howling.
When we first got to Midland, those coyotes kept me awake, and as I lay
in bed, I'd hear other sounds—Gila monsters rustling in the underbrush,
moths knocking against the screens, and the creosote crackling in the
wind. One night when the lights were out and I could see a sliver of
moon through the window, I heard a slithering noise on the floor.
"I think there's something under our bed," I said to Lori.
"It's merely a figment of your overly active imagination," Lori said. She
talked like a grown-up when she was annoyed.
I tried to be brave, but I had heard something. In the moonlight, I
thought I saw it move.
"Something's there," I whispered.
"Go to sleep," Lori said.
Holding my pillow over my head for protection, I ran into the living
room, where Dad was reading. "What's up, Mountain Goat?" he asked.
He called me that because I never fell down when we were climbing
mountains—sure-footed as a mountain goat, he'd always say.
"Nothing, probably," I said. "I just think maybe I saw something in the
bedroom." Dad raised his eyebrows. "But it was probably just a figment
of my overly active imagination."
"Did you get a good look at it?" he asked.
"Not really."
"You must have seen it. Was it a big old hairy sonofabitch with the
damnedest-looking teeth and claws?"