing things that could come to no good? She had her two-year-old grandson, Wendell, in her arms, and he was wearing a baptismal gown, and she was saying, "Just this once, Harlan. I got it all worked out. No one will ever know, except me and you and the good Lord. You won't have to do a darn thing except drive." Lynette had lost her driver's license years ago, and one of her Narconon friends had dropped her and the kid off at my house in the country, and there I was trying to install her borrowed car seat in my pickup so I could take her back home. She was like the wild mint in the backyard I couldn't eradicate. It kept coming up, sucking the nourishment from everything I planted. Then she was handing me Wendell, installing that seat as if she were born to such things. We got into the truck and she said, "Can't you just feel it? Them birds out there and that breeze? That's God, Harlan. That's God on our side."

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